Between the Thames and the Tiber

by Ted Riccardi

  A few minutes later, he returned alone, a sombre expression on his face.

  “Come, Watson, we haven’t a moment to lose.”

  “Where to?” I asked as we hopped into a cab.

  “Home,” he said quietly.

  Holmes made it a point now never to discuss his work when we were in a public conveyance, and “home” as it turned out, required a walk back of several blocks so that our cabby, if interrogated, could only give a destination other than Baker Street.

  As we entered our quarters, my friend became even more pensive. He went to his room, opened the window, and returned to the sitting room. He sat on the sofa without removing his coat and closed his eyes.

  I took the opportunity to mull over the little I had seen of Porlock. He was not impressive physically. He wore a grey fedora, wet and stained from the dirty rain now so common in London. A dark blue woollen coat, frayed badly at the sleeves, covered his frame. His shoes and trousers were spattered with mud, and a muffler hid most of his face. What I could see of it was pale and unshaven. I had the impression of someone who was employed in a printer’s shop or perhaps a clerk in an old book store. He was also indistinguishable from the great lot of human kind who toiled ceaselessly reading at the long tables of the museum.

  “A rather strange bird, that Porlock,” said I when I saw Holmes’s eyes open.

  “Far stranger than you might think if you knew him as I do, and my knowledge of him is quite fragmentary. He was about to tell me something of the greatest importance when a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, walked into the room. Porlock bolted like a rabbit. He clearly thought that he was in grave danger. The boy did not follow him but walked out into the hall. That is when I returned to you. Porlock is probably quite correct in that he feels endangered—most assuredly by Moriarty himself. Like all the vile characters around Moriarty, he is a victim as well as the beneficiary of the great master of crime. Born into a dirt-poor family in Liverpool fifty years ago, he ran from home at the age of eight, and survived in the street until he was by great luck picked up by a wealthy Scotsman who took him home and saw to his education. These contrasting experiences—the gutter and the castle—immediately set up in his mind an ambivalence that has penetrated and vitiated every move he makes.

  “You seem to know quite a bit about him.”

  “Not as much as I would like. Look at it this way, old boy. A youngster, no more than a child really, is forced into crime to survive, his body encrusted with coal dust and the dirt of our most neglected city. He is taken in by a wealthy man, who gives him a new life. Then at the university his mathematical talents are immediately recognized by Professor Moriarty and a new life begins for the young student. He becomes Moriarty’s assistant, then the custodian of Moriarty’s wealth, unaware until later of its criminal origins. Later, he is surprised but not displeased at Moriarty’s revelations, and throws his lot in totally with the great genius. At present his is the brain through which Moriarty’s ideas are consummated.”

  “Really, Holmes, I can’t believe that Moriarty has given over so much to such a nondescript character,” said I.

  “Nonsense, my dear fellow, do not be deceived. I have entered a room more than once and have not recognized Porlock until he informed me of who he was. That rather inconsequential figure that you saw today is only one of several roles he has created for himself. He is like a slightly battered book that fills the dusty space on the shelf, a pair of old slippers forgotten in the corner of a closet, an old lampshade waiting to be discarded. He is there but unnoticed, especially to the untrained eye. He is Dupin’s purloined letter, in plain view but hidden by the obvious. His greatest pleasure is to appear at the scene of one of his crimes and to go unnoticed. You would be surprised, as I have been, to see the old scholar in the frayed blue coat appear as a bon vivant, a gourmet, a womaniser, a notorious gambler, an aristocrat of great wealth and culture, a patron of the arts, and one of London’s most generous philanthropists; the list is endless. Whatever the problem, he is loyal to the members of the gang, who look to him to save them from the law. I will leave to another time his skill with Lestrade and Hopkins, so extraordinary it is that neither of them are aware of his existence.”

  Holmes smiled as he uttered the last few words, and lit his pipe.

  “He does sound more than human, Holmes. Surely you exaggerate.”

  “Watson, you know I neither guess nor do I make much of little. I am sincere when I tell you that Porlock’s gifts are extraordinary.”

  “How long have you known him? And how did you meet him?”

  “That, of course, is difficult to say. He communicated with me first by letter and an occasional coded message. The Birlstone case was the first. After that, he intervened in two more, giving me enough to go on to stop Moriarty—to his great annoyance, I might add.”

  Holmes stood up, checked the open window, and continued.

  “Indeed, perhaps the answer to your second question as to how I came to know him should be reversed. It was rather the other way around—he found me. It was when I first suspected Moriarty’s existence and began to see the outline of his diabolical schemes. Here Porlock’s ambivalences came to the fore, and he began warning me of those plots that he wished to foil or at least postpone. In one secret conversation, he made it clear to me that he thought Moriarty had gone too far and his judgement had become impaired. He also saw quite soon that I was as formidable as my adversary. I think then that he began to hedge his bets, so to speak, giving me only the most meagre of clues that were necessary to stop the genial professor, nothing ever more than that. So far, he has managed well. If Moriarty learns of his messages to me, however, his revenge will be swift and unforgiving.”

  “It sounds to me, my dear Holmes, that he sees himself as Moriarty’s successor.”

  “Yes, indubitably, and possibly as successor to Sherlock Holmes as well. Who, after all, is the evil professor without the great detective? It all needs constant scrutiny, Watson. I suspect that Moriarty is up to no good, and that there will be a message from Porlock before dawn. Through our windows, no doubt.”

  I said nothing for a moment, trying to digest what Holmes had said, particularly his last statement. But I could not resist another question.

  “But Holmes, what keeps them together? From your earlier descriptions of Moriarty I can construct only a rather ascetic, intelligent man, gone astray, even mad, because of his desire for power over his fellows.”

  “If we wish to understand what brought them together and what keeps them at one in their depredations, then paradoxically it is that their desires differ. This allows them to cooperate and revel each in the other’s success. More and more Moriarty is interested in naked power. In the last year he has established a new cell in his organisation, one for acts of terror and espionage. Does he still add to his art collection, one of the best in the world? Of course! But he enjoys even more now the assassination of a prime minister in the Balkans, the kidnapping of the children of a rich sheik, the mysterious fire that destroys a steamship, or profits from a famine in India, anything to which he can contribute even a modicum of his chaotic machinations. None of this has any interest for Porlock.”

  I looked at my watch. It was just past midnight. Holmes lay on the couch, his eyes closed. I left him and retired to my room. I had hoped for sleep, but none came. As I lay in the dark, Holmes’s disquisition on Moriarty and Porlock ran through my mind. What impressed me was Holmes’s tranquility as he spoke of such frightening things; and my respect for my friend’s quiet bravery only grew as I contemplated the wanton destruction that his adversaries might carry out without his intervention.

  I must have gone into a half sleep, a restless doze, when I heard what seemed to be the flapping of wings. I looked at my half-open window and saw a pigeon attempting to enter. I opened the window a few more inches, and the bird flew in. I called Holmes, who came immediately.

  “Good, Watson, the bird comes from Porlock, with no doubt an im
portant message contained in the cartouche on its leg.”

  Holmes grasped the bird gently, removed the cylinder, opened it and read:

  Dear Holmes: I am sure now that he knows that I am in touch with you. It is only a matter of time before he repays me for my treachery. He is hard on my heels and will soon be on yours as well. I leave with you a message that I know contains his newest schemes. It was sent to Moran only and not to me as has been the case in the past; hence my concern. Moran carelessly left it on his desk and I was able to copy it before he returned. I have not been able to decipher it. I hope you can. It is the strangest of Moriarty’s coded messages, perhaps the most difficult. I heard him giggle to himself as he dubbed it the Moriarty Enigma.

  I know neither the time nor the place of the crimes he intends. I know only that they have the greatest significance for the future of Great Britain. In any case I leave London for the Continent where I shall wait until you put the good professor in the jail that he deserves. I shall be at the usual place for the next few days should you need to get in touch.

  The professor is the cleverest of men and I wish you quick success. I do not know whether we will ever meet again, and I wish you the best in your lonely struggle. Do not forget to send Cher Ami flying back to me.

  Porlock

  P.S. I have my son (the young boy you saw at the Museum) with me, which makes everything more difficult but unavoidable.

  Holmes stared at the letter.

  “Difficult, Watson, in fact most difficult,” he said somberly.

  I looked at the message and read:

  Moran: cipher BD

  Concert Moribundus et finalis: May 2, 1901

  Concert Master: Ivor Novello

  Covent Garden

  Salut: Blind Tom plays Sousa; Chaminade valse grande brillante; Black Tom plays Elgar’s enigma infra; old curiosity hotel Little Nelles; poppin bobbin; Savant idiot. Yradier mon cher ami; d’amour.

  “Pure nonsense, Holmes. Porlock is pulling your leg,” I said impatiently.

  “I’m afraid not, old fellow, or rather nonsense on the surface, but below it a meaning. We must crack it.”

  Holmes went to his desk, mumbling to himself. I stood at his elbow hoping to help him, but both the message and its meaning were lost on me.

  “Moriarty at his best, Watson. This code is known in the trade as a polyvalent semantic cipher. Its very nature makes it impossible to decode with precision, it being a series of associations made by the maker. It is originally the creation of the Italian mathematician Cardano, a scientist well known for his puzzles. Here it is in the form of a garbled musical program. Now either Moriarty has included the cipher within the message, or Moran has the dictionary, so to speak, that dissolves the enigma. For us, we are confronted with the problem of Moriarty’s choices. Without the key, we are forced to move toward the optimal solution without any certainty. In our case, the only certainty is the date of 2 May, that is, tomorrow. And of course the presence of Ivor Novello. Which means that at best we have twenty-four hours to dissolve the puzzle and act accordingly. Wait, Watson. Let me see . . .” He stared intently at the coded message.

  “Here we are, old boy. Buried in the references to salon music and musicians (here Moriarty shows his limitations) are some obvious clues: Sousa suggests the military and the last three letters of his name—usa—surely refer to the United States. Target one. Ah, note here, Watson, the g b initial letters of grande valse, i.e., Grande Bretagne. Target two. And finally, infra, the last three letters referring to France. Target three.”

  “Good Lord, Holmes, I am impressed. But which targets, and when and where?”

  “Let us see, Watson. If memory serves, Blind Tom is the name of an idiot savant musician of the southern state of North Carolina, divinely gifted by nature musically, but unable to perform the simplest mental operations beyond the piano; but who is Black Tom? And what of military importance is there in the Carolinas? Here we have a choice between two toms: one black, one blind. Which is significant? Note the choice between Elgar and Chaminade. Finally, we have the choice of old curiosity shop and Little Nelles. And a dead poppin. Papen! Franz von Papen, the rogue spy, ready to do anything for money, especially the large sums available in Washington. I was fooled by the notice in The Times a week ago that he was in Paris for negotiations with the French government, but up to no good behind the scenes. Little Knells, refers to a small hotel in Paris on Rue de Nesles near the Pont Neuf. I have stayed there on occasion. It is so designed that one can disappear within its rooms of false partitions, hidden doorways and every conceivable tromp l’oeil painting. It is run by a blind Italian Jew by the name of Piperno, who has done more to save the persecuted of Europe than anyone else I know, but whose so-called blindness does not fool me. It is there that Porlock is hiding, and it is there that we shall rendezvous with him in the hope that Moriarty has not yet done him in. It is certain that he knows more than he has told us.”

  Holmes looked at his watch. It was the middle of the night.

  “Come, Watson, if we leave now we shall just make the train to Southampton in time for the ship to Calais. Pack as little as possible for both of us. In the meantime, I shall send a message to Lestrade to warn him of possible trouble in London, and to Inspector Muldoon in New York to warn him that America is about to be attacked by international miscreants, though more than that we cannot say.”

  The trip to Paris was uneventful. Holmes maintained a silence the whole way.

  “Soon, Watson,” he said quietly as we climbed into our cab, “we shall know if Moriarty has removed Porlock from this world as he fully intends to do.”

  “And the boy?”

  “A mystery, Watson. Perhaps he is the son of Porlock, who appears to use him as a scout. You remember seeing him in the Museum. Perhaps Porlock has also fed the boy all that he knows and has prepared to use him in some way against Moriarty. A cruel misuse of the boy, obviously.”

  The trip seemed to energise Holmes, and when we arrived at the hotel, he jumped down quickly and rushed in.

  My knowledge of Paris was limited, but I knew that we were somewhere on the Left Bank near the Pont Neuf on a street called Rue Bonaparte. The Hotel de Nesles lay at the end of a narrow alley just off the main street. One might easily have missed it, tucked away as it was in its own corner.

  Holmes motioned to me to enter quickly. In speaking to the proprietor, he had learned that Porlock and his son were staying there but were leaving the following morning.

  “Now, Watson, watch your step, old man, for you are in for a few surprises.”

  Holmes walked ahead of me and I soon lost him. I tried to retrace my steps but could not. I had lost my way and seemed to have stumbled into a dark closet. Its door closed in on me.

  “This way, Watson. Sorry, dear fellow, but you will get the feel of it rather quickly. Take this key. You may put it in any lock and you will be given a simple way out the back door, where you will find yourself on the street behind the hotel. You can only re-enter by walking round to Rue Bonaparte.”

  “Amazing, Holmes. What a strange place . . .”

  “The owner, Watson, was formerly the owner of the largest amusement park in France. It was one of the earliest halls of mirrors. This is his last creation: moveable partitions, tromp l’oeil effects, dozens of distorting mirrors, wall paper that goes over doors and windows and changes every few hours. Quite clever.”

  As Holmes spoke, the wall in front of us moved suddenly, and, as if by magic, there was Porlock sitting comfortably in a chair near what appeared to be a window, the boy next to him.

  Porlock handed Holmes a note. “To you from Moriarty,” he said. Holmes opened it and read:

  My Dear Holmes:

  You have done well with my message. At least with the unimportant parts. Porlock will fill you in with the details. There is very little that you can do. I shall ask you to meet me upon my return, if you survive the next hour or so. I hope you do, for there is much that is unf
inished between us.

  Moriarty

  “Where has he gone?” Holmes asked.

  Porlock looked at his watch. “Moriarty has arrived in the United States. He has met secretly with Herr Reinhardt, who will take him to Black Tom.”

  “And who is Black Tom?” I inquired.

  “Black Tom is a place, not a person. It consists of a narrow pier that juts out into the ocean near Jersey City. It was, until a few minutes ago, the largest munitions storage site in the world.”

  As Holmes and I stood there, I was assailed suddenly by the smell of smoke. Dark billowing clouds poured into the corridor. Signor Piperno, his clothes on fire, appeared and screamed at us to leave immediately. A fire had started in the kitchen and the front half of the hotel was in flames.

  Porlock and the boy returned to their room, but Holmes pointed to a closer exit and we found ourselves outside, blackened by the smoke but unhurt. We watched helplessly as the hotel, the flimsiest edifice of dry wood and paper, burned away in minutes.

  The Paris Fire Department contained the flames but could do nothing to save the hotel. In its burning rubble, they found the charred remains of Porlock, but the boy was gone. There was no sign of Piperno or other guests.

  Holmes suggested that we speak to the head of the French Sûreté before returning to London. It was in speaking to Monsieur. Beauchard that we learned that a gigantic explosion had taken place in Jersey City, not far from New York, where the largest number of explosives had been stored for shipment to Britain. The place was known locally as Black Tom. It was notable, also, said Beauchard that the explosion in America coincided exactly with the destruction of the Hotel Demesnes, and an attempt to kill the well-known composer Sir Edward Elgar.

  Holmes thanked Inspector Beauchard, and we left.

  “Moriarty wins this round, hands down,” he said ruefully. “Porlock, Holmes, Watson, and the boy . . . Elgar, and finally Black Tom.”