The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "The trouble is, you see, that they also believe you to be guilty."

  "You mean the American minister and my paper? How can they?"

  "Why not? You were found alone in the room with Sefton. There were signs of a struggle. Obviously you fought over the plans, you struck him with your stick, and then he knocked you unconscious before falling back in a swoon on the bed. After all, the plans were in your pocket."

  "But the open window?"

  "It was inspected by the police. Nobody leaped to the ground— or at least, there were no marks."

  "But what would I want with the plans?"

  Moriarty shrugged. "What do spies ever want with the plans, or the papers, or the treaties, or whatever they steal? In any case, that's of no concern to the police."

  "So you think my people are not going to help me?" Barnett asked.

  "Your people are going to forget about you as rapidly as is decently possible."

  "But you believe me innocent?" Barnett asked. "And you are willing to help me?" He shook his head and stared at the wall. "How can you help me? How can anyone help me?"

  "I know you to be innocent, as it happens," Moriarty said. "And I can help you."

  "How?" Barnett asked.

  "First you must realize that I am your last hope," Moriarty said. "And then you must agree to my terms."

  "Terms?"

  "Correct."

  "What is it that you want? No—first tell me how you know me to be innocent."

  "As you may remember, when you saw me last I told you I was going to Odessa."

  "Yes."

  "While there I had access to some secret files of the Russian government—never mind how. What I read in the files, combined with some knowledge of my own, led me to the conclusion that you were not guilty of the murder of Lieutenant Sefton, the theft of the plans, or the destruction of the Garrett-Harris submersible."

  "But then—you heard of all this in Odessa?"

  "No, I heard of it quite by accident when I arrived back in Constantinople. But the chain was immediately clear to me."

  "I see," Barnett said. "Well, then, couldn't you take this information to the proper authorities and convince them of my innocence? Or is that what you are proposing 'terms' for? You want to extract some promise from me in return for getting me released from this foul prison? Of course I'll agree to anything—but what assurance have you that I will fulfill the terms of our bargain once I get out? A promise issued under these conditions is not considered binding in any court of law west of the Suez."

  "You misunderstand," Moriarty said. "I cannot get your conviction overturned by appealing to any authority. My conclusion is based on an assortment of random facts, connected only by my inference. No authority, east or west of Suez, is going to release a convicted felon because of a chain of inference concocted by a defrocked professor of mathematics. Besides, you must understand that the Osmanli authorities have a strong vested interest in seeing that you remain guilty of these crimes: they have already so informed Sultan Abd-ul Hamid, and one does not easily confess an error to the Shah of Shahs."

  "Well then," Barnett said, "for my own piece of mind, tell me: What is your evidence?"

  Moriarty took a large handkerchief from an inner pocket and fastidiously wiped his hands. "Before I left London," he said, "someone tried to kill me. Then again, when I arrived here in Constantinople, as you know, an attempt was made."

  Barnett nodded. "I thought you didn't know why you were attacked," he said.

  "I did not at the time," Moriarty said. "But when I arrived in Odessa I discovered that the Russian principal I had come to see wished to hire me to apprehend a dangerous man who is fanatically devoted to the Russian cause."

  "The Russians want to hire you to catch someone devoted to their own cause?" Barnett asked.

  "I will explain at some future time—if ever," Moriarty said. "For the moment, accept the fact."

  "Go on," Barnett said.

  "The Russian agent was aware that an attempt had been made to solicit my aid before I left London," Moriarty said. "It clearly was he who tried to kill me, both in London and here."

  "Okay," Barnett said.

  "Therefore, he followed me here. He did not follow me to Odessa, since I was taken aboard an Imperial steam-frigate for the trip there and back. Therefore, he was in Constantinople when the submersible exploded. Therefore, he was in Constantinople when Lieutenant Sefton was murdered and you were blamed.

  "You have seen him?" Barnett asked.

  "I have no idea who he is or what he looks like. It may not have been the subject himself, but one of his henchmen. I am assured that he has henchmen."

  "But why would this mysterious man have done this thing to me?" Barnett demanded.

  "Ah, but you see, he did not do this to you," Moriarty said. "He did this to the Ottoman Empire, the traditional enemy of Russia for these past hundred years. You merely happened along at the opportune moment."

  "To be charged with murder."

  "Yes."

  "You mean that, with no preparation, on the spur of the mo-ment, he was able to arrange for the destruction of the Garrett-Harris submersible and the theft of the plans?"

  "Why not? I could have done the same." Moriarty refolded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. "I must assume that Lieutenant Sefton somehow became aware of this agent's activities, and that is why Sefton was killed. I assure you that the casual murder of one man means no more to our Russian friend than the swatting of a fly.

  "The sections of the plans were thrust into your pocket to give the authorities a convenient scapegoat, so they would look no further for the culprit. And this was successful. I imagine he took those plans he thought would be useful and left you only with those he didn't need." Moriarty smacked his hands together. "All this executed, as you say, on the spur of the moment. The man is capable, courageous, and cunning. Truly a fit antagonist."

  "I'm convinced," Barnett said. "So how do you plan to get me out of here, and what do you want from me in return?"

  "I plan to arrange for your escape," Moriarty said, "and quickly, before the authorities tire of attempting to obtain from you information which you do not possess. For on that day you will die."

  Barnett shuddered. "Cheerful," he said.

  "What I want from you," Moriarty told him, "is two years of your life. I would like to employ you. I shall endeavor to remove you from this place, and in return you will work for me for two years."

  "Why?"

  "You are good at your profession, and I have use for you."

  "And after the two years?"

  "After that, your destiny is once again your own."

  "I accept!"

  "Good!" Moriarty stood up and looked around the cell. "Bear up and be patient! You shall not be here much longer." He shook hands with Barnett and then strode out of the cell.

  The stocky warder slammed the door behind him, and Barnett heard the heavy bolt sliding into place.

  SIX — NARY A MONK

  Gawd knows, an' 'E won't split on a pal.

  — Kipling

  It was scant minutes after dawn, and the sun was still pushing its way up out of the Black Sea as the Mu'adhdhin was preparing to call the faithful to Friday morning prayer. Five brown-clad monks came down the Street of Venyami the Good and presented themselves at the East Gate of the ancient Prison of Mustafa II. "We have come to shrive such of the prisoners as are of the Christian faith," the spokesman for the monks told the gate guard in heavily Greek-accented Turkish. "It is Shrove Friday."

  The guard smiled, a wide smile that showed both his teeth. "I would be glad to be of assistance," he said, giving a palms-up shrug, "but I have not the authority."

  One of the monks produced a thick parchment, folded and creased many times, and handed it to the spokesman, who passed it through the bars to the guard. "Within here is the authority," he said.

  The guard unfolded the parchment, holding it open with both hands, and examined the cu
rsive writing within, first with one eye and then with the other. "I'll have to show this to the Captain of the Guard," he decided finally. "I cannot make heads nor tails from it."

  "But certainly," the talkative monk agreed. The guard thrust the parchment out through the bars. "Come back at eight," he said. "The captain makes his rounds at eight."

  "Too bad," the monk said, shaking his head slowly. "Too bad?"

  "We cannot wait. Tradition demands that we begin now, so we shall have to go to another prison."

  "Too bad, indeed," the guard agreed, smiling his tooth-exhibiting smile.

  "We shall have to pay to someone else the traditional gatekeeper's fee." The monk took a small ornate purse from his robes and shook it so the coins within jingled.

  "The gatekeeper's fee?"

  "The traditional gatekeeper's fee," the monk agreed. "Legend has it that Simon, our patron saint, knocked three times and was not admitted, and then he paid the gatekeeper and he was admitted. This was the gatekeeper's fee."

  "How much is this fee—this traditional gatekeeper's fee?"

  "Two gold medjidié."

  "Two?"

  "That is so."

  "Gold medjidié?"

  "Yes."

  "Hold on! Wait right here. Perhaps I can ... The captain might be ... You just wait right here. I won't be long. Don't go away." The guard closed the wooden door behind the ancient iron bars and disappeared within.

  The talkative monk turned to his four silent, brown-cowled friends. "Ah," he said, "the power of the almighty medjidié." Three of them nodded under their deep cowls, the fourth remained still and silent.

  It was no more than a minute before the guard returned, bringing with him a short, surly man with a wide, bristling mustache who was busily buttoning the last few buttons on his gold-striped dark blue trousers. "Now, now," the short man said, adjusting his wide gold sash, "who are you people? What's the story I hear? Where is this document? Where are these supposed gold medjidié? You're not trying to bribe an officer in the performance of his duty, now, are you?"

  "You are the Official of the prison?" the monk asked, respectfully.

  "I am the Captain of the Guard," the captain said.

  "We are monks of the Simonite order," the monk told him. "We celebrate a sixteen-hundred-year-old ceremony: the Shriving of the Prisoners. Every year on Shrove Friday we go to a different prison and shrive those prisoners who are Christian, or those of other faiths who wish to be shriven. We ask three times to be admitted, and then pay the traditional gatekeeper's fee. We enter and shrive the pris-oners. Then we pay the Official of the Prison one of the gold medjidié for each prisoner we have shriven. Please, who is the Official of the Prison?"

  The Captain of the Guard stroked his mustache. "I am," he announced finally. "You say you have an authority?"

  The monk handed the parchment to the captain, who spread it open and studied it. "This is an authority to visit prisons in the service of your religious practice?" the captain asked.

  "That is correct."

  "It is signed by Sultan Bayezid II?"

  "Correct."

  "Four hundred years ago?"

  "Just a trifle more than that."

  "This is still good?"

  "It has never been rescinded."

  "You have, perhaps, something more recent?" the captain pleaded, seeing the promised gold dissolving before he had even a chance to taste it. "I cannot permit you to enter the Prison of Mustafa II on a four-hundred-year-old authority."

  "Well, then," the monk said, reaching doubtfully into his robes, "there is this." He handed through the bars an official-looking document with etched red borders, stamped, sealed, notarized, embossed, impressed, and triply signed.

  "Why, this is signed by the Grand Vizier, the Commander of Prisoners, and the Djerrah Pasha!" the Captain of the Guard said. "There'll be no trouble about your shriving the prisoners."

  "Ah, well," the monk said, "if you prefer these recent signatures to that of a four-hundred-year-old sultan, so be it."

  The captain shook his head. "You religious people," he said tolerantly. "Wait, I will get four guards to accompany you. We cannot afford any trouble. Some of these men are desperate."

  "Very good of you," the monk said.

  The captain called forth four guards and then opened the gate. "Enter," he said.

  "May we be admitted?" the monk asked. "Didn't I just tell you to enter?" the captain said. "May we be admitted?" the monk asked.

  "What's the matter, don't you understand Turkish?" the captain said. "Now, look—"

  "May we be admitted?" the monk asked again.

  A great light dawned on the gate guard. "Only if you pay the fee," he said, winking at the captain.

  "Here you are," the monk said; "two gold medjidié."

  "Enter," the gate guard said. "Ah!" the captain said.

  -

  The five monks entered the prison in a close group, with two guards in front of them and two behind. The captain led the group across the courtyard and into the corridors which housed the prisoners. Then he fell behind and watched as the group went from cell door to cell door calling in Turkish and Greek, "Are you Christian? Do you wish to be cleansed of your sins?" Occasionally the call was made in French and English, and if the captain thought that strange he said nothing. Every time a prisoner responded and the cell door was opened, he mentally added one more gold medjidié to the growing count.

  Because the prisoners were bored and any activity was a welcome novelty, many of them conceived a sudden desire to be cleansed of their sins. The monks slowly worked their way down the corridor, stopping at door after door, shriving the damned. Devout Musselmen and Zoroastrians did not admit them, neither did the paranoid nor the catatonic, but most of the prisoners welcomed the monks and the diversion they represented.

  Two or three of the monks would enter the cell when bidden by the prisoner and close the door behind them. The other monks would kneel outside the cell door and pray for the prisoner's soul. The monks spent between three and ten minutes inside each cell they entered.

  For the first hour the guards kept a close watch on the monks, one of them going into each cell along with the shrivers; but as time passed and nothing remarkable happened, they relaxed their vigilance and grew bored, squatting together to talk when the monks entered a cell.

  It was well along in the third hour before the Simonites reached Benjamin Barnett's cell. "Do you want to be cleansed of your sins?" came the call from the corridor.

  Barnett, who had been dozing, woke with a start as the ghostly voice boomed through the cell: "Do you want to be cleansed of your sins?" this time in French. He looked around wildly before realizing that the voice came from someone with his mouth close up against the cell door.

  "What do you want?" Barnett called.

  There was a rattling and thumping, and the cell door opened to admit three men in brown robes who seemed to glide into the room joined at the shoulders. Barnett had a glimpse of another two kneeling in front of the cell before the door swung closed.

  "Quick!" the nearest monk whispered in French. "Remove your garments!"

  "What?"

  "The Professor Moriarty sent us. Remove quickly your garments. We are to exit you from this place."

  Without further discussion Barnett stripped off the few gray rags that the prison authorities had given him. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "I am chained to the wall."

  "We have prepared ourselves for that eventuality," the monk told him. "However, we must hasten ourselves."

  The three monks separated from each other, and an amazing thing happened; the monk in the middle silently folded up and collapsed until there was nothing left of him except a bundle of brown clothes on the floor.

  Barnett gasped and took an involuntary step backward. He didn't know what he had expected to happen, but it surely wasn't this.

  "Hush!" the monk on his left whispered sharply, putting his forefinger to his lips.

&n
bsp; "Mon Dieu! but I am sorry," the other monk said. "I should have paused to realize how startling that would appear if unwarned."

  "What happened to him?" Barnett demanded, pointing to the empty robes.

  "Ah, but you see there was no 'him,' " the monk said. "He was merely simulated by wires in the robes artfully manipulated by my comrade here and myself. Now he and you are about to merge."

  "No time for talk," the left-hand monk said, whipping a pocket razor out from his robes and twisting it open. "To work!"