The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  As the train drew them away from the Eternal City, Moriarty sent for the restaurant car conductor and made certain arrangements for the evening. The rest of the day he spent in good humour, as well he might, for of all his schemes this one contained an element of farce which would have delighted the greatest exponents of that theatrical art. Carlotta dozed and lethargically leaved through copies of the papers and magazines which Moriarty had provided against boredom.

  Much later that night, they would arrive in Milan to be coupled to the French train which ran between that city and Paris. The dinner menu was, therefore, utterly Italian, as though giving a last taste of the country before plunging passengers into the extravagances of French cuisine. In the dining car, preparations for the dinner were approached with the solemnity of a religious feast, the lamps lit early, tables crisp with fresh linen, and cutlery polished, gleaming in the reflected light – the whole far removed from the more modest surroundings of second-class passengers and the downright spartan conditions of third-class.

  The gong was sounded a little before seven o’clock along the first-class corridors, and Sanzionare, dressed impeccably, hair groomed with scented oil and the dampness of his cheeks laid with a dusting of cosmetic powder, took his place in the dining car within minutes of the call to dinner.

  When the Smythes arrived, he was at a fateful moment of decision, uncertain whether to choose the antipasto, or one of the four available soups, or, perhaps, the Melone alla Roma, to precede the Anguilla in Tiella ai Piselli and the Pollo in Padella con Peperoni. Deep in thought, he sensed, rather than actually observed, their entrance.

  When Sanzionare did look up, he saw that it was as though some unseen authority had called a halt to all activity. Waiters about to take orders were frozen like waxworks; ladies silenced in mid-flow of genteel conversation; gentlemen about to make a choice of wines lost all interest in the fruit of the grape; glasses half-raised to lips remained poised in mid-air. There was an illusion of great stillness, the normal babble dying to a hush that even precluded a whisper, and a sense that the carriage had even stopped rolling.

  Carlotta Smythe stood framed in the doorway, her father slightly behind her. The dress she wore was a simple white gown of exquisite taste, showing off her colouring and the dark sweep of her hair to contrasted perfection. It was modest enough, but somehow the simple style managed to convey a brand of allure enough to take the very breath from every male within sight.

  She was stunning by any standard, but, to set off the picture, Carlotta’s throat was encircled by a necklace of rubies and emeralds linked with silver chains, in all three circlets sweeping down in an upturned triangle to a point from which hung a ruby pendant of a deep and blazing colour. It was as though the girl’s throat was on fire, the light flashing from the stones like small tongues of red and green flame.

  She held herself as if she knew there was a fortune around her neck: the pair – the woman and the jewels – making a combined object of total desire.

  Sanzionare, like every other man in the carriage, was riveted, not knowing which he coveted most in that second of first clapping eyes on her – the woman or the necklace. The whole encapsulated everything he had ever wanted – wealth, elegance, the beauty of treasure, and the sensual promise of the girl’s body sheathed in white silk. This would be worth the risking of life and liberty, honour, power and even sanity.

  The effect and impact of the Smythes’ arrival seemed to last for an age. In reality only a few seconds passed – hung still in eternity – before the car and its occupants returned to their normal functions.

  The conductor was in front of the pair, bowing as if to royalty, apologizing, it seemed, for the fact that there was no available table at which the couple could dine alone. He kept turning back to cast his eyes over the groups of diners as though expecting that by some miracle space would suddenly be made. Then, joy upon joy for Sanzionare – who still stared like a man transfixed – the minion was leading them down the car towards his table.

  He bowed low over Sanzionare with half of his body so that the greater part of it could be still turned towards the Smythes – an act of almost acrobatic unctuousness.

  ‘A million pardons,’ whispered the conductor. ‘There is no room for this lady and gentleman. Would you possibly do them the honour of allowing them to share your table?’ All this very low.

  Sanzionare rose and bowed, smiling and nodding, ‘It would be an honour to be allowed to share my table with you, Mr Smythe and Miss Smythe.’ As he pronounced the latter name, he dropped his head even lower in obeisance. ‘Please, please share with me.’

  ‘Why, Father,’ Carlotta wide-eyed and obviously pleased to see him, ‘it is Signor Sanzionare whom we met on Saturday. You remember?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I remember.’ Smythe made it perfectly clear that he would rather not have recalled their meeting. To the conductor he said, ‘Is there no other table?’

  ‘None, milord. Not one.’ A puzzled expression clouding his smile.

  ‘Then we have no choice,’ Smythe shrugged, looking unpleasantly at Sanzionare who was, by this time, rubbing his hands and using much will power to stop himself from actually jumping with pleasure.

  ‘Come, Father,’ Carlotta had already slid into a seat opposite Sanzionare. ‘You shall have to thank Signor Sanzionare for his kindness. This is the second time you have shown generosity towards us, sir. Father, please do not be churlish.’

  With an open display of ill grace, Smythe took his seat. ‘It is unfortunate. But if we have to share your table, Signore, then I must thank you.’

  ‘Please,’ gushed the Italian. ‘Please, it is truly my honour. The other night I asked you to dine with me and you were not able. Fate has taken a hand. This meeting was obviously preordained. I am a great believer in fate.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, so am I,’ said Carlotta with a dazzling smile. ‘What fun it is to find a friend on such a tedious journey.’

  ‘I do not wish to be rude,’ her father cut in pompously. ‘Signore, please do not take this amiss, but I am not in favour of my daughter mixing over-much with persons of your race. I am sorry, but that is how it is. Forgive my bluntness.’

  ‘But, sir, you told me yourself that her mother was a Neapolitan born. I do not understand.’

  Carlotta leaned forward, her breasts touching the table, sending blood to Sanzionare’s head.

  ‘What my father says is true.’ She took on a tone of deep regret. ‘My mother’s family treated her badly after she married and went to live in England. My father, unhappily, takes it out on your entire country and race. Why, I had to lay siege for years before he would allow this small visit.’

  Smythe cleared his throat noisily. ‘I shall be glad when we get back to England and good honest food.’ He looked with great disdain at the menu.

  His daughter began to shush him, for he was talking loudly.

  ‘The food here reminds him much of Mama, I fear,’ she confided. ‘He becomes upset very easily.’

  ‘And my stomach becomes upset with all the oil they pour upon their victuals,’ grunted Smythe.

  ‘I too can speak my mind, sir,’ Sanzionare was a little irritated by this arrogant Englishman’s behaviour towards his daughter. ‘I do not much care for English food. They put over much water on theirs. Yet when I am a visitor I do not complain at the customs of the country. Might I advise you to be discreet in your choice of food. A little plain melon and perhaps some cold meats.’

  ‘Your cold meats are too full of garlic and over rancid with fat to my taste.’

  ‘Then some pasta.’

  ‘Starch. Filling without the flavour.’ He dropped the menu to the table with an irritated pshaw. ‘Not a decent thing. Not even a good broth or Brown Windsor, or a well-cooked roast. And we are forced to share. This would not have happened on the Great Western.’

  So the meal progressed uneasily, with Carlotta sparkling like the necklace at her throat, and her father growling and full of miseries throu
ghout. Indeed, it became so difficult that Sanzionare stopped addressing Smythe by the time they had reached the main course, giving his entire attention to the daughter who seemed to have only eyes for him.

  At the dessert, Smythe suddenly leaned over, gruffly asking the Italian what he did for a living, the question itself put in a tone so offensive that Sanzionare was quite taken aback.

  ‘I hold a position of great power in Rome, if you must really know, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Politics?’ asked Smythe warily. ‘I do not hold much with politicos. It would seem they always want a hand in your pocket or your affairs.’

  Sanzionare wished that he could tell the man that in his business he had his hand in the politicos’ pockets as well as those of the common man.

  ‘I deal in valuables, Mr Smythe.’

  ‘Money? You’re in finance, are you?’ Moriarty smiled secretly. Sanzionare was not the buffoon he looked.

  ‘Money, yes, and other things also. Precious stones and metals, objects of fine art, antiques.’

  ‘Precious stones like those around my daughter’s neck, for instance?’

  ‘It is indeed a most beautiful necklace.’

  ‘Beautiful?’ roared Smythe so that all in the carriage could hear. ‘Beautiful? Great Caesar, man, if you were a real expert you would say more than that. It is worth a king’s ransom. A fortune. You deal in precious stones, eh? Precious coals more like. I doubt you can tell glass from garnet.’

  Sanzionare felt his gorge rise. In Rome he could have had this evil-tempered Englishman dealt with in a matter of minutes.

  ‘If it is so valuable, sir,’ his voice cold, ‘then you had better look to it. To travel with such valuables on display is dangerous. In any country.’

  Smythe coloured crimson. ‘Do you threaten me, sir?’

  Several people at nearby tables could hear the conversation even above the train’s rattle, and were looking on with shocked interest.

  ‘I merely offer advice. It would be a pity to lose such a bauble.’ People who really knew Sanzionare would have quivered with fear at his tone.

  ‘Bauble indeed? You hear the man, Carlotta. Bauble?’ The Englishman pushed back his chair. ‘I have had enough of this. It’s bad enough to be forced to eat at the same table with a greasy fellow like yourself. I’ll not stay here to be threatened.’ He wagged a finger an inch from the Italian’s nose. ‘And I’ve seen how you’ve been eyeing my daughter. You’re all the same, with your Latin blood. You think a rich girl is easy meat, I’ll be bound. A rich English girl, anyway.’

  ‘Sir,’ Sanzionare rose, furious, but Carlotta put out a restraining hand.

  ‘Forgive my father, Signor Sanzionare,’ she smiled, embarrassed by the stir they were causing. ‘It is a great strain for him to return to Italy. It has many bad memories, and is also a constant reminder of my mother, whom he loved dearly. Please forgive him.’

  ‘He should take care,’ the Italian’s voice trembled. ‘With someone of a less understanding nature, he could be in serious trouble.’

  ‘Carlotta,’ Smythe was a few paces away now. ‘Come, I’ll not leave you alone here.’

  She bent forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘My compartment is number four, car D. Come to me after midnight, so that I may make some reparation for this terrible scene.’ And she was gone, following her father with cheeks blushed pink with shame.

  Sanzionare dropped back into his chair. The Smythe man was unhinged, surely. There was no cause for a scene like this. The English are so reserved as a rule, he thought. Then he turned his mind to the girl. Splendid, enchanting, a prize. But what a price to pay, to be saddled with the father as well. No, thought Sanzionare, it is better to stick with the devil you know. At least Adela Asconta did not have apoplectic relatives. To marry, or even court, the winsome Carlotta would be like facing judge, jury and the public executioner. Sanzionare was a brave man where villainy was concerned, but he yearned for domestic peace. Nevertheless she had offered some form of compensation. He ordered a glass of brandy and thought of the private delights which Carlotta could provide in the secrecy of her sleeping compartment. As he sipped the brandy, Luigi Sanzionare savoured the idea of one nocturnal adventure.

  He would like to teach Smythe a lesson. Would the prize of Carlotta’s body be enough? A train had such restrictions. Perhaps when they reached London he could persuade Schleifstein and Grisombre to put up for a spectacular robbery. Why, he might even return to Adela with the necklace. That was business, and the flame of interest, the hot flush of lust that he felt for Carlotta, was almost dowsed by the idea of a burglary in London to line his own coffers and repay Smythe for his insults.

  He waited in his own compartment until after midnight before making a move. Benno had come along to see that all was well soon after Sanzionare had left the dining car.

  ‘You wish for me to deal with the Englishman?’ Benno asked.

  ‘Fool, the scene was in public, and over nothing.’

  ‘He insulted you. I’ve seen you have men disposed of for lesser things.’

  ‘If he comes to harm here on the train, they would lose no time looking for me. Calma, Benno. I do not wish to draw attention to myself. I will have plans for him.’

  ‘For his daughter also?’ grinned Benno.

  But Sanzionare would not rise. There was no point in letting underlings like Benno know too much of one’s private desires. In Italy’s secret world there was enough intrigue and competition. Chinks in armour had been used as fulcrums to topple men from positions of power before now.

  There was nobody in the corridor as Sanzionare slipped from his compartment and made his way along the unsteady floor to the next coach. The lighting was dim, but he found compartment number four without difficulty.

  She was waiting for him, much as he had imagined, clad only, as far as he could see, in a most flimsy peignoir and little else.

  ‘I am so glad you have come.’ Her voice was husky, even breathless. A good sign, Sanzionare judged.

  ‘How could I refuse such an invitation?’ He laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘My father was unforgiveably rude. You were exceptionally patient. I only wish that all men were so with him. There have been times during this present visit that I have genuinely feared for his safety. Please, please do sit down.’ She gestured towards the seat which had been pulled down and made ready as a bed.

  ‘My dear Carlotta,’ he struggled for the right words. ‘What can I do to help? To soothe your troubled breast?’ His hand hovered gently over the area adjacent to that part of her body. ‘Your father treats you in a most presumptuous fashion. I would not speak to my dog as he orders you.’

  She pulled away slightly. ‘You have a dog, Signor Sanzionare? How lovely, I’ve always wanted a dog.’

  ‘A figure of speech, dear lady. I wish to help you.

  He lowered himself onto the bed, one hand still around Carlotta’s arm, gently attempting to pull her down also.

  She resisted. ‘I need no help, Signore. No help at all. I merely wish to thank you privately for being so understanding.’

  Sanzionare nodded. ‘I know, cara mia. I know what it is for a woman like yourself, starved of the company of a real man. Dominated by a sick father. He is a brute.’

  She took a step back. ‘Oh no, sir. Far from it. I admit that he is still dazed with grief from my mother’s death, but that will pass.’

  Outside in the corridor, Moriarty, his ear to the door, smiled, nodded, and began to make his progress towards Sanzionare’s compartment. Carlotta would have the Italian there for a while yet.

  There was nobody in the corridor, no sign of life as the train rolled on through the night. In the darkness outside the windows, the Professor occasionally glimpsed a light from some house or cottage where they were keeping late hours.

  He had not been called upon to act much over dinner, he reflected. Italy was not his favourite part of the world and he really was not over fond of the food. True, Rome was a beaut
iful city with its fountains, narrow streets and avenues which basked in the shade of cypresses. But nothing, he considered, could really compare to his own London. Only the amusement of ensnaring Sanzionare compensated for those particular deprivations which he was forced to endure.

  Moriarty reached Sanzionare’s compartment. Still nobody could be seen in the dim and noisy corridor. Softly he turned the handle, put his shoulder to the door and stepped inside.

  ‘When I first set eyes on you in Rome, I felt that we were kindred spirits,’ charmed Sanzionare.

  ‘That is good to know.’ Carlotta stood at the far end of the bed. Sanzionare edged up towards her, his palms damp, breath short in his throat. ‘It is good to know,’ she repeated, ‘that one has a friend.’

  ‘I can be more than a friend, Carlotta. Much more.’

  ‘Do keep your voice down,’ a finger to her lips. ‘I would not want my father to find you here. I am not in the habit, you realize, of entertaining men under these conditions.’

  ‘Believe me, I do understand.’ He had edged right up to the end of the bed now, half rising as though to pin her against the window. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of. Nor is there any reason for you to feel guilty. These urges are often stronger than our wills. Come to me, Carlotta.’ His arms opened wide.

  Her body pressed against the dark window. ‘Signor Sanzionare …?’

  ‘Luigi, bambina, Luigi. There is no need to be coy with me.’

  ‘I am not being coy.’ Carlotta’s voice was raised to a shrillness that had not been present before. ‘I do believe that you mistake my intentions. Oh …’ Her mouth suddenly formed itself into a wide circle, her eyes opening as though she realized his purpose for the first time.

  Sanzionare lunged forward, one hand, for a fleeting second, connecting with the soft restraint of her breast, but she twisted sideways, leaving him clutching air, his knees buckling to the floor as she backed quickly towards the door, letting out a short high scream.