The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  ‘You thought I had invited you here to …’ screeched on a rising scale.

  ‘Shush, Carlotta, shush. Your father will hear …cara.’

  ‘Perhaps he should hear. You thought …’

  ‘What else should a man think?’

  ‘But you are old.’ Her mouth turned down as though she had drunk sour milk. ‘I imagined you did all simply out of kindness and generosity towards two travellers in a foreign land. My father is right about Italian men, they only seek one thing. They wish only to take their pleasure. Have their wicked way …’ She was hysterical now, tears forming in her eyes: the performance in which the Professor had coached her with the help of Sal Hodges.

  Sanzionare made soothing noises. She had said he was old and that had cut through to his very heart. The innocent. She was rebuffing him. Him, Luigi Sanzionare whom women fought over in the dark places of the Eternal City. Yet his common sense held him back from revenge. It would be a tragedy if scandal was to run riot on this train. His loins ached with the need for her.

  He scrabbled to his feet. ‘A million pardons, Signorina. I mistook your meaning.’

  ‘Please go.’ She appeared to have hold of herself, panting and leaning against the door.

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Touch me and I’ll scream for help. Go.’

  ‘Carlotta, I cannot go. Please.’

  ‘Oh my God, am I to be raped?’ It was like something from grand opera.

  ‘I cannot go,’ he almost shouted. ‘You bar the way.’

  ‘Oh!’ She stepped to one side, tears running down her cheeks, as Sanzionare’s fat hand reached out for the door.

  ‘I am sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive.’ Feeling utterly ridiculous, and not a little frustrated, he lurched into the corridor.

  Carlotta leaned back, the tears still streaming and her shoulders heaving. But now it was not with terror or hysteria. Her whole body shook with mirth at the picture of the most dangerous man in Italy retreating, in terror, from a situation which he could not handle. Moriarty would be pleased with her. It had all gone exactly as he had said.

  The humiliation of the matter seared Sanzionare not only in his sense of pride, but also right through to the very roots of family honour. If the circumstances had been different, he brooded, then the bitch would have had him, screams or no. His background, the values by which he had grown and lived, all taught him that this half-Italian girl should pay some form of penalty – and the father also. True, his father had only been a baker, but he still recalled the time, when he was but seven years old, when the butcher’s daughter had turned down his elder brother. That had sparked such a feud that their area of the city was not done with it even now.

  Mixed with the humiliation, however, there was the nagging horror of Carlotta’s words – ‘But you are old.’ Many women found him increasingly attractive; why, even Adela – a jewel of a woman – was constantly jealous of him. Could this be the beginning of the end? Luigi Sanzionare’s virility and charm beginning to wither like an old plant, drooping and dying?

  He lay in the darkness of his sleeping compartment, his head bedevilled with both the frustration and despair which came from Carlotta’s rejection. He tossed and turned, was conscious of every movement of the train; could have counted the number of wooden sleepers over which they passed; each change in speed; every shrill whistle from the steam locomotive. When they reached Milan, he thought that, in the stillness, perhaps rest would come, but there was so much banging and bumping as the coaches were shunted this way and that, to couple them to the French train, that it was impossible.

  Red-eyed, he faced Benno in the first light of day, instructing him to see that all meals were brought to his compartment. He had no wish to run face to face with either Carlotta or her father during the remainder of this journey.

  At the villa in Ostia, Adela’s maid brought her breakfast late in bed, and with it the morning papers and the one letter.

  Sanzionare’s mistress propped herself up with pillows and prepared for a day of being cosseted in her lover’s absence. She sipped her coffee, looked hard at the envelope, as if trying to define the handwriting, before slitting it open with the silver paper-knife.

  A few moments later she was screaming, in language laced with the more colourful expressions of the city’s slums, for Giuseppe to come up, for her maid to start packing, and for horses to be brought around. Within the hour nobody in earshot of the villa could have doubted that Adela Asconta was about to set forth on a journey to London.

  Spear was waiting at Albert Square when Carlotta and the Professor returned, in high humour.

  ‘Success?’ he asked, once closeted alone with his leader.

  ‘Magnificent. I’ll need to see Sal as soon as she blesses us with her presence. Our little Italian Tigress should be performing in the theatre. We have our Roman friend trussed up like a Christmas goose – though he does not know it yet.’

  ‘And there’s good news here, also,’ chuckled Spear.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Crow.’

  The Professor looked up sharply, all else draining from his mind.

  ‘He has been given leave of absence from his employ,’ said Spear with great emphasis.

  ‘So.’ The smile swept over Moriarty’s face once more, his head oscillating slowly. ‘So we have him. They are careful, these policemen. Do you notice how rarely they allow a scandal to become public knowledge. Leave of absence indeed, he’s handed in his knife and fork to the Metropolitans or I’ll never climb pillicock hill again.’ He seated himself behind his desk, a picture of confidence. ‘It’s good news, indeed, Spear, knowing that the meddling Crow has been nailed. Now, is all else arranged?’

  ‘The lurkers are watching the railway stations for the lady, Professor. News will be here within minutes of her arrival.’

  ‘Good. There’ll be no time to be lost once she’s in London. You’ll have Harry Allen at the ready also. He knows his part?’

  ‘Trained like you said and good enough to be in one of Mr Ibsen’s plays.’

  ‘And the note?’

  ‘Is delivered and waiting for the Italian as you directed.’

  ‘And the Langham is watched?’

  ‘Night and day.’

  ‘Good. Now that all is ready, Spear, you can tell me what else has been happening during my visit to Rome. How the remainder of my family of villains fares, what cribs have been cracked and what pockets emptied.’

  Later, when Spear had rehearsed the many affairs which were the daily business of the Professor’s reunited empire, Moriarty took down his journal, turning to the page of notes he kept on Angus McCready Crow. As had now become his custom, he drew a diagonal line over the pages, so closing it as an account settled. For a moment he browsed through the pages containing intelligence on Luigi Sanzionare, his pen hovering, but not yet making the final lines. That pleasure would come soon enough.

  Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street sent for Crow after a week.

  ‘You are feeling recovered, my good Crow?’ he enquired brightly, rubbing his hands.

  ‘I still feel much of a ninny regarding what has passed,’ retorted Crow. ‘To be made such a fool by the damnable Moriarty does not keep me in the best of humour.’

  ‘And your domestic affairs appear to be mending themselves.’

  ‘How can you know that, Mr Holmes?’ Crow looked alarmed.

  ‘By simple observation. You have the new pin look of a man who is now being well cared for. I’ll wager you have put your foot down.’

  ‘Aye, I have that.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ Holmes was busily filling his great pipe from the tobacco jar. ‘I doubt that I will have any objections from you regarding the poisonous qualities of nicotine,’ he smiled.

  ‘Indeed no. I have great regard for the soothing properties of tobacco.’ Crow took his own pipe from his pocket and followed the great detective’s example.

  ‘Capital.’ Holmes applied a light and began to puff large
clouds of smoke, a contented look passing over his face. ‘There’s no better fellow in the world than Watson, but he does have the facility of reminding me, all too often, of my weaknesses. Though I dare say he’s right in doing so.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting Dr Watson,’ ventured Crow.

  ‘No, no.’ Holmes shook his head. ‘That will never do. There are some things I do not wish. Let him remain in ignorance regarding our occasional meetings and the particular purpose of our endeavours. It would never do to let Watson know that Moriarty lives.’

  ‘Where is he now, then?’

  ‘If I only knew.’ Holmes appeared lost in thought for a moment. ‘Ah, you mean Watson, do you not?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘For a moment I thought you referred to the Professor. No. I have sent Watson down to Cornwall again. Doubtless I shall have to repair thence before long, or I’ll not hear the end of it. I believe that I told you Moore Agar had ordered me to rest.’

  ‘Then should you not be doing so?’

  Holmes nodded. ‘I have pleaded a little time under the pretext of ordering some books, and making a few notes at the British Museum. A harmless ruse, but Watson knows I am interested in the Cornish language and that I intend to publish a paper on it in due course. It will serve to direct his attention elsewhere. Now, Crow, are you fit for a journey?’

  ‘A journey? But to where?’

  ‘To Paris. Where else, my dear fellow? We know Moriarty is back at his old game. By reason alone we are both convinced that he had a hand in the Cornhill business, and old Bolton’s murder. We know also that his sights were set at your head, Crow, and you almost went under. Yet the only definite thing we have is the French criminal Grisombre’s meeting with Morningdale.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘You are agreed with me that Morningdale and Moriarty are one and the same?’

  ‘I am convinced.’

  ‘We have a description of Morningdale, yet nobody has seen fit to make any deeper enquiries concerning the man. He cannot have stayed in his rooms at the Hôtel Crillon during the whole of his visit to Paris. Others must have seen him, even spoken to him. We must speak to them, Crow.’

  The simple, yet divine logic caught Crow’s imagination. Of course, Holmes was right. Paris held the only possible clues at this point in time.

  The Langham Hotel, in Langham Place – which also contained the famous Nash church of All Souls – was a magnificent Gothic structure, covering over an acre of ground, containing more than six hundred rooms and with facilities for dining two thousand persons. It was chiefly noted as a great resort for travelling Americans, though the staff were well accustomed to entertaining foreigners of every description, so Luigi Sanzionare did not feel out of place on arrival.

  He had been worried lest something should have gone amiss with his colleagues’ schemes, as there was nobody to meet him at the station. He had, after all, telegraphed his intentions well ahead.

  However, these fears were soon set at rest in the great foyer of the hotel as he signed the visitors’ book, for there was a note, written on the Langham’s stationery, signed by Grisombre on behalf of both himself and Schleifstein, telling Sanzionare to make himself comfortable, to rest well after the arduous journey, and not to worry himself over anything. They would, the note said, be calling upon him in the very near future, when all things were arranged.

  Sanzionare wondered if they would leave enough time for him to make enquiries regarding the residence of Mr Joshua Smythe and his daughter. The insulting behaviour of both the Smythes having truly got under the Italian’s skin, as he had brooded on the business during the entire journey. He had been careful, though, to keep out of their way. So careful that he had not even caught a glimpse of them in Paris, where he had stayed overnight in order to avoid travelling on to the coast and crossing to England in the same steamer.

  As he settled himself into the luxurious rooms which had been reserved for him, Sanzionare decided that it would be best to leave the Smythes well alone, at least until he had the backing of his French and German friends.

  Dismissing the valet, who politely enquired whether or not he should unpack the Italian’s portmanteau and small travelling bag, Sanzionare set about getting himself in order. He could never stand strangers rooting about among his clothing and linen. Benno and Giuseppe, sometimes even Adela, managed these things in Rome. Here he would see to it himself.

  In the bedroom he unlocked the portmanteau and started to remove his shirts, collars, and other clothing. He had placed the shirts neatly in a drawer of the dressing-table and just returned to remove a pair of newly tailored trousers, when he felt something hard and unfamiliar lower down in among the clothes. He pushed his hand deep among the various items until his fingers touched the object. A puzzled look came into his eyes and, scowling, he withdrew his hand.

  He was clutching a small tissue paper packet. Unwrapping the paper, he almost threw the object from him, for there in his hand were the three silver-linked strands of rubies and emeralds, with the magnificent pendant ruby hanging from them. Carlotta’s necklace which he had so coveted on that disastrous first night of the journey.

  Sanzionare caught sight of himself in the long mirror across the bedroom, hardly recognizing what he saw – a stoutish, middle-aged man, white faced as though shocked, with trembling fingers clutching at the elaborate necklace.

  He looked from the mirror to the necklace and back again. A dream? Hardly. The precious stones in his hand were real enough. He had been close to it during dinner on the train, and had handled too many jewels in his time to be wrong. But how? Why? He had the keys to his baggage during the entire journey. Benno? It was the most likely solution. Benno, against all instructions, might have stolen the necklace before they reached Paris. He could quite easily possess the spare luggage keys, and he certainly had the opportunity to slip the jewels into the portmanteau. A plot? Or merely an act of unthinking vengeance on behalf of his master? Well, Benno was on his way back to Rome now.

  Sanzionare slumped on the bed, hands still clutching the necklace loose in his lap. This was a dangerous piece of goods to keep. Yet far too valuable to let go.

  He began to think logically. The Smythes could not have missed the piece before Paris. If they had discovered their loss since, he would most certainly have been stopped in France, before taking the boat to England. Or if they had found it gone since, he would have been questioned on arrival at the port, or in London.

  Had he mentioned this hotel when talking to the Smythes? He thought not. Twenty-four hours. He would give it one day. Maybe a few hours more. If Grisombre and Schleifstein did not come to the hotel by then, he would be off – with the necklace. The long journey would then have been at least worthwhile. Yes, he could not risk staying longer.

  Sanzionare, fingers still trembling, completed his unpacking and looked around for a safe hiding place for the jewels. Long ago he had learned that often the most obvious place was the safest. His travelling bag was fitted with all the usual appurtenances, including five glass jars and bottles with sterling silver dome tops. The largest of these he kept filled with eau de cologne, and it was, at the moment, half empty. Unlocking the bag, Sanzionare took out the jar, unscrewed the lid and, holding the necklace by its clasp, dropped it into the liquid.

  The lurkers had both Charing Cross and Victoria railway stations well watched, and a team of good young boys placed at intervals from both stations to act as runners right back almost to Albert Square itself. They were, as usual, in many and varied disguises, each carefully instructed.

  The Langham Hotel was also the target for a dozen pairs of eyes. Harkness, with the Professor’s own private vehicle, stayed at the ready and Terremant, the big punisher, was playing a new role – that of a hansom driver, moving between the two railway termini and the Langham Hotel in a very special cab which, strangely, avoided picking up any fares.

  Adela Asconta arrived, with her retinue of maid and the swarthy Giuseppe, exac
tly as Moriarty had predicted – some twenty-four hours after Sanzionare made his appearance.

  She was tired and travel-stained, sharp-tempered with the porters who carried her luggage out to the hansom, driven by Terremant who helped her inside, together with her maid. Giuseppe was instructed to follow in a second cab.

  The chain of boys, stationed at street corners and in doorways, began to do their work, and, within a short space of time, a raggedy runner arrived at the door down the area steps of Number Five Albert Square.

  Moriarty – in the guise of his academic brother – had been waiting and ready since an early hour, and Sal Hodges had got Carlotta out of bed some three hours before her normal rising time. Harry Allen was in the hall, dressed respectably, his suit covered with a Chesterfield waterproof coat, a brown bowler in his hands. Harkness had the cab at the door, and Moriarty spoke a few last words to Harry Allen and Carlotta before this pair left, en route for the Langham. Harkness would deposit them there and return for the Professor so that the last act in the snaring of Sanzionare could be played out with perfect timing.

  Adela Asconta had not reserved rooms at the Langham, but the hotel had plenty of space to spare and she was greeted affably by the staff, allotted a suite on the second floor, with accommodation next door for her maid and a small room for the manservant – as she so described Giuseppe.

  She remained calm, if a little tetchy, during the formalities of booking in, and it was only as she was leaving, to follow the page and the two porters towards the great staircase, that she paused to ask after, ‘A kinsman who I believe is staying in this hotel. A Signor Luigi Sanzionare.’ She was told that Signor Sanzionare had registered on the previous day and that his room number was 227 – on the same floor as herself.

  Arriving at her room, Adela Asconta paused only to fling down the claret-coloured travelling cape she wore, before marching with great purpose towards room 227.

  Sanzionare had decided that if Grisombre and Schleifstein had not arrived, or sent word by ten o’clock, he would leave, catch the first boat train available, and head back to Rome. It was common sense. He had breakfasted alone in his room, scanning every column of The Times for any report regarding Carlotta Smythe’s necklace. Nothing. Yet he felt uneasy, as though some predestined doom was crashing towards him with the inevitable force of an avalanche.