Crouched over me, Worth gave a cry of outrage. At the same instant I thrust the point of the reservoir pen upward toward his face. I wanted to blind him, but he shrank back reflexively and the point of the pen lodged in his throat.
With a roar he flung the notebook aside. His free hand yanked out the pen, as with his other hand he brought up the shotgun to fire at me, point-blank. Still seated and off balance from my lunge, I could see the opening at the end of each barrel coming to bear on my chest. I struggled to get to my feet. My muscles cramped. With an awful sense of inevitability I realized I would be too late.
Then two things happened almost simultaneously. On my left, Holmes dove past me, colliding with Worth, hitting him below the knees. And from behind me a shotgun roared, scorching the left side of my arm. I now know that Blake had fired both barrels to stop Holmes from reaching Worth, and that Holmes’s dive had taken Blake by surprise before he was able to adjust his aim downward. What I saw in that moment was a great red stain in Worth’s white shirt fabric, in the area of his left shoulder. Then Worth and Holmes were on the concrete, each struggling for control of Worth’s shotgun.
I moved forward and was reaching to pull Worth’s hands away from the gun when I heard Lucy’s sharp cry. “Behind you!”
Turning, I saw James Blake, kneeling, snapping closed the breech of his reloaded shotgun and raising it to his shoulder. I gathered myself to spring forward when from behind me came two gunshots, each with the whiplike crack of a smaller weapon. Blake looked surprised as a small dark spot materialized in the center of his forehead. Then his expression went slack and he toppled onto his right side.
“Get his gun!” called Lucy.
The shotgun came easily from Blake’s lifeless fingers. Turning back, I saw Holmes was on one knee and getting to his feet. He held Worth’s gun.
But Worth had vanished, although dark stains on the concrete led my gaze to an aisle between two of the dark rows of crates that towered over us. Urgent questions filled my mind as I struggled to understand what to do: Ought I to follow the trail? How badly had Worth been wounded? Was he armed? Was he capable of shooting? I felt the same hollow uncertainty that had gripped me a few minutes before, when Holmes and I had walked the darkened streets in the shadows of this warehouse and the others. What danger lay waiting here and now, in these interior shadows?
I could see young Johnny Rockefeller beyond Holmes, locked in struggle with Moran, clinging grimly to him from behind like a Greek wrestler while Moran struggled to reach the Maxim gun. And a few yards to their left, Zoe and Lucy grappled with Cleo, Zoe trying to wrest control of the shotgun from her while Lucy hit at Cleo’s face with her derringer.
I raised my gun and took aim at Cleo’s legs but Holmes shot her first, knocking her down. I heard Holmes’s voice. “The exit, Watson! Do not let him reach the stairway!”
The doorway to the stairs was nearly fifty feet behind me. I took a few steps back, trying to detect any sign of Worth in the darkness between the massive crates. But my attention was immediately drawn to where Lucy and Zoe now stood looking down on the wounded Cleo. Holmes’s shot had struck her in the thigh. She lay on her side, knees drawn up to her chest, bleeding profusely from what I knew to be the femoral artery. Both her hands were bright red with her own blood as she vainly attempted to stanch the flow.
My gaze turned to Moran, who was on his hands and knees. Behind him, Johnny Rockefeller was getting to his feet. Above him, Holmes stood with the shotgun. Barely an inch separated the tip of the gun barrel from Moran’s neck.
Holmes spoke. “One is dead, Moran. Two are wounded, perhaps mortally, unless they receive prompt medical attention. I have one loaded barrel remaining here, as you doubtless are aware. What is to be the outcome for you?”
“I shall never go back to Dartmoor,” Moran snarled. Then he made a lunge for the shotgun, grasping at the barrel, pulling it forward so that Holmes’s finger could not help but engage the trigger.
The resultant blast took Moran in the neck and must have severed his cervical spine. His arms fell away from the shotgun. His knees buckled. As the last reverberations of the gunshot faded, his face hit the concrete. Relief surged through me as I realized our old enemy would threaten us no more.
But in the next instant there was movement at my right. From between two tall rows of crates the twisted figure of Adam Worth burst from the shadows. He was running straight at Lucy, eyes gleaming with murderous determination. I saw a long knife clutched in his right fist. Instantly I realized his dreadful purpose. From the dark recess of his position, he had seen his own daughter shot down. The cruelest vengeance he could take would be to cause the death of Holmes’s daughter in return.
I raised my shotgun. But to my horror, I saw I was too late. Worth had reached Lucy and I could not fire on him without hitting her.
Eyes blazing, Lucy spun away and dropped down, causing Worth’s knife to swing harmlessly over her crouching form. And before Worth could gather himself for another blow, Holmes, holding his empty shotgun by the barrels, swung it club-like in a short, accurate arc, striking Worth on the side of his head directly beneath the temple.
Worth staggered. He tried to raise his knife, but it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the concrete. Then his legs gave way beneath him and he fell.
Blood continued to issue from Worth’s shoulder wound, spreading in a dark pool beneath him. I realized his subclavian artery had been hit. With quick action I might be able to apply a pressure compress and save him.
Worth lay on his back, hands at his sides, eyes addled with shock but nonetheless burning with hate.
Holmes gestured toward Cleo, who now was also on her back. In her dark-stained uniform she lay motionless, mirroring the position of her father. But the rush of blood from her wound had stopped, and her skin had the white, waxy pallor of the lifeless.
“Mr. Worth,” said Holmes coldly. “As you are probably aware, your daughter has died. So have Blake and Moran. Can you hear me?”
Worth nodded.
“Are you the last Moriarty?”
“I am,” came the whispered reply.
“Dr. Watson can stop your bleeding and you may live to face trial. What is your wish?”
An oddly pious smile appeared on Worth’s face. “I wish,” he whispered, “that you would please come a little closer.”
Then I saw Worth’s hand emerging from his coat pocket, holding a revolver.
My reaction was instantaneous. Before I knew it, I had pulled both triggers, shooting from the hip. The recoil tore the weapon from my hands. The two loads of buckshot struck Worth in the face and chest, rolling him onto his side.
Worth’s revolver fell to the concrete floor several yards from his body, as if it had been thrown away.
58. CACOPHONY
A few minutes later, Holmes had explained that unless we were willing to see Johnny, Lucy, and Zoe put through an ordeal at the hands of the investigative authorities, we would have to forgo the customary respects for the dead. The five of us stood together on the motorized platform lift. Holmes had lowered the platform to a level that enabled him to rest his arms on the concrete floor of the warehouse as he stood holding Worth’s revolver. Carefully he took aim at the boxes of ammunition that lay amid four bodies and one disabled Maxim gun. Holmes, Johnny, and I had placed the bodies strategically, three of them close to the incendiary ammunition box, on the side that faced the windows. The fourth, Worth’s, lay facedown atop the piled chains of bullets with their phosphorescent tips.
“Will the building burn?” asked Johnny.
“Brick walls, concrete floors, steel girders,” Holmes replied. “A stray bullet may hit the roof. We are below the floor level, so we should be safe if we descend immediately after the ammunition catches fire. Now, all of you keep down.”
He fired the revolver once, twice, three times. There came a sharp clatt
er of gunfire as the first phosphorous-tipped cartridges exploded, igniting others. As the wave of explosions grew in strength, Holmes flung the revolver toward the sound and into the darkness. He turned to the control lever of the motorized lift, pushing it forward so that the platform would descend. The noise of the electric motor beneath us was obliterated by an explosive cacophony of sound. Above us flickered tiny lightning flashes, intensifying into a brilliant glare. In less than a minute the light diminished to darkness, as if a firework rocket had exploded in its moment of glory and then faded.
59. AWAY
We reached the ground floor. To our left we could see the front door open to the electric lights on the quay outside. All of us were silent. Zoe was having difficulty walking and was leaning on Holmes’s arm.
Lucy went ahead of us and looked outside the building. “No one is watching.”
“We were never inside this building,” Holmes said. “We know nothing about it. Nothing at all. Do you understand?”
Each of us nodded solemnly, as if we were making a sacred vow.
We walked in silence to where the lights were blazing at the edge of the quay. Holmes looked at his watch. “Six o’clock.”
“Time for the performance to begin,” said Zoe. She drew a deep breath and released Holmes’s arm, standing up on her own. “Lucy, can you go on?”
“I can if you can.”
Zoe turned to Holmes. “I can hardly believe I am free of that man. I am still in shock. I cannot find words strong enough to thank you.”
“Your bravery tonight will remain always in my memory,” said Holmes.
“When you left the Corsair, you looked like you could use some help,” said Lucy. “So we followed you.” Her hand touched her reticule. “I never thought I’d actually use my derringer.”
Holmes said quietly, “Lucy, I owe you my life.”
“Well, now I know I owe you my life,” said Lucy, her eyes shining. “So I guess we’re even.”
We were about to cross the quay when from behind the wall of lights on the other side an agitated cry reached us. It was Lestrade’s voice, harsh and shrill with alarm. “Hold your fire, all you men! Hold your fire! That’s Sherlock Holmes!”
60. AN EXPLANATION FOR THE COMMISSIONER
On the Corsair, the Commissioner and Carte each smiled broadly as Holmes told them it was safe to go forward with the night’s performance. Carte shook Holmes’s hand vigorously, then bustled off inside the theater tent. The Commissioner immediately gave a signal to one of his men, who flashed his pocket lantern at one of the soldiers lined up along the quay below us. A series of flashes went down the line. Within a matter of seconds we saw an answering flash of light emanating from the White Star.
“But you left us for a time there,” the Commissioner said.
“A last-minute worry of mine. Nothing has come of it.”
The Commissioner nodded, averting his gaze from the bloodstains on Holmes’s coat. He pointed upward and away from the ship, in the direction of the warehouses. “I noticed lights in that window over there. On the top floor. I thought I heard gunfire.”
Holmes shrugged. “Possibly an industrial accident of some sort. They may have been storing fireworks for Guy Fawkes Night. You know how lax these fellows in the shipping warehouses can be.”
61. WHAT THE PAPERS SAID
Lucy’s performance that night was a triumph, though it went unreported in the newspapers due to the confidential nature of the venue. Nor did the papers mention Cettie Rockefeller’s reaction to the enthusiastic outbursts of applause from young Johnny after each of Lucy’s solos, or his departure the following day to resume his college studies in America. Likewise unreported was the transport of four unidentified bodies aboard the HMS Daring to Southampton and into the Channel for burial at sea. However, following a series of late-night telephone conversations between Mycroft and certain newspaper editors, the early Wednesday editions did carry front-page accounts of the arrival from America of Rockefeller, Carnegie, and Morgan, and their respective entourages, here in London to discuss strategic business relationships with senior officials of Her Majesty’s government.
62. A BANKER APPEARS
Just after nine o’clock the next morning, Holmes and I stood with Mycroft and Sir Michael Hicks Beach, Chancellor of the Exchequer, outside the entrance to Prussia House, barely a stone’s throw from the Diogenes Club on the other side of Waterloo Place. The building was an imposing white limestone structure that housed, behind its classic Greek columns and pediments, the embassy of the German Empire. Sir Michael, sharp-featured, alert-eyed, and with magnificent black whiskers that rivaled the Prime Minister’s, nodded toward a small, gray-bearded man, who shuffled unobtrusively toward the doorway. Mycroft nodded in return and removed his hat.
From the shadows of the building Lestrade and three of his men emerged and surrounded the new arrival. After a brief conversation, the small, gray-bearded man handed an envelope to Lestrade, who looked inside it, nodded, and handed it over to Sir Michael. At this, the gray-bearded man took to his heels as if the Devil himself were after him.
“Holmes, why not arrest him?” I asked.
“His trial would reveal too much to the public,” Holmes replied.
“Here, gentlemen,” said Sir Michael, briefly opening the envelope for us to have a glimpse before tucking it into his inside coat pocket. “In our modern financial times, this is what one million pounds looks like.”
“He knew he had to return the money,” said Holmes as we watched the gray-bearded man disappear into the crowds along Waterloo Place, heading for Pall Mall. “Now that the newspapers have made clear that the conference is proceeding, the Germans will know that Worth’s scheme has failed. The Kaiser’s men will insist on repayment of their million-pound success fee. Our gray-bearded, treasonous banker came here to make that repayment. But since these bearer bonds are now in our possession, he is now one million pounds short.”
“He is now fleeing for his life,” said Mycroft. “When the Kaiser’s men find him, our government will save the expense of a trial.”
“And a hangman,” said Holmes.
63. NUMBER 10 DOWNING STREET
“Her Majesty’s government is in your debt for the sum of one million pounds, Mr. Holmes,” said the Prime Minister, a few minutes later at Number 10 Downing Street, where we had accompanied Sir Michael, at his insistence, to present the envelope containing the bearer bonds. “It is hard for me to imagine a more satisfactory conclusion to this most stressful affair. Goschen and Lansdowne are on their way to the Corsair for what I hope will be a fruitful series of discussions. Morgan and Rockefeller propose that you be given a handsome and generous reward.”
“Please present them with my sincere compliments and ask if they would instead kindly make a handsome and generous concession in the negotiations.”
Lord Salisbury paused. “You will have no trouble about the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Holmes. I told Halsbury that I shall require his resignation if he so much as mentions it in connection with the way you have handled this delicate matter. However, there is just one point on which I should like some clarification,” he said. “This Adam Worth person that we have heard so much about. Has he been apprehended?”
“He will not trouble England, Prime Minister. I can assure you of that.”
“And the escaped convict, the disgraced Colonel Sebastian Moran?”
“The same applies to him.”
Lord Salisbury gave Holmes a long, appraising look and then a smile. “That’s all right, then.” He handed the envelope back to Sir Michael. “Get this into the treasury right away. We can purchase more artillery to use against those rebellious Boers.”
And with a subsequent smile, handshake, and nod to each of us, we were dismissed.
64. HOLMES ADMITS A POSSIBILITY
We returned to Baker Street by cab. On the way, Holmes re
marked, “A most satisfactory diagnosis, Dr. Watson.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What you wrote in that notebook forced upon you by Mr. Worth. I could not help reading the words as I burned the pages last night. Worth was indeed a dangerous madman. It was more than courageous of you to goad him the way you did, simply because you refused to put my reputation at risk. You were risking your life.”
“Your reputation is an inspiration to millions. And when Worth was about to shoot me, you put your own life at risk. You never gave up.”
Holmes gave a sigh. “Each of us acted in haste last night, without pausing to analyze the probabilities of success. For my part, I am forced to admit the possibility that I have grown soft and emotional, and that I may have lost my capacity for intellectual rigor. I wonder if that is because Miss James and Miss Rosario have entered my life. I wonder how I shall continue to function.”
I was about to offer reassurance and support. Then I saw the twinkle in Holmes’s eye. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”
“Quite possibly, Watson.”
I could not refrain from asking, “All right, but then what really are your plans regarding Miss James and Miss Rosario? Yesterday they both talked of going to Rome, and I strongly suspect it was you who made the arrangements with Mr. D’Oyly Carte for them to do so.”
Holmes turned up an empty palm.
I pressed the point. I needed to know. “Holmes, how do you see your future with those two ladies?”
“I propose to help them with whatever enterprises they wish to undertake,” Holmes replied. “It remains only to determine what those enterprises may be.” He gave one of his little half smiles. “And that inquiry may take some time.”
The Last Moriarty Page 22