The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "He? You mean the owner of the cap? I don't really know what he looks like, just hair color and a reasonable guess as to some other facts."

  "Hair color I can understand," Barnett said. "You found one of his hairs in the hat."

  "Several."

  "What about the other stuff; age, height, Eastern European, even horse racing. Don't tell me there was a horse hair in the lining."

  Moriarty smiled. "No," he said, "in the brim. Used for stiffening. "

  "Then how?"

  "As to the age and general good health, that was marked by the condition of the hair—the human hair—I found in the cap. The length of the hairs—none longer than three inches—suggests a man.

  The hairs' diameter also affirms that they came from an adult male. The hairs were healthy, as a microscopic examination of the roots confirmed. This suggests that the owner of the cap also was healthy. The relative youth of the wearer I deduce from the lack of gray hairs among the thirty-six samples I found."

  "European stock?" Barnett said. "Horse racing?"

  Professor Moriarty tossed the cap on the table with a slight spin. "Notice the shape it takes," he said. "That is because it has been blocked by the addition of a folded-up newspaper around the inner liner to make it fit more comfortably. After repeated wearing it has taken up the shape of the wearer's head. Which, you will notice, is long and comparatively slender. The man possesses a typically Slavic skull, from which I deduce that he is probably Eastern European. Professor Alphonse Bertillon, the noted developer of the Bertillon Anthropometric System, would disagree. He marks the long, narrow head as the trait of the congenital criminal. But then, Professor Bertillon is French.

  "The size of the man I deduce from the size of the head. I could be quite wrong, of course, that there is an average about these things. The famous bell-shaped distribution curve shows up quite often in human affairs."

  "That leaves horse racing," Barnett said.

  "The paper folded up inside the crown," Moriarty told him dryly, "is the turf odds page of the Sporting Times."

  "Ah," Barnett said. "Quite so," Moriarty agreed.

  "Is there nothing further?" Barnett asked. Impressive as the professor's deductive display had been, he was right in saying that it didn't take them anywhere.

  "One thing only," Moriarty said. "And it's more in your line than mine." He took a piece of pasteboard from his desk and flipped it over to Barnett. "This was stuck in the hatband."

  Barnett examined the fragment carefully. It was roughly square, about two inches on a side, and appeared to have been torn along one edge. There was a slight reddish tinge to it, but whether it was the natural color or the result of having been kept in a hatband, Barnett couldn't tell. One side was blank, and on the other two numbers and an unintelligible word were scrawled. The numbers were printed in the European fashion; in the upper left-hand corner was "1143" and toward the bottom was "2/5/0." The word, which was between the numbers, was completely unreadable to Barnett and could have been English, French, Russian, or Arabic as far as he could tell. He was fairly sure it wasn't Chinese, but that was about the only possibility he could eliminate. The tear, with the billet held so that the numbers were readable, was along the right-hand side.

  "This may be in my line," Barnett said, turning it over and over, "but I haven't the slightest idea what it is."

  "There are several possibilities," Moriarty said, "but the most probable is that it is a pawn ticket."

  "I see," Barnett said. "I appreciate your compliment as to my experience in this area. However, I would appreciate any facts with which you can supply me."

  "The top number," Moriarty said, "would correspond to the number of the item pawned in the pawnbroker's ledger. The bottom number is the amount loaned. The scrawl in the middle is certainly a description of the item, for those who can read it. I, unfortunately, am not among that favored few."

  "What pawnshop is it from?" Barnett asked.

  "That is the problem," Moriarty said. "Most licensed pawnbrokers have their name and location printed or stamped on their tickets. But there must be thousands of unlicensed brokers in the city—small tradesmen who take a few items in pledge just as a sideline and don't want to pay the yearly licensing fee. The lack of a name on the ticket would indicate a more informal shop, but the high ledger number argues otherwise. The owner would appear to be from the continent, but that is small help."

  "It might be a clerk's handwriting," Barnett suggested.

  "Ah! You followed that," Moriarty said. "Good, good. No, it is probably the owner, judging by the size of the pledge. Anything over ten shillings is usually only given at the owner's discretion, although there's no hard and fast rule."

  "You want me to find the shop?" Barnett asked.

  "Yes," Moriarty said. "See what you can discover of the pledger; he may be an acquaintance of the owner, or they may have taken down his name and address—although that's doubtful. Find out what the pledged item is. That may be especially helpful."

  "Okay," Barnett said, putting the ticket carefully in his wallet. "I'll start tomorrow morning."

  -

  And so he did. For the next week, Barnett wandered the streets of London, from Chelsea to Greenwich, from Finsbury to Lambeth, seeking out pawnbrokers and moneylenders. He had always thought pawnbrokers to be a secretive lot, but they became quite loquacious, he found, when you talked to them about something other than borrowing money. Unfortunately, none of them could identify the ticket or suggest whence it came. They did verify that the billet was, indeed, a pawn ticket, and an old man in Chelsea even translated the unreadable script. "It's what we calls back-writing," he said. "Don't know why we do it. It's dying out now, but it used to be the custom in this here profession."

  "What does it say?" Barnett asked.

  "Musical box, it says," the old man told him. "Must be something extraordinary in the way of musical boxes to pull two-pounds-five as a pledge."

  Barnett reported the translation to Moriarty that evening, received a grunt in reply, and continued the search the next morning. It was two days later, on Pigott Street in Limehouse, that Barnett succeeded in tracing the ticket to its originator.

  Starkey & Sons, Money Lent on Pledge, looked like a small shop from the narrow storefront. But inside it went back for quite a long way. And there were two staircases, one leading upstairs and another down. The establishment was crowded with the most fanciful collection of items Barnett had ever seen. "These are all pledges?" he asked, fingering a stuffed boar's head.

  "Not at all, sir," the aged proprietor said. "The goods taken in pledge are all downstairs. We can't sell them in the shop, you see, even after the year-and-a-week. They have to be offered at auction. It's the law. These are all items we've picked up over the years at auctions, or the like, ourselves. My old father sir, bless his heart, had a sense of whimsy." He pointed to a glass-fronted oak case along the wall. "That contraption of leather tubing in the corner is called a serpent, sir. It is a musical instrument used at one time in military bands and the like. It fell out of favor during the reign of George the Fourth, I believe. Next to it is a stuffed and shellacked sand shark. On the shelf below is a collection of crocheted butterflies."

  "I take it your father was the original Starkey," Barnett said, "and you are the son?"

  "My father," the old man told him, "was the original son. I am merely the original grandson. Feel free to look around, sir. Fascinating incunabula—and a dried lizardskin collection—upstairs. If you see anything you like ..."

  "Actually," Barnett said, "as fascinating as I find this store, I came in to see whether you could identify this pledge." He handed the old man the ticket.

  The old man looked up at Barnett suspiciously. "Of course I can identify it," he said. "It's mine, ain't it?"

  "I didn't know," Barnett said, cautiously suppressing his feeling of elation. "Are you sure it's yours?"

  "I should know my own ticket, I suppose," the old man said, adding hostility t
o suspicion. "You have something to say about it?"

  "Why isn't your name on it?" Barnett asked. "I should think that an old, established firm like yours would have printed tickets."

  "My old father on his deathbed made me swear. 'Don't print the tickets,' he said. 'Dreadful waste of money,' he said. So what could I do? Anyway, we ain't had any complaints yet—present company excepted."

  "Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Starkey," Barnett said. "I'm not complaining. I'm delighted to find you. Could you tell me something about the pledge—a musical box, I believe—and the man that pledged it?"

  "You're not claiming it yourself, then?"

  "What, the musical box? No."

  "Ah!" the old man said, losing his suspicious expression. "For a minute there I thought it was the old higgledy-piggledy. More than one man thinks that pawnshops are fair game for all sorts of diversion. But they don't get away with it in here, I can tell you."

  "I'm glad to hear that, Mr., ah, Starkey," Barnett said. "Tell me, might I take a look at the musical box?"

  "The box has been claimed," Starkey said. "Taken away."

  "Oh," Barnett said unhappily.

  "And as the gent didn't have the ticket, I thought that you—as you do have the ticket—were going to try to claim the item. It's an old game, but it's no less than twice a year that some clever gents will rediscover it."

  "You mean you thought I was in collusion with the man who reclaimed the musical box?"

  "It was not beyond the bounds of possibility," the old man affirmed, striking a large wooden match and applying the lighted tip to the bowl of his ornately carved briar.

  "It's nothing like that, I assure you," Barnett told him. "I am merely trying to find out who the man is so that I can return some property to him. There was no identification with the property, save this unlabeled ticket."

  The old man stared at Barnett silently for a minute. "It must have taken you some time to locate this shop," he said, speculatively.

  "Days," Barnett agreed.

  "It must be impressive property for you to go to all this trouble to return it, and you must be an exceptionally honest man."

  "Well ..." Barnett said.

  "Never mind," the old man said. "None of my business. Come to think of it, that was certainly an unusual musical box."

  "Really?" Barnett said.

  "A square box, about eight inches on a side and two high, made of some hard, light wood. Put together with tiny ornamental brass screws and bands. On top of the box was a miniature grand piano some five or six inches wide with a small doll in a full dress-suit sitting before it, turned away from the keys. Exquisite work."

  "It sounds impressive," Barnett said.

  "Ah!" the old man said. "But when you turn it on and it plays one of its sixteen selections—Bach, Beethoven, Rossini; a bit tinny, but real impressive—the doll turns to face the keys and begins playing. And its hand motions follow the music! Never seen anything like it."

  "I've never even heard of anything like it," Barnett said. "Where was it made?"

  "France," the old man said. "In the twenties, I think. It is signed on the bottom by Jean Eugene Robert Houdin, who served as court magician to Louis XVIII."

  "Court magician?" Barnett asked. "In the eighteen twenties?"

  "Oh, yes," the old man said. "Houdin was famous for his clockwork mechanisms. My father told me about them, being something of a connoisseur, as the French put it. He once made a miniature carriage, pulled by four miniature horses. And, sir, it actually worked. But this was the first thing of the sort that I've actually seen with my own eyes."

  "What can you tell me about the man who pawned it?"

  "Well, for one thing he wasn't French. Polish or Russian, I'd say."

  "I see."

  "And he was very fond of that musical box."

  "But he pawned it."

  "That is true. But not for anything like its true value—even in pawn. He told me he did it just to keep it safe for the next few months."

  "I see," Barnett said.

  "But then he came back the day before yesterday and took it out again. Told me he'd lost the ticket, which I see was the truth. I told him I remembered him, which was so, and that I'd be sorry to lose the box."

  "Can you describe him for me?"

  The old man considered. "I'm not much on describing the way people look," he said. "I have a picture of him in my mind's eye, don't you see, but I couldn't exactly put words to it."

  "Well, was he short or tall?"

  "Not too tall, I'd say."

  "Young or old?"

  "If I had to put a finger on it, I'd say twenty-six or seven."

  "Did you happen to hear his name?"

  "Hear it!" the old man snorted. "Better than that, sir; I have it written down."

  "You do?" Barnett wasn't sure he should believe this stroke of luck.

  "Indeed! And his address, for that matter." Barnett felt weak. "You have the man's name and address written down?"

  "Naturally. You don't think I'm going to let anyone walk out of here with a pledged item and no ticket unless I get some proof of his identity, do you? I've been in this business for fifty years, and nobody has accused me of being soft in the head."

  "But I thought you said you recognized him," Barnett said.

  "And so I did. If not, I wouldn't have let him retrieve the object no matter how many papers he signed."

  "May I get a look at the paper you had him sign?"

  "Gladly. In exchange for the pledge ticket. I hate to have them outstanding, you understand."

  "A fair deal," Barnett agreed.

  The exchange was made and Barnett copied down the information. Not that he had any real hope that the name and address were genuine, but it was certainly worth checking out. The name and address were block-printed on a buff card. PYOTRE I. AZIMOF: 7 SCRUTTON COURT. A scrawling signature was below.

  "Good-bye, sir," Barnett said. "Thank you for your assistance.

  You have a fascinating shop here. I will have to come back and really wander through it someday."

  "It will be here," the old man assured him. "And, for so long as I have anything to say about it, so shall I."

  -

  Barnett pulled his Greene's Pocket Guide to London Streets & Thoroughfares from his jacket and discovered that there indeed was a Scrutton Court, and that he was no more than seven or eight blocks from it. He resolved to scout out the building himself, without waiting to check with Moriarty, and try to get a look inside if he could think of a reasonably subtle way.

  But first he would pause for a bit of lunch. While eating he would plan an approach that would be the least likely to raise suspicion. He felt it would not be wise, with Trepoff, to raise suspicion.

  The Jack Falstaff Tavern on Cable Street had a pleasant grill room, and the proprietor, on hearing Barnett's accent, brought him a plate of lamb chops and grilled tomatoes, which he described for some reason as his "American lunch." It was quite good. Then, in a burst of Anglo-American friendship, the proprietor produced a pot of coffee which had been boiled only briefly and was actually drinkable.

  Barnett sat over the coffee and tried to pick an approach. Building inspector? Gas-meter reader? "Excuse me, sir, but I believe my pigeon just flew in your window. Mind if I look?" Professor Moriarty would have seven acceptable schemes for getting inside the house, surely Barnett could come up with one. Barnett debated enlisting the professor's aid instead of proceeding on his own initiative, but then decided it would be more to his credit if he could prove himself an effective sleuth without help from the old master.

  Barnett finished his third cup of coffee and got up. He'd check the house out from the outside. Maybe something immensely clever would occur to him as he walked by. Maybe not. Maybe there was no such house; the man had probably given a false name and address anyhow. Better check it out and see where to go from there.

  Scrutton Court was a double row of two-story red brick buildings facing a narrow stone-paved st
reet. Someone had built it early in the century as housing for the deserving almost-poor, and so it had stayed for the past sixty or seventy years. Barnett had to walk the length of the street twice before he located the building numbers, which were painted in whitewash on the curb. A row of apathetic women watched him without interest from their porches as he passed, and then went back to hanging their wash from the lines that paralleled the houses.

  Dingy white curtains covered the windows at number seven, and there was no sign of life from within. What sort of sign from what sort of life Barnett had expected to see, he had no idea. The house could be deserted, or there could be an army camped within, and the only way to tell was to get inside and look.