The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. H paused and sniffed. "Mr. Holmes is an ungrateful young man. He was looking for a saint and he discovered that the professor was only a human being. He never has been able to forgive him that."

  "They knew each other?"

  "Oh, yes. Years ago."

  "What happened?"

  Mrs. H sniffed again. "Tea's ready," she said.

  Barnett made a few more attempts to draw her out, but Mrs. H had evidently decided that she had said quite enough, and she refused to be drawn. He had to settle for tea and scones.

  -

  It was after dark when a carriage pulled up to the door of 64 Russell Square and a tall man swathed in a light opera cape descended and rang the front door bell.

  Mr. Maws answered the door promptly. "Yes?" he said, surveying the gentleman expressionlessly.

  "I would speak with the Professor Moriarty."

  "Who should I say is calling?"

  "I am Count Boris Gobolski, accredited representative of His Imperial Majesty Alexander the Third, Tsar of all the Russias, to the court of St. James."

  Mr. Maws nodded almost imperceptibly. "Have you an appointment?" he asked.

  "Your master will wish to see me," Count Boris Gobolski said. "Immediately. It is of utmost importance."

  "Come in," Mr. Maws said. "Please wait in the front room. I will inform the professor that you are here."

  Mr. Maws climbed the stairs and announced Gobolski's presence to Moriarty, who petulantly slammed closed the book he was reading. "Probably wants a report," he said. "There was nothing in our agreement about reports. Tell him ..." He sat up. "No, I had better go myself. I will give the gentleman to understand that there is nothing to be gained by incessantly pestering me."

  "He has never been here before, sir," Mr. Maws felt obliged to state.

  "That's no reason for him to start now," Moriarty said. "This must be nipped in the bud. I cannot work without a free hand."

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Maws said. "Shall I tell the gentleman that you will be down directly?"

  "Yes, tell him that," Moriarty said, pulling on his shoes. "I suppose I'd better dress first. It wouldn't do to greet an ambassador in a dressing-gown."

  "Shall I lay out your clothes?"

  "No, never mind that," Moriarty said. "That's not a butler's job, I keep telling you."

  "The professor does not have a personal valet," Mr. Maws observed.

  "When I made you my butler, Mr. Maws," Moriarty said, casting aside his dressing gown and selecting a shirt from his wardrobe, "I little dreamed that you'd take the title so seriously."

  "I know, sir," Mr. Maws said. "I believe it appeals to some sense of order in my soul. I really enjoy the position, you understand, sir."

  "It has become self-evident," Moriarty said. "Now go and knock up Barnett on your way downstairs. Tell him to join us in the study as soon as he's presentable."

  "Very good, sir."

  Moriarty was dressed in ten minutes, and found Barnett waiting for him on the landing. "Good to see you up," Barnett said cheerfully.

  "Bah!" Moriarty replied. He wiped his pince-nez and placed it over his nose, eyeing Barnett critically through the lenses. "Our relationship," he said, "is somehow not what I expected." Then he trotted down the stairs ahead of Barnett.

  Mr. Maws was in the front hall, keeping a suspicious eye on the door to the front room. "Show Count Gobolski into the study," Moriarty directed him. "Have you lit the lamps?"

  "I didn't want to leave the hall, Professor," Mr. Maws said.

  "Of course," Moriarty said. Taking a box of waterproof vespas from his pocket, he entered his study and performed the service himself, lighting the overhead gas pendant and the ornate brass gas lamp on his desk.

  Count Gobolski entered the room, his opera cape still wrapped around him. "Professor James Moriarty?" he asked.

  Moriarty stood behind his desk. "Count Boris Gobolski?"

  Gobolski nodded nervously, and his gaze shifted to Barnett, who was standing by the small worktable across the room. "Who is he?" he demanded.

  "My assistant," Moriarty said. "Benjamin Barnett."

  "My pleasure, Count," Barnett said, bowing slightly and smiling.

  "I do not like this," Gobolski said. His English was precise and perfect, and only a slight liquidity in the consonants marked him as a foreigner.

  "Pray be seated, Your Excellency," Moriarty said, indicating the leather chair by his desk. "I would prefer Mr. Barnett to remain, but if you wish him to leave ..."

  "No, no," Gobolski said, waving his arm vaguely at Barnett and dropping into the indicated chair. "I did not mean—" He paused and looked around the room. "I believe I was followed," he said. "Coming here, I mean."

  "Ah!" Moriarty said. He reached behind him and gave a slight tug on the bellpull. "And what leads you to suspect that?"

  "One develops a feel for such things," Gobolski said.

  Mr. Maws opened the door and stepped inside.

  "Would you like a libation, Your Excellency?" Moriarty asked. "A brandy, perhaps? I have a fine Napoleon I can offer you. Mr. Maws, see to it, will you? And send Tolliver out the back way to see if anyone is taking an interest in this house."

  Mr. Maws nodded and left, silently closing the door behind him.

  "And now, Count Gobolski," Moriarty said, "what brings you calling at this late hour? And whom do you suspect of taking an interest in your affairs?"

  "I am a diplomat," Gobolski said, "not a conspirator. But for a Russian today, that means little difference. One has to learn to live with being followed, threatened, terrorized. One lives in the shadow of assassination." He smoothed his mustache down with a nervous gesture. "I for one, have never become used to it. Did you know," he asked, leaning forward, "that there is a police guard in front of my house twenty-four hours of the day?"

  "It must be wearing," Moriarty said.

  "Nine of the members of my staff are nothing more or less than bodyguards," Gobolski said.

  Mr. Maws returned with the brandy glasses on a tray and distributed them, putting the tray with the bottle on a corner of the desk. Gobolski sniffed his drink suspiciously for a second and then drained the glass. "Excellent," he said. Mr. Maws refilled the glass.

  "All of this," Gobolski said, "is the normal procedure." He sipped at the second glass. "Then I received a message from St. Petersburg today. Doubly encoded, so that when the code clerk was finished with it I then had to decode it again myself."

  "Yes?" Moriarty encouraged.

  "There was a message in it—and instructions. The message was for Professor James Moriarty. The instructions were for me. I have never heard of you before, you understand."

  "I would not have expected you to have."

  "My instructions were to bring the message to you myself, personally, and not allow anyone else to see it. That is unusual."

  "I'm sure."

  "The instructions further directed me to be careful," Count Gobolski said. "Be careful! When I already have twenty-four-hour policemen and nine armed guards." He smoothed his mustache. "I trust that the message holds some relevancy or importance for you. I confess that it conveys nothing of interest to me."

  "I haven't seen it yet," Moriarty said, patiently.

  "I tell you Mr.—Professor—Moriarty, there is enough to keep me busy in the diplomatic sphere without branching out into espionage. The External Branch of the Okhrana is responsible for espionage. It is not my job. The relationships between your country and mine—I assume you are British—are quite delicate. They require all of my time. I don't see why a man in my position has to act as a courier for messages of doubtful importance."

  "May I see the message?" Moriarty asked.

  "What? Oh, yes. Of course." Count Gobolski patted the pockets of his formal attire, and finally produced a slip of buff paper which he passed over to the Professor.

  Moriarty read it, and then reread it, looking puzzled. "This is all?" he demanded.

  Count Gobolsk
i looked slightly startled at the change in Moriarty's manner. "All?" he said. "Of course it is all. Then I was right— the matter is of no importance? I am missing Wagner for nothing?"

  "On the contrary, my dear Count," Moriarty said, "it is of the gravest importance. But it is incomplete; the most significant facts are missing." He held the slip of paper out. "Barnett, what do you make of it?"

  Barnett took the paper and stood under the gas pendant to read it. It was printed in a crabbed hand, presumably Count Gobolski's, and read in its entirety:

  FOUR SAILORS FROM BLACK SEA FLEET HAVE LEFT SEVASTOPOL FOR ENGLAND. JOINING TREPOFF SURELY. TRAVELING AS GERMANS POSSIBLY. EXPECTED JULY TENTH.

  "Trepoff needs sailors," Barnett said, handing the note back.

  "So it would seem," Moriarty said. "And the tenth is only six days off." He transferred his attention back to Gobolski. "What do you know of Trepoff?"

  "I?" Gobolski started. "Nothing. I know nothing of Trepoff. I have heard rumors, of course. Who has not? But I know nothing of this madman. Nothing. I think it is a joke, or a myth used to scare small children. It is said that he kills without warning. And that, although an agent of the Tsar, even the Tsar is afraid of him. Of course, that is not true. I know nothing of him."

  Moriarty leaned forward. "Trepoff is in London," he said, tapping the desk. "He is real. You were sent with that message because of your exalted rank and station, because you could be trusted and no one else could. I thank you for coming. This is of the utmost importance, you must believe that. As important as any of your other work."

  "Trepoff is in London?" Count Gobolski shot a nervous glance around the room and wiped his mustache. "Has your man ascertained yet whether my carriage is under observation?"

  "He will inform us before you leave," Moriarty said. "But this message must be amplified." He tapped the paper. "You must send a reply requesting more detail."

  "Detail?"

  "Yes, Your Excellency. I need to know the identity of the four men. I need to know their ranks and their specialties."

  "What for?" Gobolski said, honestly puzzled. "They are only sailors. If they were officers it would have said as much."

  "But even sailors have specialties," Moriarty said patiently. "They may be deckhands, or gunners, or ordnance specialists, or artificers, or engine crew, or stewards, or any one of a dozen other jobs. If I know what they do, then I will have some idea of why Trepoff wants them. I need this information, Your Excellency."

  Count Gobolski nodded. "Very clever. The specialties of sailors. I will send the message."

  "Thank you."

  There was a tapping at the study door, and Mummer Tolliver burst through. "I've got 'em pegged right enough for you, Professor," he said, coming to a halt in front of the desk.

  "Then there is someone watching the house?" Moriarty asked. He looked pleased.

  " 'Course there is, sir," the Mummer said. "There's three of 'em, as a matter of fact."

  "Tell me about it," Moriarty said, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully.

  "Yes, sir. There's a chap bent over in the shrubbery in the square, behind the equestrian statue of Lord Hornblower. He's keeping a weather eye on the carriage what's parked outside the door."

  "My carriage?" Count Gobolski demanded.

  "Right enough," the Mummer agreed. "And on the back steps of the British Museum, on Montague Place, there's a beggar with a horrible twisted lip selling pencils. Only it's a peculiar time to be selling pencils, says me, and he ain't no beggar, further."

  "That sounds like a certain consulting detective of my acquaintance," Moriarty said. "I do hope he isn't too comfortable."

  "And then, around the corner of the next block, over on Gower Street, there's a hansom cab setting, waiting for something."

  "A fare, perhaps?" Moriarty suggested.

  "Funny time to be waiting for a fare on Gower Street," the Mummer said. "I went over to him myself and tried to engage him."

  "And?"

  "He told me he was otherwise engaged. When I persisted, he told me several interesting things about my parentage that my father hasn't seen fit to mention. He spoke with an accent."

  "What sort?" Moriarty asked.

  The Mummer shrugged. "French," he said.

  "Could it have been Russian?" Moriarty suggested.

  " 'Course it could," Tolliver agreed. "French, Russian—they all sound the same, you know."

  "Yes, I suppose they do," Moriarty said. "Anything else?"

  "It is my opinion," Tolliver said, "that the gent lurking behind the statue and the gent atop of the hansom are working together."

  "Interesting," Moriarty said. "On what do you base this observation?"

  "Their hats," Tolliver said.

  Barnett looked at his small friend. "Hats?" he said.

  "Yes. Caps, actually. They both have the same cap, and it's a queer one, it is. Long beak, coming to a point almost, in front. With a little strap in the back with a buckle. Never seen one like it before, and here's two in one evening. That's why I think they're related, those two."

  "Very good work, Tolliver," Moriarty said. He turned to Count Gobolski. "If you don't mind my asking, Your Excellency, where are you going from here?"

  "To the house of—a friend—south of Kensington Gardens," Gobolski said. "Why do you ask?"

  "Please write down the address and give it to Tolliver here," Moriarty said. "They will follow you when you leave here, but they will be prepared for someone attempting to follow them. That is, if it is the group I suspect. However, if Tolliver picks them up when you arrive at your friend's house instead of following them directly, we may catch them off guard. In that case we may be able to trace them back to their lair. Perhaps back to Trepoff himself."

  "You believe this is possible?" Gobolski asked.

  "I think it is, yes."

  "You think this little man can do such a job?"

  "Tolliver?" Moriarty said, turning to the Mummer.

  "I ain't perfect," Tolliver said, "but I'm good."

  Count Gobolski shrugged, obviously far from convinced, and wrote an address down on the back of one of his cards. He handed the card to Tolliver.

  "I wants to change clothes for this job," the Mummer said, indicating his checked suit and high collar. "This ain't a suitable disguise. Give me a moment."

  "We'll give you twenty minutes," Moriarty said, "ten minutes to change and a ten-minute head start."

  "Twenty minutes?" Count Gobolski pulled out his pocket watch and inspected its face. "It is now ten twenty-five. I am already late."

  "Patience, Your Excellency," Moriarty said, waving the Mummer out of the room, "there is much at stake here. Perhaps I could interest you in a brief game of chess to pass the time?"

  "Chess?" Count Gobolski looked interested. "You play chess?"

  "Barnett, hand down that board on the shelf behind you, if you will." Moriarty said. "And the Persian pieces in the box next to it."

  The game went on for forty minutes, with the two men engrossed in the board between them, and Barnett an interested, if not engrossed, spectator. Finally, Moriarty pushed a black pawn forward and straightened up. "Checkmate, I believe, Your Excellency," he said. "A good game."

  Count Gobolski stared at the board. Then he took a small notebook from his pocket and jotted down the sequence of moves in a quick, nervous hand. "Brilliant!" he said. "So fast and so sure. And you an Englishman!"

  "Thank you," Moriarty said, taking the delicate ivory pieces and replacing them carefully in their box.

  "Well!" Gobolski said, rising and putting his notebook away. "Now I am incredibly late. I hope it is to the good." He shook hands with Moriarty. "I will send your list of questions to St. Petersburg tomorrow," he said. "Perhaps you would play chess with me again some time?"

  Moriarty rose and bowed. "My pleasure," he said.

  SEVENTEEN — THE PUZZLE

  Life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backward.

  — Kierkegaard />
  The cripple, squatting on his little body cart, pulled himself through the London streets with surprising speed, aided by his two short India-rubber-tipped sticks. Early risers on this Sabbath morning saw him pass and felt a touch of pity, a twinge of undefinable guilt (emotions his whole garb had been carefully designed to evoke), and more than one hand reached toward a pocketbook as he passed. He did not stop for alms, however, but pressed determinedly on, scurrying through the streets of Bloomsbury until he passed the British Museum and then hopping his cart dextrously up the steps of 64 Russell Square.