The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  Spear was far from happy when he looked at the helmets of those in police uniform, bearing as they did the dragon crest of the City force – a symbol which would instantly bring them under suspicion if they were seen carrying out a duty on the preserves of the Metropolitan Police Force. Spear was a sensible villain, and the last thing he wanted was an act of violence against even one member of the official police.

  Bertram Jacobs was to take charge of the assault, for Spear was too well known to Schleifstein to show his face near the Edmonton house, and so tip the wink that the ‘arrests’ were not as they seemed.

  ‘Treat Ember a bit brutal,’ Spear counselled. ‘Just for the effect. You’ll not want a roughhouse in the back of the van on your way over. It might cause you to be more noticed than normal. You and William carrying barkers?’

  Bertram nodded, lifting his jacket to reveal the long curved butt of the French Service double-action revolver which protruded from his belt.

  ‘Only use it if it’s to silence somebody you cannot take.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We know what we’re about.’

  ‘And you have the way of the place in your head?’

  ‘Ember talked enough of it. They mostly live in the dining-room to the right of the hall. The guv’nor’s room is first floor front. I’ll take him myself.’

  They were about to climb into the black maria, which stood in the yard behind the buildings, when Betteridge arrived, flushed and tired, having discarded his police uniform at a girl shop in Gill Street near the West India docks. Spear quickly decided that Betteridge had done enough deception for one day and decreed that he should stay at Bermondsey to await the prisoners.

  Ember was all in, nervous and jumpy as a bag of fleas. All the way back to Edmonton he had expected an arm to fall on him: the canvas bag being so conspicuous and Franz so certainly suspicious. Schleifstein, however, was overjoyed after the first irritation and dismay of hearing that the whole thing had been cracked in one night.

  The German took the bag up to his bedroom while Wellborn and the greasy-haired boy fed them with bacon, bread and dripping, washed down by tea the colour of brown ale. It did much to revive Ember’s spirits, though Franz continued to treat him with wary looks.

  Peter and Claus got back, on foot, shortly after eight, announcing that there had been no bother. Evans, plainly frightened after his ordeal with the cab, arrived some fifteen minutes after that.

  Slowly the tension of the night gave way to an atmosphere of boastful jesting, in which Ember found it difficult to join, knowing as he did, that there was likely to be an affray before the day was out.

  A little after nine, Schleifstein sent for the boy, and a few minutes later Ember heard the lad come down and go out by the street door. Five minutes after, the German leader came into the dining-room and asked Ember to join him upstairs.

  The canvas bag was laid out on the floor and the gems were on the bed, put down with care and order. Schleifstein’s face showed good humour.

  ‘You have kept your word, Mr Ember. It is as good a haul as I have ever seen. Once we get the stones out of the country no doubt word will go round that I put up for this night’s work. I should imagine that will enhance my reputation among family people in London.’

  ‘Greatly.’

  ‘I do not wish for the stones to be here over long.’ He could not take his eyes off the bed with its precious load. The most valuable counterpane in the history of crime. ‘I would have preferred it if they had not been brought here until tomorrow morning, but what is done is done. The boy has gone to fetch one of the captains who will be transporting these pretty things.’

  Ember’s heart sank. It was possible that the Professor would miss the catch after all.

  ‘They’ll be safe enough here,’ he said. ‘You trust this man?’

  Schleifstein’s leathery face broke into a thin smile, which did not get as far as his eyes.

  ‘His wife and children are in Berlin. He’ll no more cross me than sail bows on into a reef.’

  Downstairs the doorbell rang softly – a tinkling which seemed to echo in Ember’s head like a dozen tiny musical boxes. The German’s face showed only a passing interest.

  ‘He’ll be taking the larger pieces,’ he continued. ‘The tiaras and necklaces.’

  Voices were raised below. Then a shout followed by the crash of a pistol shot.

  Ben Tuffnell had watched the comings and goings at the Edmonton house, from his pitch across the road, and was wholly alert behind a mask of disinterest. The road was not overcrowded when the black maria drew up, just around the corner, and few people paid it any heed. Tuffnell saw the Jacobs brothers and Terremant climb from the rear, muffled in greatcoats, and begin walking calmly towards the German’s house. The other punishers, clad as police constables, stayed back by the van around the corner, and did not move forward until Bertram Jacobs mounted the steps and tugged gently at the dirty brass bell pull. The uniformed men walked in file, unhurried, nor did the fellow at the reins of the black Maria urge his horses on until he had a sign that the door was being opened.

  Bertram Jacobs stood at the top of the steps, one hand inside his coat, resting on the butt of the revolver. His brother and Terremant were on either side, a little below him, on the steps.

  The towering Franz opened up.

  ‘We are police officers,’ said Bert Jacobs, pushing forward.

  Franz tried to slam the door in his face and dodge back into the hall, but both the Jacobs and Terremant had their weight forward and were in the hall as Franz staggered back, shouting in German that the police were there. The uniformed punishers were running now, doubling up the steps as Franz reached inside his jacket, heaved out a big revolver and fired once.

  The bullet took one of the punishers – a stocky bruiser named Pug Parsons – in the chest, toppling him back down the steps, where he lay groaning, the blue uniform sodden with blood. There was screaming and shouts from the street behind them as Terremant leaped forward and brought his neddy – the small weighted cudgel he carried – hard down on Franz’s wrist, and then, as the man turned, again to the side of his head.

  Both the Jacobs boys were leaping up the stairs, while their uniformed colleagues smashed into the dining-room to collar those who were already trying to make an escape out of the front window.

  Schleifstein was caught quite unawares, his face a mixture of shock and anger, eyes showing that he only dimly grasped at events as he half reached for the table drawer.

  ‘We’ll take you alive,’ snapped Bertram Jacobs, showing the revolver – arm outstretched – as his brother grabbed Ember, turning him around and snapping handcuffs on his wrists, before shoving him unceremoniously against the wall.

  Bertram was following suit with the German, who was now cursing alternately in his own language and English. It took less than a minute to dump the loot from the bed back into the canvas sack, William throwing a glance out of the window seeing a crowd gathering in the street as the uniformed men bundled the others into the back of the van.

  Another minute saw them forcing Schleifstein and Ember down the narrow staircase and out, down the stone steps. At the bottom, one of the punishers was lifting Pug Parsons’ head to see what could be done.

  ‘He’s dead,’ the punisher grunted at Bertram as they negotiated their way past the body.

  ‘Then leave him,’ hissed Jacobs prodding at Schleifstein’s back with the revolver barrel.

  It had taken less than six minutes from start to finish, and, as the black maria clattered off, Terremant peered from the barred rear window – their prisoners all shut away in the little lockups which ran down each side of the van’s interior. Through the crowd, he saw a pair of police constables running towards the commotion.

  ‘Get a breeze on,’ Terremant called softly. ‘The bobbies are on their way.’

  Just before Lee Chow and the Professor left for Bermondsey, Saxby arrived back at Albert Square with the news that there was a mighty hue and cr
y going on around Bishopsgate and Cornhill. The beat policeman had been found, bound and gagged at the railing of St Peter’s Church; and on good evidence it appeared that the gang of robbers had left their tools behind. As the tools of a good cracksman were regarded as a ‘signature’, the police were confident that with these in their possession, they would not be long in apprehending the villains.

  The Professor was silent on hearing the news. At last he turned to Lee Chow, as though about to say something of importance.

  Lee Chow spoke before him. ‘You wish I go St John’s Wood, chop-chop?’

  Again Moriarty weighed the matter before speaking. ‘No. You come with me to Bermondsey first. I do not like going abroad in the present climate without at least one of my Guard with me. When you have seen me safe there, you will go and settle matters in St John’s Wood.’

  It was a bumpy, cramped and uncomfortable ride in the police van out to Bermondsey. For one thing there were only six compartments for the prisoners, which meant keeping Ember out in the narrow passage with the punishers. There was little enough room anyway, and the vehicle swayed perilously, creaking with the unaccustomed weight.

  Nobody challenged them, but it was with intense relief that they finally turned into the yard behind the store house and offices.

  Six rooms and the large hallway had been made presentable. Tables and chairs were set in the hall, and meagre cots in the rooms, which had their windows securely barred. While these windows had been safe when the place was bought, the doors were only equipped with cheap locks, so during the previous week the Jacobs brothers had seen to it that strong mortice locks were added, together with iron plates and Judas’ squints. The whole of this section of the building had been cleaned and whitewashed so that Schleifstein and his followers might well have been forgiven for thinking that they had been brought to some official centre.

  They were all reasonably docile now, though anger was visible on each face, together with truculence in the case of Franz who had been told throughout the journey that he would be for Jack Ketch’s apple tree – all of them being witness to his shooting the man on the steps at Edmonton.

  Spear stayed hidden until the prisoners were all divided up, searched for a second time, and locked away. He took the news of Pug Parsons’ death badly – not only because Parsons was an old comrade, but also for the fact that it had been necessary to leave his body in plain view at Edmonton. He agreed, however, that there had been no other course of action open to them.

  A watch was set on the street, and Spear took charge of the canvas bag. Presently Harkness drove Moriarty’s personal cab into the yard.

  There was an audible intake of breath, from punishers and members of the Praetorian Guard alike, when the Professor entered the building, for this was the first time since arriving from America, that Moriarty had appeared in the guise of his famous brother.

  It was one of the legends which James Moriarty had created – his ability to flit in and out of two personas. With his own particular sense of drama, he stood in the doorway for a moment, allowing his followers to take in the transformation to the full. The tall thin figure with stooped shoulders, the gaunt face, hollow eyes and thin lips: it was a truly masterly and complete disguise, and to be sure, Moriarty himself was well aware of this change each time he made it: for had he not disposed of his academic brother with his own hands in order to step neatly into his character, together with the aura of respect which surrounded it?

  ‘Is all done?’ he asked. Even his voice appeared to have altered slightly, becoming older and more in keeping with the body he occupied.

  Spear stepped forward. ‘They’re all safe here. As is the booty.’

  Moriarty nodded. ‘No difficulties?’

  Spear recounted the manner in which Parsons had died and the Professor sighed, taking the news, it appeared philosophically.

  ‘Bring in the Berliner then,’ he said at last.

  The Jacobs brothers disappeared into the room where Schleifstein was lodged, and a second or two later brought the two great underworld leaders face to face.

  The shock to Schleifstein’s system was apparent from the moment the German set eyes on the Professor, his leathery skin suddenly drained and taking on the brittle yellow grain of old notepaper. His hands shook, and for a moment it looked as though he would be smitten with a seizure.

  ‘What is this game?’ he croaked out at last, reaching forward to lean on the table in order to remain standing.

  ‘Good day, my dear Wilhelm,’ the Professor spoke softly, his eyes never leaving Schleifstein’s face for a second. ‘Did you not expect me?’ The voice rising a fraction. ‘Did you really think I would allow you to put up a big screwing in my own garden? Would you have allowed me the same privilege in Berlin, even if I had asked pardon – which you did not?’

  ‘You were …’ Schleifstein’s voice trailed away. He said something else but it was too indistinct to be heard by those present.

  ‘Away? Abroad? In America? I was an absent tenant. Is that what you thought? When the cat’s away? But I was forgetting, you and your cronies in France, Italy and Spain gave backword to all that we agreed, did you not?’

  ‘My dear Professor,’ the German appeared to have recovered a shade. ‘You were under siege, your empire was being assaulted by the law.’

  ‘So you decided that you would also assault it from within. Instead of standing together, you decided to divide. To drop me overboard like a bagful of rats. And you call yourself a leader; you think you cracked a fine crib, did you? Well, as you can see, you could not have sniffed near it but for me. How do you think it was really done? By one of my own, Wilhelm. How do you think the place was watched and the coppers taken care of, eh?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘The loot.’

  Moriarty’s laugh was a howl of derision. ‘The loot. No, sir, I have that already. What I want is the respect due to me. The acknowledgement that I am the natural leader of all our agencies here and on the continent. I wish to re-establish the alliance so that it may be run properly and not in this haphazard manner in which it founders at the moment – this come and do as you please confusion, which is worse than the chaos of established society.’

  Schleifstein spread his hands. ‘I will talk with the others, I will …’

  ‘You’ll talk to no person but me. The others will be dealt with in turn. There’ll be no shirksters and they must all see for themselves that, in matters concerning family people, I am their master and the natural leader. Do you affirm that, Wilhelm Schleifstein?’

  Schleifstein’s face twisted in a contortion of anger. ‘In Berlin I would have you squashed like a beetle.’

  ‘But we are in London, Wilhelm,’ the Professor soothed. ‘With you here at my mercy, I should not wonder I could gain power among your people in Berlin. Maybe I should do that.’

  There was a long pause, Schleifstein’s eyes shifting from side to side, like a beast trapped and looking for a clear way.

  Moriarty laughed, a deep cackle. ‘Wilhelm, you put up for an admirable screwing, only it was I who was really managing the affair – my people, my plan. If I spread the word …?’ He allowed the sentence to hang, unfinished in the air.

  All eyes were turned to the German.

  ‘I could have been harder. I could still be utterly ruthless,’ Moriarty did not smile. ‘I merely ask for you to accept me as the natural leader. Come, I have proved it – and will do so to the others.’

  The silence seemed endless, then Schleifstein shuddered, a long-drawn sigh, half anger and half capitulation. ‘I know when I am bested,’ he spoke low and tremulous. ‘I have never given in easily, Moriarty, but you have me baulked – I believe that is the expression. I could go on fighting you, but where’s the point?’ In his attempt to remain dignified in defeat, the German succeeded only in looking even more of a beaten man. ‘I always thought your grand design for the denizens of crime in Europe was s
ound enough. It was your failure at Sandringham and the rout of your family people that made me wonder.’

  ‘You need wonder no more, then. I am back. Things will be as they were.’

  ‘Then you have proved me a little your inferior. I will assist you in convincing others.’

  ‘I will convince them myself while you rot here a while. My aim is as it always was. To control the underworld of Europe, and to that end I spin webs which are invisible to the naked eye. You are proof of that.’

  Angus McCready Crow had gone through one of the most difficult days of his career, and he knew that the night would possibly be even worse: though in a different manner. To his lasting surprise, the Commissioner had accepted Sylvia’s injudicious invitation to dine on the night of Saturday, 21 November, and in some ways, Crow had reasoned, this was an honour. He had been most firm with Sylvia, demanding, nay ordering, her to see to the preparation of the meal with her own hands. There had been some argument at first, Sylvia claiming that you did not keep a dog and bark yourself. Angus Crow retaliated, saying that you barked d - - - d loudly if the dog was an untrained bitch, and so finally won the skirmish.

  But he had not bargained for what the day would bring. It began quietly enough, in his office at Scotland Yard, when Tanner came in with news of a large and audacious jewel robbery in the City.

  ‘Thousands of pounds, I understand. Their local beat man trussed like a chicken, and the safe door jacked off. Freeland & Son. The City boys will be running about like scalded cats. I’m glad we are not implicated.’

  Crow pricked up his ears at the news of a robbery of some magnitude. Since hearing old Boltpon’s story, he had been on the qui vive for matters such as this. It could well be the one. He questioned Tanner closely, but all his sergeant could add was that someone had mentioned the villains leaving their tools behind.

  Crow still regarded the telephone as a new-fangled invention of the devil – a strange attitude in one of such a radical persuasion – but on this occasion there was need to use it. He immediately got in touch with one of his few friends in the City Police – an inspector named John Clowes, a neat, bearded and reserved man, most shrewd in his dealings with the criminal fraternity.