The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  In a final act of desperation, Crow sent a message to Holmes for an interview, under the private conditions which they had maintained since the spring of ’94.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ Holmes greeted him in good humour. ‘You look unwell, Crow. If I was not so set in keeping you and Watson apart, I’d get the good doctor to take a look at you. What’s amiss, man? Are you off your feed or what?’

  ‘More than that, Mr Holmes,’ replied the unhappy police officer. ‘I fear that I am in great trouble and have none but myself to blame for it.’

  ‘You have come to make a clean breast of it to me, then,’ said Holmes, seating himself in his favourite chair and igniting his pipe. ‘An indiscretion, perhaps?’

  Crow poured out his sorry tale, leaving nothing hidden, and even including the embarrassing details of his intrigue with the comely Harriet.

  Holmes listened gravely, and when all was finished, he pulled hard on his pipe.

  ‘The story you have told me is as old as time, Crow. Women, I have found on the whole, come between man and his natural flow of clear thought. I have personally eschewed their company like the plague, though I understand the problems. Indeed, there was one woman who might just …’ His voice trailed off as though his heart had momentarily taken control of the incisive brain. ‘If you can remain a bachelor, taking pleasure without becoming emotionally troubled, all well and good. It would seem that you managed to do this for a long while. Until Mrs Crow, eh?’

  Crow nodded sadly.

  ‘As for your marriage, you are old enough to know that the art of a good marriage is not so much in the loving as in the controlling. There is an old Arabian proverb which says that the discontented woman asks for toasted snow. It strikes me that Mrs Crow, begging your pardon, is just such a woman. You have to decide. Do you provide the toasted snow for her, or do you remain master in your own home? You have done neither. You have sought refuge with a woman below your station – and one who has given you up on a whim.’

  ‘It is difficult with Sylvia,’ Crow tried lamely.

  ‘I am quite disappointed in you, Inspector Crow, for you have committed one of the most deadly sins. You have allowed your emotions to affect your work, and that could be the end of you.’

  ‘I think the Commissioner will send for me any day.’

  ‘You must address yourself to your work and put the wretched Harriet from your mind.’

  ‘It is not that easy.’

  ‘Then to blazes with you, sir. It should be, What of our pact against Moriarty? Come, tell me more of this business with Morningdale and Grisombre – for I have no doubt that you are right in your deductions there. Morningdale equals Moriarty.’

  Crow spoke for some five minutes concerning his theories on Professor Moriarty and the revenge he was seeking against those whom he imagined were his enemies.

  ‘You see,’ said Holmes gleefully. ‘You are really quite capable of logical thought, even in the midst of your darkness. There has been no sign of the German since the business at Edmonton, and I doubt we’ll hear much more of the Frenchman now. Both at the bottom of the river if I know Moriarty’s diabolical methods.’ He suddenly stopped in mid-flow. ‘Describe this Harriet creature to me again. In her mid-twenties you said?’

  Angus Crow described the object of his affections in great detail, though with a certain amount of dramatic license as is often the case with those afflicted by Cupid’s dart.

  ‘I see you are riddled with this damnable disease,’ remarked Holmes. ‘But be a good fellow and make a long arm for that large volume there. You say her surname is Barnes? It rings a bell that may well blot out your misery.’

  Crow passed over the large index volume in which Holmes kept references on every subject and person who proved an interest to him.

  ‘Barnes …’ Holmes turned the pages. ‘Baker … Baldwin … Balfour – bad business that, Crow, fourteen years penal servitude,* Banks, Isabella – a shade before my time but interesting, like all murderous doctors.ϯ Ah, here we are, I thought as much. Barnes, Henry: born Camberwell 1850. Common thief. 1889 vagrant though with some resources. See Parker. One daughter, Harriet, brought up in common lodging houses. 1894 prostitute working from house owned by Mrs Sally Hodges. Is that not a load off your mind, Crow?’

  ‘I don’t …?’

  ‘Indeed? Parker, as we both know, ran Moriarty’s network of spies for a long time. Barnes worked for him, and if you have no idea who Sally Hodges is, then you have no right to your present occupation. The Professor is on to you, Angus Crow, and you have been enticed like a rabbit into a gin. Moriarty is diabolically clever. I’ve seen him at this game time and again. He catches people by the hip, traps them by the weakest chink in their fabric. Miss Harriet was meant to lead you into this, and through it Moriarty has all but consumed your mind.’ He had risen and was pacing the floor in an agitated manner. ‘A pity I cannot use Watson in this. We have to give you a breathing space, so that you can recover your senses and be saved from the wrath that is to come. I would suggest a good doctor who will order you to rest for a week or two. In that time we might well lay that devilish man by the heels. I’ll warrant there’s evil work afoot in Italy or Spain now.’ He ceased his pacing and faced Crow. ‘I know of a good man in Harley Street. Will you go to him?’

  ‘I will do anything to put myself straight. And bring Moriarty down.’

  Crow’s fury, at having been duped by a woman in the Professor’s employ, showed in his face and the tense way in which he held his body.

  ‘Dr Moore Agar will put you right,’ Holmes smiled grimly. ‘Though he probably despairs of me. He recently prescribed a rest cure which was somewhat interrupted. You must remind me to tell you of the Cornish Horror sometime.’*

  ‘Then I shall go to your Dr Agar.’

  Luigi Sanzionare, the most dangerous man in Italy, was a person of habit when it came to matters of religion. He went to Mass twice in the year – at Easter and on his saint’s day – and made his confession each Holy Saturday, at the same confessional box in Il Gesù, the Jesuit church in Rome.

  No matter what other plans were pending, what robberies to be arranged, what orders to be given to the many criminal men and women who looked to him as a leader, Luigi Sanzionare did his best to make Eastertide a holy time, therefore insuring his soul against hell and damnation.

  His mistress, Adela Asconta, who had little in the way of religious faith, did not care for the manner in which Luigi would leave her at their villa in Ostia on each Good Friday, and not return until after the High Mass in the Basilica di Pietro within the walls of the Vatican, on Easter Day. She could quite well have stayed in their large house on the Via Banchi Vecchi, but Adela Asconta could not abide the city at this time of the year: there were so many foreigners, and the place became unbearably crowded. She understood that this was good for her lover’s trade: for visitors were easy marks, particularly for the pickpockets and hotel thieves who had their own feast days with pilgrims to the Eternal City.

  However, each Holy Week was the same. Adela Asconta would fret at Ostia, worrying, not for Luigi Sanzionare’s immortal soul, but for her possible betrayal. Luigi had a way with the ladies and Signorina Asconta was capable of extreme jealousy. This year it was all worse than ever because of the telegram from England.

  The telegram had arrived on Holy Thursday, as Luigi was preparing to make the journey into the city. WE NEED YOU HERE URGENTLY. GREAT PROFIT ASSURED. ROOM RESERVED FOR YOU ALONE AT LANGHAM HOTEL. WILLY AND JEAN.

  ‘Willy Schleifstein and Jean Grisombre,’ Luigi explained to her.

  ‘I know who they are. You think me as much a buffoon as yourself?’ For all her beauty and charm, Adela Asconta had a rocket temper, and the pudgy Luigi Sanzionare was complete master of his world, except when it came to women. In particular, he was slave to his mistress. ‘You will go to them, Gee-Gee?’ She continued to spit fire. ‘It is they who should be coming to you.’

  ‘They would not send for me unless there wa
s some great profit, cara mia. The best kind of profit which buys you the things you like best.’

  ‘And which you also like. You will go alone?’

  ‘It would seem so. My heart will not be still until I return to you, Adela. You know that.’

  ‘I know nothing. There are women in London also. Alone, Luigi? Is that really safe?’

  She would at least prefer one of his close men – either Benno or Giuseppe – to be with him. Either would report any indiscretions to her.

  ‘Benno can come as far as Paris. After that I go alone.’

  ‘And you’ll give up your precious Easter in Rome?’

  ‘Never. I leave on Monday. You think I would miss our Easter Sunday afternoon together?’

  ‘Yes, if it meant more power, more money.’

  ‘I shall go on Monday. There is a poste restante address here.’ He tapped the form. ‘I will telegraph them today.’

  Having betrayed her anger at the thought of being separated from her protector, Adela now tried a wheedling approach.

  ‘You bring something nice back for me. Something really special.’

  ‘The gift of a lifetime.’

  In truth, Luigi Sanzionare had already begun to look forward to a respite from the toils of crime in Rome. The city was an ugly place at the moment. The politics of last year still sent reverberations through the streets. They lived in a time of turmoil in Italy, and the defeat of the army at Adowa in the previous March, had caused the government to fall. Now, a year later, the wounded and prisoners were just returning, bringing their own personal humility with them, reminding people of the instability.

  Sanzionare recalled that meeting with the great Professor Moriarty on the last time he had travelled to London. Moriarty had said they should sue for chaos, for in a state of chaos their own particular trades would prosper. He wondered now if Il Professore had been right. There was not much prosperity to be scavenged from a defeated army. But then, Moriarty had been proved useless. A failure. Yes, it would be good to get out of Italy for a while. The spring would soon turn to summer, and Adela was never at her best in the heat – so demanding.

  He travelled in to the city, with Benno, swarthy, hawk-eyed, always somewhere near in case enemies – and there were many, particularly from among the Sicilians – decided that it was time for a change in the power structure.

  On Good Friday, Sanzionare addressed himself to his religion, visibly moved at the rituals of the day – the unveiling of the cross, the veneration and the solemn chanting as the altar was stripped bare and washed, like the washing of the body of Christ after the crucifixion. He prayed for the souls of his parents, and friends who had died in his service. He also prayed for his own soul and reflected upon the evil which ran riot in this vale of tears.

  After the liturgy of the day, Sanzionare returned to his house on the Via Banchi Vecchi and received various visitors – two men who were to be trusted with starting a fire in a well-known shop on the Via Veneto. The increase of prices was affecting everybody. The owner of this establishment was refusing to pay more for the honour of being insured by Sanzionare’s people.

  ‘Just a small fire,’ he told the pair of piromani. ‘So that they will understand.’

  He saw a young man who was to arrange for a café proprietor to be badly beaten.

  ‘Not until after Pasqua,’ counselled Sanzionare. ‘And I do not want him dead, you understand?’

  ‘Si, Padre mio.’ He was a handsome lad with strong muscles and shoulders like a statue. ‘There will be no killing.’

  Sanzionare smiled and waved him away. He was pleased, as he did not like robbing people of their lives – only when it was unavoidable. For a moment he thought of the confession he would have to make tomorrow. He would confess to theft which would cover a multitude of sins, from robbery to murder – for murder was in reality the theft of life: a mortal sin which would be washed away by the grace of God invested in his priestly servant, and the sincere act of contrition which Sanzionare would make with his penance.

  Benno came into the high airy room with a small tray containing a silver coffee pot and cups.

  ‘Many more?’ Sanzionare asked wearily.

  ‘Two only. Carabinieri. Capitano Regalizzo from the Ludovisis and Capitano Meldozzi.’

  Sanzionare sighed. ‘We know what Regalizzo requires – a little more olive oil, eh?’ He rubbed his right thumb in a circular motion across his fingers. ‘But the other, do we know him?’

  Benno shook his head.

  ‘Let me see Regalizzo. Tell Meldozzi we shall not keep him long.’

  Regalizzo was a dandy and his uniform probably cost him the best part of a whole month’s salary. He was polite, solicitous concerning Signorina Asconta, and talked of how depressing it was with the prisoners from the Ethiopian campaign now on the streets; and how terrible the prices were. He was sorry, but there were two houses – ‘You know the ones, I think’ – which were causing him much trouble. He thought that he might have to close them down.

  Sanzionare nodded, opened his desk drawer and paid over the money, as they both knew he would even before the conversation began. The police officer left, all smiles, bows and good wishes.

  Sanzionare lit a cigar and sat back to await the other policeman. He was in plain clothes and they had not met before.

  ‘You are a friend of Capitano Regalizzo perhaps?’ asked Sanzionare once they were seated.

  ‘I know him,’ said Arnaldo Meldozzi. ‘In fact, I know him quite well, but I am not here to talk about his problems, but yours, Signore.’

  Sanzionare shrugged, lifting his right hand, palm upwards, in a gesture of giving. ‘I did not know I had problems.’

  ‘They are not serious. At least they can be easily, shall we say, rendered harmless.’

  ‘Tell me about my problems.’

  ‘The police in London have been asking about you.’

  It was a sudden unnerving blow which Sanzionare felt go through him like a physical pain. ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes. I have had this letter. Are you familiar with this Inspector Crow?’ He passed the document across the desk.

  Sanzionare devoured it, his eyes racing over the page.

  ‘What do you make of this, Capitano?’ he asked, rubbing the back of one hand with the other. His palms were wet.

  ‘I make nothing of anything, Signore. I merely feel that you should know when the police forces of other countries are showing an interest in such a renowned citizen as yourself.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he paused, inspecting his manicured nails as if looking for some defect. ‘Tell me, have you replied to this extraordinary request?’

  The policeman smiled. He was young and perhaps, Sanzionare reasoned, ambitious. ‘I have acknowledged its receipt. No more.’

  ‘And what do you propose to do? He asks for news of any unusual visitors or incidents concerning myself.’

  ‘I know of nothing to report.’ The eyes slid up, briefly holding Sanzionare’s then away again. ‘I know of nothing to report. As yet.’

  ‘Capitano,’ he began, as though broaching a difficult subject. ‘What do you require most in life at this moment?’

  Capitano Meldozzi nodded. ‘I was hoping that you might ask me that. I have a wife and three children, Eccellenza. It is a calamity that befalls most men, I know. My wages are not good. I was wondering, perhaps, if you could put me in the way of some extra form of employment.’

  ‘It can be arranged,’ Sanzionare said wearily, thinking to himself that here was another mouth to feed, or another five mouths to feed and, perhaps, one of the girls giving up her time for nothing once a week. It was ever thus for a peaceful life.

  The news concerned him, though. London police asking about him was not a good sign, particularly as he was about to travel to England. Was it wise? He pondered long. Schleifstein and Grisombre would come to him if he called. It would be better not to mention the incident to Adela. He would have to go.

  Through Holy Saturday t
he city seemed to be waiting, poised on the brink of the great Christian festival, bursting with the desire to ring out its bells and join in the cry of ‘Christus Surrexit. Hallelluja’. The day was clear and warm, pleasant, without the terrible overpowering heat which would eventually descend. Luigi Sanzionare prepared for his yearly confession, and then left the house. He had one or two small matters to attend to before making his way to Il Gesù. The tickets to be bought for the journey. A few small purchases to make.

  He first saw her at the Spanish Steps around mid-morning. Tall, dark, enchanting in a lemon-coloured gown and broad hat, a sunshade furled and carried with elegance. As he approached, he could almost swear that she stopped talking to her companion and turned her dark eyes upon him. She had that same smouldering quality which Adela had possessed when he had first set eyes on her – a look, not quite of promise, but of possibility. It was a very special sensation that came with the look, and it sent a cold trickle down the back of Sanzionare’s neck. The girl, who could not have been much more than twenty-five years old, was with a man almost twice her age, maybe more – in his late fifties or early sixties, Sanzionare considered – a tall, stooping person with short dark hair, gold pince-nez and elaborate manners, most solicitous towards the girl: even fatherly. In some ways the man reminded Sanzionare of the English criminal, Moriarty, but the resemblance was only superficial.

  He saw them again at lunchtime. Sitting only a few tables away from him in the trattoria he liked to use off the Cavour, near the Castel San Angelo. She appeared diffident towards the man with her, talking little and picking at her food. Sanzionare was now convinced that her companion was a relative rather than a lover. On several occasions, when his eyes were drawn to her, he found the girl was already looking across the room at him. Each time, she lowered her eyes in a demure manner, and each time the same cold sweat broke out on Sanzionare’s neck. As the meal progressed, so the cold turned to a glow, and then heat – a flush spreading downwards.

  He looked up again, and the girl was gazing back with what might have been adoration in her eyes. He smiled, inclining his head slightly. For a moment she appeared confused, then she too smiled, lips parted and the look even more obvious than before. It was the sort of visual flattery which Sanzionare enjoyed, a hint that he still had the magnetic power from which his great confidence flowed.