The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  Clowes, he soon discovered, was touchy over the question of the robbery, as well he might be, for his force had been made to look red-faced by the affair. However, he finally admitted to Crow that they had a set of burglary tools, dropped when the thieves fled from Bishopsgate.

  ‘I wonder if you’d do me the honour of letting me have a wee look at them?’ Crow asked. ‘I have my reasons. I may well be able to identify them, and if I can do that I shall be able to name the rogue who last had his hands on the things.’

  Grudgingly, Clowes said he would seek permission for his colleague to come over and examine the evidence.

  One look told Crow that the brief bag, and various articles, were those which he had seen many times at old Tom Bolton’s place in St John’s Wood.

  ‘You’ll be looking for a fellow that’s probably on your books,’ he said dourly. ‘He’s certainly on ours. Nick Ember, a nasty little piece of work who used to be in the employ of one James Moriarty – of whom you have no doubt heard.’

  ‘Ah-ha, the omnivorous Professor,’ Clowes, seated behind his desk, placed the tips of the fingers of both hands together and appeared to be counting them off, separating each pair in turn and rejoining them. ‘We all know of your involvement with the Professor, Angus. I know of Ember also, though I’m surprised he’s turned cracksman. These tools are old and of extremely good quality.’

  Crow indicated with a wink and a knowing look, that there was more to the tools than met the eye.

  ‘I’ll pass it on to the right quarter then, Angus.’ Clowes rose and paced towards the door. ‘You will doubtless inform us if you pull him first. We might like a word.’

  ‘Anything to oblige,’ beamed Crow. There was an unspoken rivalry between the two forces. ‘In the meantime I’ll make more enquiries concerning the tools. Good day, John, and my best wishes to your good lady.’

  Crow felt unduly smug during the omnibus journey back to Scotland Yard. But there it ended, for there had been an affray in Edmonton and the Commissioner was shouting blue murder for him.

  Tanner was already at the site when Crow got out to Edmonton, and the local station people were milling around, taking statements and examining the ground.

  As to the dead man, it was a puzzling business.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with the City,’ Tanner told him. ‘They have no constable of that number, so it appears we have a dead policeman who was never a copper.’

  Crow listened to the story as it unfolded – of a police raid, in plain view of passers-by; of one policeman being shot and of several men taken away in a police van. The number varied with the witnesses, for some said six or seven, others put the number as low as three, and in many cases as high as ten.

  The neighbours were unhelpful. ‘They kept themselves to themselves next door,’ the lady of the adjoining house told Crow. ‘Mind you, I was glad of it. A rough crowd they seemed to be. Foreigners mostly.’

  ‘What do you mean, mostly?’

  ‘Well,’ she was uncertain about it. ‘I did hear them speaking English, but it was mainly a foreign lingo. German, I think my hubby said it was.’

  Crow tramped through the house with Tanner at his heels. There were signs of a fight downstairs, while a table had been overturned in the first floor front bedroom. Crow made notes and returned to the Yard, worried, with several ideas, strands in the wind, which would not take formal shape. The Commissioner wanted to see him almost as soon as he was back in his office. Crow found him unsympathetic and bullying.

  ‘People masquerading as police officers, Crow. It’s the thin end of the wedge, even though they were in City plumage. You’ll get to the bottom of it, or I’ll have you back on the beat.’

  It was an affront to Crow’s pride, particularly as the man was dining with him this very evening. He blushed scarlet.

  ‘What leads have you?’ fired off the Commissioner. ‘What clues?’

  ‘Only one or two possible ideas. These things take a little time, sir, as you well know.’

  ‘There’ll be a public outcry. I’ve already told the newspapers that you are in command and I shouldn’t be surprised if they are howling for your blood in the late editions. The Times will no doubt be carrying correspondence on the matter by Monday.’

  ‘Well, sir, perhaps I’d best get on with my investigations.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Crow. I don’t mean to be hard on you, but there’s going to be a row over this one.’

  Crow, not unnaturally, took it out on Tanner, informing him that he must have all the statements taken at Edmonton in his possession by late afternoon. The Commissioner was demanding an early arrest. He then sat down to think out the logical explanation. There was obviously some link between this and the business in the City – unless it was a most unhappy coincidence: for he knew, from Clowes, that there appeared to have been a mythical policeman on the Cornhill-Bishopsgate beat in the early hours.

  If there was a connection, then it could easily be of great importance. Had not Tom Bolton told him that Ember had spoken of a German cracksman? After luncheon he would slip over to St John’s Wood and have a word with Bolton. Perhaps the news that his tools had been used in the robbery would shock the old man into some unguarded statement.

  There were four gentlemen of the Press waiting for Crow when he left the Yard for lunch. He parried their questions politely and told them, quite truthfully, that he was following one particular line of enquiry. It seemed to please them, and the detective pondered more on the business over a pint of ale and a pork pie in the select bar of a nearby hostelry.

  It was one for Holmes, he decided. What would Watson have dubbed it? The Adventure of the Fraudulent Policeman? Crow finished his pie and left: first to send a note to Mr Holmes by Post Office messenger; then to take a hansom to St John’s Wood where he alighted, as was his practice, a hundred yards or so from old Tom Bolton’s dwelling.

  It was now mid-afternoon and turning very cold, with the chimney smoke hanging like clouds over the rooftops. There was little breeze and Crow’s head ached slightly as the chill bit around his nose and ears. Snow, he thought, snow in the air.

  There was no reply to his double knock; no sound at all. He knocked again. Harder, the sound seeming to reverberate in the street. A woman with a small boy clinging to her hand walked past. On the other side of the road a wretched ragged urchin splashed along the wet gutter as though searching for treasure among the mud and leaves. A couple of hansoms clopped by. Still no sound from within the house.

  Suddenly, Crow felt the hairs on his neck bristle and an appalling sense of foreboding swept over him. He left the front door, making his way around the side of the house to the rear, kitchen, entrance. He tried the door and it gave, immediately, to his push. All appeared cosy, as usual.

  ‘Tom,’ called Crow, but the silence appeared more intense than before. He crossed the room and opened the door to the front hall.

  Old Tom Bolton lay on his back in the middle of the hall. One of his sticks was a few feet from the body, the other still clutched in his hand. The front of his shirt was soaking red with blood. Crow went down on one knee to examine the cadaver – he had no need for medical evidence to tell him that the man was dead, having, in his time, seen many a corpse. This one, however, was still warm, and the knife which had done the job remained protruding from Bolton’s windpipe.

  So it was that Angus Crow became implicated in a murder investigation on top of the shooting and strange affair in Edmonton. All in one day.

  He was late, exasperated and tired when he got back to King Street where all was agitation for the impending dinner. Hardly had he set foot inside the door than Sylvia was chattering: telling him that he was late, that he would have to stir himself to be ready in time, that all was turmoil in the kitchen, that the butcher had sent the wrong cut of meat, that they had run short of best butter and Lottie had been sent for more, that they had only two bottles of claret left and would that be enough? Did he think her yellow crepon would be th
e right gown to wear, or would the blue silk be more in keeping with the evening?

  Crow allowed this flow to go on unhindered for a few moments, he then raised his hand for silence.

  ‘Sylvia,’ he said with a firmness he could usually only muster when faced by those under his command, ‘I have had to look upon two wretched creatures this day, both of whom have come to sudden and violent ends. I have no wish to look upon a third.’

  The evening went off with few hitches. True, Crow was somewhat preoccupied with the business of the day and had one ear cocked for a knock at the front door – for he had asked Holmes to send a note direct to his home. But no message was forthcoming. The Commissioner unbent slightly, saying that he felt dining with the Crows was an excellent idea, as it gave him the opportunity to see how his officers lived. Sylvia bristled slightly when the Commissioner’s lady referred to 63 King Street as ‘your quaint little house’. But the fire merely smouldered.

  The food, however, was of Sylvia’s best – Julienne soup; slices of codfish in a Dutch sauce; saddle of mutton; apple tart – and when the ladies retired, leaving the gentlemen to their port, the Commissioner turned the conversation back to the events of the day.

  Crow told him only facts – how the killing of old Tom Bolton was certainly connected with the jewel robbery in the city – keeping away from the suspicions which had become large and dark in his mind. Shortly after they joined the ladies, Lottie, who had managed to get through the evening without dropping anything, announced that Mr Tanner was at the door with a message for Crow.

  The detective excused himself, half expecting a reply from Holmes. Instead, Tanner had been working overtime and now had a definite identification of the man found shot in Edmonton.

  ‘Pug Parsons,’ he announced blandly, as though this was a name rarely out of the newspapers. ‘We’ve had him several times, sir. Some years ago he was quite a well-known Haymarket Hector – carried cash for some of Mrs Sal Hodges’ girls.’

  Crow’s face lit up. ‘So, by association, he has connections with friend Moriarty.’

  ‘It would seem so. There is more if you would like to hear it. I am given to understand that Sal Hodges is very much in business again, with two new houses – at least she has been seen in two places that have recently opened.’

  ‘So the money filched by Midas and Meunier may already be working in London.’

  ‘Another point of great interest. The knife that killed old Bolton.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chinese origin, not sold in this country, but can be obtained in plentiful supplies in San Francisco.’

  ‘Ember, Lee Chow and Spear,’ Crow muttered to himself, certain sure now that there was a distinguishing pattern behind all that was happening.

  ‘I’d give high odds that the German, Schleifstein, was at the house in Edmonton,’ he said aloud. ‘It makes sense. All of it. If Moriarty was rejected by his foreign friends, after the Sand-ringham business, he may well be on the rampage now, embroiled in some vast campaign of revenge. Let us presume, Tanner, that Schleifstein was involved – I cannot quite make sand nor moss of it all yet – then there are bound to be further intrigues which will include the other three – what are their names? – Sanzionare, the Frenchman Grisombre, and Segorbe. I wonder which one will be next?’

  ‘If it is a pattern of revenge, sir, you can add another name.’ Tanner swallowed hard, uncertain of his presumption.

  ‘Who?’ asked Crow sharply.

  ‘Why, yourself, Mr Crow. You might well be on his list.’

  Almost to the second that this conversation was taking place, James Moriarty was turning the pages in one of the leather-bound books of his coded journals.

  He sat, propped up with pillows, in his bed, the book open on his lap. Sal Hodges was at the dressing table completing her toilet.

  The Professor turned to the back of the book – to the coded notes he kept of those six persons upon whom he planned to wreak subtle retribution. Taking up his fountain pen, Moriarty drew a thin line diagonally across the pages which had been devoted to Wilhelm Schleifstein.

  He closed the journal and looked up, his face twisted into a wicked smile. Sal Hodges wrestled with her stays.

  ‘Sal,’ said the Professor. ‘In a few weeks I shall be spending a little time in Paris. You will not be too put out if I do not invite you to accompany me?’

  * Burglar’s tools. Some of these mentioned are self-explanatory – such as chisels and jemmies. Others are not. The American auger was a brace and bit; the betty was originally a type of jemmy shaped like the letter L, but by this time the name was applied to a much smaller instrument for picking locks. Spiders were wire pick-locks and double-enders were skeleton keys with wards at both ends – hence the name. The outsider was a pair of long-nosed, hollow-ended pincers used to grip and turn a key inserted in the other side of a lock. The cutter was, perhaps, the most difficult tool in a cracksman’s arsenal and needed great skill in its correct use. It was a T-shaped instrument, the downward stroke of which was pointed and carried an adjustable bar at right angles, to which various cutting heads could be attached – for metal, wood or glass. When a head was in place the instrument was used, rather like a compass, to cut neat circular holes. By this time, however, modern safes were being attacked with the relatively new blowlamps or, in the case of older models, the tried and true jack-in-the-box, or screw jack, the operation of which is described later.

  * The jack-in-the-box was capable of lifting three tons in weight. Any safe or door not built to withstand this pressure was bound to give way. (Noel Currer-Briggs: Contemporary Observations on Security from the Chubb Collectanea 1818-1968.) It will be noted that this was an old safe, dating before 1860.

  * A strange expression, but I have put it into Ember’s mouth because it is mentioned three times in the Moriarty Journals. Presumably Moriarty heard it in America, so it would be known by Ember. It of course means ‘share the loot’. Eric Partridge, in his invaluable Dictionary of the Underworld, cites its use in 1895 by J. W. Sullivan, Tenement Tales of New York. Flexner in his Dictionary of American Slang does not list this variant but notes that in 1893 the word boodle was already archaic.

  LONDON AND PARIS:

  Saturday, 28 November 1896 – Monday, 8 March 1897

  (The robbery of art)

  The last Saturday in November was a busy day for the shopkeepers of Oxford Street and its environs. Not only did they have to keep their customers happy on that day, but also see to it that their stock was well ordered to cover the next few weeks. It was always the case as they neared Christmas. ‘The shopping seems to begin earlier each year,’ they would say to one another. Not that they complained, but, out of respect for the great Christian celebration, some of them put on wry faces and voiced their wonder at such a festival becoming more and more an excuse for gluttony and drunkenness, not to mention the plain extravagance which preceded it.

  Even in Orchard Street, Charles Bignall, the chemist, made certain that he was well set up with good supplies of all those extra little things which were much in demand in the weeks just before the Christian feast of the winter solstice.

  He had been busy looking over his orders – Blaud’s very superior Antibilious Pills, Blue & Black Draught, Liver Pills, Cascara Sagrada – when the lady came into his shop for a small purchase: a simple two-ounce bottle of Wyeth’s Beef Juice.

  She was an attractive woman, a regular customer, and it was not until she left that Bignall realized he had another customer; the Chinaman who dressed so well, almost like a businessman and not at all like some of the ruffians of his race whom one sometimes saw in the West End.

  ‘I haven’t a great deal of time,’ Bignall said curtly.

  ‘Then you will have to make time, Mr Bignall.’ The Chinaman’s eyes were hard, glittering like glass. ‘You still supply the gentleman from Baker Street?’ he asked.

  ‘You know that I do. And the others you send to me.’

  ‘Good, Mr Bignall. Y
ou will be rewarded. We are very pleased with you. You pay your money on time, and I doubt if you are unhappy with the profit you make from our transactions.’

  ‘There’ll be other customers in a moment. Please state your business.’

  ‘Just small warning. Just so you are ready.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Some time,’ the Chinese appeared to choose his words with care. ‘Some time. Maybe soon, maybe in few weeks or few months, we give you instructions.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Instructions to cease providing our mutual friend from Baker Street.’

  Bignall showed his unease in the small tic under his left eye. ‘But it is his medicine. He could become very ill if …’

  ‘If his medicine is denied him, he will become extremely nervous. He become depressed. Bad temper. He sweat a lot. He become very pleased to do things we ask, in return for medicine.’

  The revulsion showed patently on Bignall’s face.

  ‘Not worry, Mr Bignall. You get paid good money. You do as told, otherwise …’ The Chinese went through a graphic piece of mime which indicated an unpleasant and final solution to all of Charles Bignall’s cares on this earth. ‘Not worry, Mr Bignall,’ he repeated. ‘It been done before. It been done that gentleman before. He very clever man, but all man have price. His price white powder. So, when you get message, you do as told.’

  Bignall nodded his acquiescence – an unwilling, but inevitable gesture of his whole body. Moriarty had made another move in the deadly game.

  Ember was brought from Bermondsey to Albert Square by night – the same night that they summoned Bob the Nob to the house, his arm still painful and in a sling.

  Both men stayed for thirty-six hours, spending much of their time with Moriarty in his study, before leaving for the continent, to the shores of Lake Annecy. Their departure killed two birds with one stone, for Moriarty was aware of the desirability of getting both men out of the country and at the same time using them in a manner which would serve his ultimate ends. From this time on, the woman, Irene Adler, would be watched at close hand, her daily round charted with care, noted in detail and reported to the Professor every three or four days.