Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles

by Kim Newman

  Moriarty had nervous energy now. For months he had accepted each blow and merely oscillated, thinking thinking thinking... I hoped we were at the point of doing doing doing.

  The Professor wiped wasps off his long canvas gloves, brushing them into the funnel of the glass and wood nest-maze he had constructed. He took down his best hat and pulled on his coat.

  ‘I have a call to pay, Moran,’ he said. ‘In Baker Street. A minor nuisance on the point of becoming a middle-sized obstacle must be bent to our purpose...’

  Ah-hah, I thought, the Thin Man! He’d been a bother a time or two. The Birdy Edwards foul-up, for once. The Maupertuis fiasco, for twice. He’d also nabbed a couple of the Firm’s sometime clients: Grimesby Roylott was dead and John Clay gaoled thanks to his unwanted intervention. And... well, he was just a shit... a puffed-up, hectoring, tiresome beaky shit. With a halfway decent line in publicising himself, as witness: all those back numbers of The Strand piled up in the jakes.

  This brothel-creeping keyhole bandit had popped up at the edges of the picture all spring. In Leeds, just before the smashing of the blackmail ring. At Scotland Yard, in conference with Inspector Patterson. Disguised as a trainer at the Epping Forest tourney. Delivering a box of papers to the Crown prosecutor in Dover. Treating himself to a celebratory beefsteak at Simpson’s in the Strand. He was one of the toothiest of the sharks tearing into our flanks.

  ‘This is his handiwork, then?’ I said, waving the funny money.

  Moriarty allowed it was. ‘Most droll, Moran. Our consulting detective has the fingers of a forger. He has my signature to the curlicue. He could cash a cheque at Box Brothers.’

  My fire rose. Larks like this got under my skin. I was heating up, and – after all these months of frustration – ready to ‘go off’ like Krakatoa.

  ‘Hang a dartboard on the fiddler’s back, Moriarty. The Von Herder’s fired in. This pestilential sleuth c--t would make a decent first kill for its bag!’

  ‘Not yet, Moran. I’ve a use in mind for the Thin Man.’

  This surprised me.

  ‘I know the blighter’s in trade, but surely he wouldn’t take you as a client.’

  ‘I have, through proxies, hired him three times. We couldn’t get shot of that homicidal lunatic Bert Stevens until I persuaded him to carry his carcass to Baker Street. Mabuse can do us more injury than Stevens ever did. And he is in hiding, where he thinks he cannot be found. We need a bloodhound, and the Thin Man has a reputation. It will be a simple matter to draw the attention of the Great Detective to the Great Unknown. He believes he serves abstract reason, but has been manipulated into this persecution of our Firm. With all his cleverness, the Thin Man cannot realise the full extent of our organisation. He has us in his sights now, but would not know our names – would not be scribbling details on his index cards, would not be in cahoots with Patterson of Scotland Yard – were it not for information gifted him by Mabuse. You remember “Fred Porlock”?’

  I did. All too well. It was the alias of someone inside the Firm who leaked titbits to all sorts of wrong people: policemen and detectives and journalists. We found him out, and Moriarty... well, let’s just say a culprit was duly tried, convicted and punished.

  ‘We were given the wrong man. “Frog Junkin” was “Fred Porlock”. Mabuse himself, sowing the seeds of our ruin.’

  We were beset on all sides. The spectres the Professor had invoked in the Thoroughgood tomb were manifesting. I wondered if we’d ever be rid of these parasites. Napoleon hadn’t survived concerted attacks by lesser men. We had our Blucher in Mabuse, and now it seemed we had our Wellington in the Thin Man.

  Just remember, when that sycophant Watson credits him with the fall of the Firm, the Great Detective had to be told about us. Our real arch-enemy was ‘Fred Porlock’.

  XI

  While Moriarty was in Baker Street, I arranged murder attempts. The bloodhound needed pepper on his tail, so near misses were to be contrived. As I’ve said before, it’s too easy to misjudge and put a warning shot in someone’s fool head.

  The Professor returned to HQ and gave a report of his meeting with the Thin Man. He was especially full of himself.

  ‘His nerves are shot, Moran. He hides behind curtains. He knows about the Von Herder, and is terrified to show a silhouette at the window. He takes precautions when out and about, changing directions like a compulsive, suspecting any who might approach. Yet he leaves his doors unlocked. His lodgings are open to any who might wander in. In his present state, failing to assassinate him will be a challenge. We’ll have to shield him from harm he might do himself. I intended to present my card and confront him in his hallway. But I was un-greeted and unopposed. I climbed the stairs to his flat but held back at the doormat. Surely, the extraordinary lack of security was a lure for an ingenious trap...? But, no, he offers open invitation. I found the Great Detective shrinking in his study, surrounded by scribbled notes. He has an untidy mind, reflected in his surroundings. There is no logic to the clutter. His interests are higgledy-piggledy. He is not an impressive specimen.

  Startled at my presence on his threshold, he reached into his pocket as if caught doing something unmanly by a schoolmaster.

  ‘“You have less frontal development than I should have expected,” I said. “It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing gown.”

  ‘He wasn’t even dressed for the day. At eleven-thirty in the morning. His hair a rats’ nest, he was in pyjamas under that vile grey gown. He took out a revolver and put it on the table.

  ‘“You evidently don’t know me,” I said.

  ‘“On the contrary,” he answered, “I think it is fairly evident that I do. Pray take a chair. I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to say.”

  ‘“All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,” I said.

  ‘“Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,” he replied.

  ‘“You stand fast?”

  ‘“Absolutely.”

  ‘I took out my memorandum book, which startled him into making a grab for the gun. He almost shot himself, Moran. Or shit himself. One or the other – or both. That such a creature should esteem himself capable of destroying me! I allowed him the comfort of the weapon. I enumerated dates upon which he had meddled in our affairs, emphasising occasions when he thought his part unknown to me. You should have seen his eyes. He has a drug addict’s eyes. He uses cocaine, and lies to his doctor about the dosage. Thirty-seven per cent solution, I should say. I told him he must drop the case.

  “After Monday,” he said.

  “‘I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair,” I told him. “It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you that it really would.”

  ‘“Danger is part of my trade,’ he remarked, sweat on his brow.

  ‘It was not danger I offered him, I said, but inevitable destruction. Having flattered him with weasel words about his intellect, I crushed him. He must stand clear or be trodden underfoot. I hinted, Moran, at matters I knew would run through his brain – even if he chooses to keep them private from his closest confidantes. I let him know he did not yet perceive the extent of the forces he was meddling with. For the sake of what he took to be a smart retort, he had come out and told me when the axe would fall. We are to expect raids on Monday. That is when Scotland Yard will swoop, will attempt to net our entire organisation. They will knock before dawn, as usual, kickin doors, roust felons from beds, and slap the darbies [11] on us. This honest, unimaginative soul has not the wit to keep back vital intelligence. If I were to tell a man I would murder him on Monday, it would be a ruse. I’d strike on Sunday, before he was prepar
ed, or Tuesday, while he congratulated himself on besting me. The Thin Man is so confident in his victory, he cannot help but celebrate the win before the race is finished.

  ‘I did not tell him about Dr Mabuse, but talked up the “duel between us” in such a way as to let him glimpse the possibility he was acting in another’s interests. I could see him pick up the clues I scattered like spittle on the carpet. He thinks slowly, Moran. He forges chains of reason, link by link. It is a simple matter to nudge, to steer his course. I know his every move, his every thought. I saw a realisation dawn that there was a Great Unknown in the game... that this shadow man might not be an abstract servant of justice, but a subtle criminal. I let him see that the smashing of Moriarty would create a vacuum, inviting in a successor who would credit him, the servant of justice, with clearing the way for a lasting empire of crime. I gave him the scent, Moran. The merest whiff. I named no names, though “Fred Porlock” hung in the air. He has had report of the Kallinikos. He has file-cards on major European criminals. Little notes to himself. On yours, he has scrawled “the second most dangerous man in London”. Under “Dr Mabuse”, he has written a question mark. My visit has underlined that question mark.

  ‘“You hope to place me in the dock,” I said. “I tell you that I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you.”

  ‘“You have paid me several compliments, Mr Moriarty,” said he...

  ‘“Professor Moriarty,” I corrected him.

  ‘“Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality, I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept the latter.”

  ‘There is no reason with such a man, Moran. “I can promise you the one, but not the other,” I said calmly, and left him to his funk. A morning’s work. I trust you have done as well.’

  Moriarty’s smug air of having effected a major coup rubbed me the wrong way. All he’d done was exchange schoolboy ‘yah boo to you’ taunts with the Thin Man in his den. In contrast to his gloating, I merely gave a statement of what had been arranged for the afternoon’s entertainment.

  The rule of three applied. This afternoon, our man would survive convincingly serious encounters with a runaway van, falling masonry and Bruiser Downes. The bandages were off and the wounds healed, but Downes was broken – his reputation would never recover from the Tite Street rout. If the Bruiser were taken in on an assault charge, it would be no loss. These trifling gestures should chivvy along the detective. Moriarty said he’d scurry for his doctor like a maiden aunt with the sniffles. Just to put a cherry on top, Benny Blazes was due to set light to the Thin Man’s digs that evening. Those damned index cards, the Persian slippers full of shag and the dusty back-editions of the Police Gazette – I’m sure the Great Detective said he subscribed for the articles and ignored the illustrations – had the makings of a fine old bonfire, though our reliable arsonist was under orders not to do too much damage.

  ‘Now, we have played the part of “Fred Porlock”, Moran. We have fed the dog scraps. He will pick up the trail, I’ve no doubt. He’s not unintelligent and his brain will be spurred by the shame. He’ll never tell his Boswell how Mabuse has used him against me. But he’ll need to know the truth. I’ve spoiled his coup, Moran. He’d intended to be in at the kill on Monday. In his head, he had composed the modest comments he intended to make to the press. Now, he knows he wins only a phantom victory. He will leave the prosaic business of making arrests to Inspector Patterson, and go in search of the Great Unknown. The bloodhound is off his leash. We may follow him at our leisure.’

  Moriarty was the shark now, scores of teeth in his smile.

  I did not raise the matter foremost in my mind as these subtle, cruel, cunning, logical madmen entered into the final phase of their protracted dance. Whichever mind mastered the others, the Firm would – unless drastic measures were taken – be practically extinct come Monday morning.

  And since when was I only the second most dangerous man in London?!

  XII

  So, to Switzerland...

  I have no idea how the Thin Man tracked Mabuse to Meiringen. Thanks to the bloodhound’s (if I might say) Moriartian habit of not telling his number two anything important, J.H. Watson, Medical Dolt, is in the dark too. In his scandal sheet write-up, Watson presents his friend’s bizarre decision to hare off across Europe, rather than stay in London to close his greatest case, as a spur-of-the-moment decision to take a pleasant holiday. Of course, this is from the man who claimed he hadn’t heard of Moriarty until that week... then later ‘remembered’ he’d been made aware of the Professor, ‘Fred Porlock’ and the Firm much earlier [12]. As I’ve said, the detective was in that bad business at Birlstone Manor. Not to do speak ill of the annoying, but note: when the Thin Man cracked the case, he announced the supposed victim was still alive. I’m sure Birdy Edwards, when thrown into the sea, found time to thank the sleuth for deigning to solve the mystery of his fake murder so Moriarty could commit his real one.

  As then, the Thin Man was flushing out our quarry for us. We really should have bunged him some cash for services rendered.

  Moriarty told me to pack the Von Herder for a hunting trip. He had spies at all the transport terminals and, after supper, a message came in from Victoria Station that our bloodhound had reserved a carriage on the next morning’s boat-train to Paris. The Prof seized on this intelligence with a troubling glee. I’d seen it on tiger hunts: some idiot is so high on the idea of bagging a prize cat, he doesn’t much care if he comes back from the jaunt in one piece. The lives of native bearers – even other white guns – become a currency to be spent freely for a chance of a clean shot. On occasion, I have been that idiot. Now, I found myself thrust into the unwanted role of sensible companion.

  All the while Moriarty was playing silly beggars, the Firm was coming apart. Our lieutenants were assailed by summonses to appear in court, notifications of legal action, constables brandishing fresh search warrants, and the sudden refusals of bought-and-paid-for officials to lose paperwork. When Patterson of the Yard showed up in his outer office, Nathaniel Rawlins squeezed through a tiny rear window. After wandering the streets in a tizzy, he hanged himself with his college scarf in a stall in the Theobald’s Row conveniences. Opinion differed as to whether Rawlins took the easy way out to avoid disgrace or knew that turning Queen’s Evidence to get off would earn him the ‘Fred Porlock’ treatment.

  As it stood, I don’t know if the Prof had attention to spare for keeping the help terrified. He was busy giving a bewildered Polly instructions for the care of his wasps while he was away. He was most insistent the inconvenience of a police raid should not disturb the insects’ routine, and assured her that she’d be out on bail in time for their midday feed. I didn’t mention that our brief was dangling in a public bog and might not be at his best when delivering bonds.

  Sophy was to be included in our party. It turned out, in one of those small-world-isn’t-it?-type things, she had cause to blame the Thin Man for failing to prevent her brother’s murder. Another instance of his habit of curing the disease only for the patient to die anyway. The Great Detective hadn’t even bothered to bring the killers of Paul Kratides to book, which is why Sophy had to do for Latimer and Kemp herself. I told her that the Prof wanted the boob alive for the moment. A disappointment, I fancy. I said it was probably all right if she wanted to cut Watson’s throat, but she shrugged that off as a distant second best. Women, eh?

  If you want railway timetables, you’ll have to dig out The Strand. I’ve not the patience. The next day, the Thin Man and the Fat Head tried to shake us off by sending their luggage on to Paris while they hopped off the boat-train at Canterbury and took the Newhaven ferry to Dieppe. Moriarty saw through the trick, but decided our hound would sniff better if he thought he’d lost us. The Professor and I followed the trunks to Paris and spent a few da
ys there as guests of Les Vampires. Sad to report, the Grand Vampire who’d come to Kingstead had just died in a fall from the Eiffel Tower, but his replacement was suitably hospitable. He only tried to murder us once, and then with little conviction, merely as a formality.

  We all drank champagne out of Napoleon’s skull. I squired Irma Vep to the Moulin Rouge, where I merrily purloined the evening’s take as she performed a service for one of the first families of France. Jewels were abstracted from a dressing room before they could fall into the dainty clutches of a dancer who’d worked for a month to seduce a young vicomte to get them. Of course, Irma switched the sparklers and gave the old comte fakes, then whisked me off to after-hours anis in a den of apache.

  While we were enjoying la vie Parisienne, the Thin Man spent two days in Brussels. That’s something of a record: I don’t know another Englishman who’s stuck Belgium for more than a single day without getting drunk on their beer, sick on their chocolate or in trouble with their schoolgirls. We knew what he was up to because Sophy, who’d stuck with him quietly while we ostentatiously lost his trail, sent telegrams every few hours. We also had word from London, via Simon Carne: Patterson had made his raids, most of the Firm were locked up, Margaret Trelawny was en route to Egypt, Mrs Halifax’s house was shuttered, the Creeper was reported drowned (a likely story) and Raffles found it expedient to spend some time in the nets. All this put me in an ill-humour. I know I was only an employee, but I’d put a great deal into the enterprise. I’d been on Moriarty’s rolls longer than I served with the bloody Bangalore Pioneers. I’d killed more people for him than for the Queen. The Firm meant more to me than f--king Eton! Since Sir Augustus turfed me out of the family pile, I’d messed temporarily all over the show. That brothel in Conduit Street was the nearest thing I’d had to a home. I didn’t care to think that was all over and ashes.

  Moriarty betrayed no trace of feeling. He asked after his wasps, but that was all...