The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  He sipped his coffee, and at a quarter to ten made up his mind that he would be leaving that very morning. At five minutes to ten there was a tap on the door. The Frenchman or the German?

  Adela Asconta stood in the corridor, one small foot tapping an impatient tattoo, her cheeks flushed with anger pent up during the journey, building within her like a head of steam in a boiler.

  ‘Where is she?’ She pushed Sanzionare out of the way and stalked into the room, her head turning from side to side, fists clenched aggressively. ‘I’ll kill her. And you also.’

  ‘Adela! You’re in London. What?’ stammered Sanzionare.

  ‘You’re in London, you’re in London,’ mimicked Adela. ‘Of course I am in London,’ she rattled it out in fast Italian. ‘And where would you expect me to be? Sitting quietly in Ostia while you betray me?’

  ‘Betray you, cara, I would never betray you, not even in my thoughts. Not for a second.’

  ‘Where is the whore?’

  ‘There are no whores. Who …’

  ‘That woman. That Carlotta.’

  It struck Sanzionare then that he was deeply in trouble.

  ‘Carlotta?’ he echoed hollowly.

  ‘Carlotta,’ shouted Adela. ‘I know, Luigi. I know about Carlotta.’

  ‘You know what? There is nothing to know.’

  A jumble of possibilities raked through his head – that Benno had betrayed him, filling her with some fabrication; or that Carlotta, discovering the theft of her necklace, had been in touch with police in Rome. So bemused was he that he did not even realize this last was impossible.

  ‘Nothing to know? You deny then that you travelled to London with Carlotta Smythe?’

  ‘Of course I deny it.’

  ‘She was on the train. The Cook’s man in Rome had her booking.’

  ‘Yes, there was a Carlotta Smythe on the train. Travelling with her father. They dined with me on the first night. I have not set eyes on them since, let alone journeyed with them.’

  ‘She is not with you?’

  ‘Certainly not. I have you, what would I want with this Carlotta? You take me for a fool, Adela?’

  ‘I take you for a man. You are telling me the truth?’

  ‘On my mother’s grave.’

  ‘I don’t trust you. Nor your mother either.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Adela. What is this? Why have you followed me?’

  She stood, shoulders drooping, her perfect chest rising and falling rapidly, the red spots on her cheeks more crimson than before.

  ‘A letter,’ she said in a voice more uncertain than any of her statements so far.

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘Here.’ She had the paper in her sleeve, in preparation.

  Sanzionare quickly scanned the document, looking hard at the date. Terrible possibilities started to surge through his already fuddled mind. The letter had been written at least on the morning of his departure. The author had known the Smythes would be on the train. Carlotta had goaded him on, he had been certain of that at the time. Then the necklace suddenly appearing in his portmanteau. A trap? It could be nothing but a trap. Who, and why, eluded him for the moment.

  ‘Adela,’ he willed his voice to speak calmly. ‘I cannot explain all now, but we have been duped, the pair of us. For what purpose I cannot tell, but I know we must be out of here very fast.’ People, he thought quickly, had to rise uncommonly early to get the best of Luigi Sanzionare. He would still show them. Even to getting away intact with the necklace.

  He dashed for the bedroom, fingers fumbling with his key chain to open the travelling bag and tear out the glass jar.

  Later he recalled stuffing money into one pocket as he tipped the contents of the jar into the wash basin, in which he had so recently performed his morning ablutions. He recovered the glittering trophy from the scummed cold water, wiped it off on a hand towel, and was emerging into the drawing-room of his suite to face Adela with some triumph, when the main door burst open.

  ‘That is the man, Inspector,’ Carlotta screamed, an accusing finger pointing at him. Behind her was a solid young man with a brown bowler hat crammed onto his head.

  ‘That’s the man who tried to rape me, and who stole my jewels. Look, he has them there.’ Carlotta went on screaming.

  The young man closed the door carefully behind him and approached Sanzionare.

  ‘I should come quietly, sir, if I were you. Now, just you hand over the necklace to me.’

  ‘Luigi! Who are these people?’ Adela, the crimson now replaced by chalk white.

  ‘I am Inspector Allen, ma’am, if you speak English.’

  ‘I speak.’

  ‘Good. This lady is Miss Carlotta Smythe.’

  ‘Sanguisuga!’ hissed Adela. ‘Bloodsucker!’

  ‘I am from the official detective force of the Metropolitan Police,’ continued Allen.

  ‘Vecchia strega,’ spat back Carlotta. ‘Old witch.’

  ‘I can explain,’ offered Sanzionare lamely, looking at the necklace and then away again as if to pretend it was not there.

  ‘Miss Smythe claims, sir …’

  ‘He forced his way into my sleeping compartment, attempted to rape me. Later I found that my ruby and emerald necklace was missing. He has it now, in his hand.’

  There was an intake of breath from Adela: the sound of a wild beast about to spring. Sanzionare opened his fingers allowing the necklace to fall to the carpet, lifting his arms to protect his head.

  ‘Monstro informe!’ Adela launched herself towards him.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ ‘Inspector’ Allen reached forward to separate the struggling pair. ‘Luigi Sanzionare,’ he continued, bravely holding on. ‘I am taking you into custody for the theft of this ruby and emerald necklace, and I must tell you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

  ‘Scandalo!’ wept Sanzionare, knowing that this was the springing of the trap. Adela whimpered, occasionally forcing obscene abuse from her lips.

  Then, suddenly everything went quiet. Sanzionare saw Adela Asconta look fixedly towards the door. Allen’s grip relaxed slightly.

  Luigi Sanzionare lifted his head. Inside the door stood the tall, thin and gaunt figure of Professor James Moriarty.

  ‘Luigi. How good it is to see you again.’ Moriarty’s head moved slowly to and fro.

  Carlotta was smirking, stifling a laugh.

  ‘Be silent, girl,’ snapped the Professor. ‘You think this is now a laughing matter.’

  ‘What …?’ Sanzionare felt his legs turning to the consistency of well-boiled spaghetti, and there was a thumping in his head. The room spun once before his eyes, then settled uneasily. He blinked, staring at Moriarty, fearing the onslaught of death at any moment. Dimly, he perceived the full extent of his undoing. ‘Moriarty,’ he breathed.

  ‘The same.’ The Professor’s mouth was set in a grim line.

  ‘This is all your doing.’

  ‘You grow astute in your dotage, Sanzionare.’

  ‘They told me you were finished. Done for after the business at Sandringham.’

  ‘Then you were foolish to believe them, my friend.’

  The Italian looked around him, as though not fully in his right senses. ‘But why? Why this?’

  ‘Is your brain so full of vanity that you cannot see why?’ Moriarty took a step towards the hapless Italian villain. ‘It is to teach you an object lesson, Luigi. To show you several things. To inform you in the best possible way that I am master of crime in Europe; that at any time I can reach out and have you flicked from the earth like a piece of dung.’ His voice was low, like the soughing of wind in trees.

  Sanzionare shivered. ‘Then …?’

  ‘Yes, I have fitted you, as they say. If this had been real, and not the charade I planned, you would be on your way to judgement at this moment.’

  ‘Charade?’ The Italian croaked weakly, casting about him, his eyes full of dread.

  Moriarty allowed himself a thin sm
ile.

  ‘You deal in precious stones, eh?’ he said, using Smythe’s voice. ‘Precious coals more like. I doubt you can tell glass from garnet.’

  ‘You were Smythe.’ Sanzionare’s voice was dead, flat and without music.

  ‘Of course I was Smythe.’ The Professor turned to Adela. ‘Signorina Asconta, you must forgive Luigi. He stood little chance against Carlotta here. I think she could have lured even St Peter himself.’

  Adela Asconta made a discontented spitting noise.

  ‘The inspector? He is …?’ gulped Sanzionare.

  ‘My man. Just as you are all, in truth, my men and women. I only wish to prove to you, Luigi, that at any time, and in any place, I can control you, bend you, break you, remove your own paltry power. I have shown this already to Grisombre and Schleifstein. They have seen their errors and now stand by me. You have only to say the word.’

  Sanzionare whispered an oath.

  ‘The old alliance,’ Moriarty’s voice rose. ‘I am determined that the old alliance be reformed. Together, with myself once more at the helm, we can dominate the denizens of crime throughout Europe. It is your choice. You can still have Italy. But on your own, I somehow do not think you would last long.’

  Later, after they had given Sanzionare brandy and soothed Adela, the Italian asked, ‘But what if I had fought? What if I had tried to make good an escape?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ smiled the Professor. ‘I believe in so bemusing my victims that they even lose sight of reality. However, in that unhappy event, I would have used certain strong methods. Come here to the window.’

  They stood together, looking down on Langham Place while Moriarty pointed out Terremant and his hansom.

  ‘He would have seen to it that you did not get far. If I had considered it necessary, you would have been killed.’

  A few hours later, when Sanzionare had been taken over to Bermondsey to be reunited with his old partners in crime, Moriarty sat down and went through the ritual of closing the account in the back of his journal. Only two more. Segorbe and Holmes. The other three would be an object lesson to Segorbe. It would be a direct approach, and if that failed, then Segorbe would have to be an object lesson to the other three.

  He called for Spear and dictated the simple telegraph addressed to the quiet Spaniard in Madrid. It read – WE MUST SPEAK WITH YOU URGENTLY IN LONDON. PLEASE INFORM US OF TIME AND PLACE OF ARRIVAL. It was signed by Grisombre, Schleifstein and Sanzionare. The return address was given as Poste Restante, Charing Cross Post Office, London.

  * Balfour. Holmes is referring here to Jabez Spencer Balfour, the English businessman who, in 1895, had to face an extradition order from Argentina and trial in London for fraud, concerning his huge Balfour Group of companies. He served a term of fourteen years penal servitude during which he wrote the famous My Prison Life – possibly the best-written of all books of prison reminiscences.

  † Isabella Banks (or Bankes). Bigamous wife of Dr Thomas Smethurst. Smethurst was found guilty of murdering her by poison in 1859, but after sentence a prominent medical authority, Sir Benjamin Brodie, was directed to look into the case for the Home Office. As a result, Smethurst was reprieved and served one year’s imprisonment for bigamy. Holmes’ remark clearly shows what he thought of the case. working from house owned by Mrs Sally Hodges. Is that not a load off your mind, Crow?’

  * There is no specific dating, regarding this conversation, in Inspector Crow’s notes. However, it must have taken place sometime after 20 March. Holmes was certainly in Cornwall between 16 and 20 March; and probably for some time before those dates, which cover the period of The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot, and are exactly recorded by Dr Watson. The real interest here, in view of following events, is, however, Holmes’ mention of Dr Moore Agar who was the cause of the great detective being in Cornwall at all. Watson records that Holmes’ ‘iron constitution showed symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own’. Moore Agar prescribed a complete rest. There can be little doubt of the indiscretions, and the fact that they were connected with the drug being supplied to Holmes via Mr Charles Bignall of Orchard Street. Of this, more later.

  LONDON, ANNECY AND PARIS:

  Tuesday, 20 April – Monday, 3 May 1897

  (The Spanish lesson)

  ‘One has to admit that Paris is a singularly attractive city,’ remarked Sherlock Holmes as they drove, in bright sunlight, from the Gare du Nord.

  ‘I have aways thought so,’ said Crow.

  ‘The problem is,’ continued Holmes, ‘that too much beauty, coupled with the fact that it is renowned as the great city of pleasure, makes it a breeding ground for idleness. And idleness, Crow, as I have observed in my own case, leads one to the devil’s work. See there,’ he pointed down one of the many side streets, ‘the poisoner Lachette had his home just four minutes’ walk from that corner. It is not generally known that I had a hand in his final capture. A question of a most toxic Japanese fish being inserted into the bouillabaisse.’

  Crow attempted to bring the conversation back to matters in hand.

  ‘You really believe that we will find some relevant clue to Moriarty’s whereabouts by enquiries here?’

  ‘No doubt at all,’ Holmes appeared listlessly diffident, as though Moriarty was the last person that interested him. ‘That pension we have just passed,’ he turned to point back at the little corner building. ‘I remember that well enough. It is there that Ricoletti, the one who used his club foot to such diabolical purpose, stayed for a short time en route for England, after his escape from Italy. I believe his abominable wife went on ahead of him. But that was in my youth, Crow.’

  Holmes had insisted that they sample the luxuries of the Crillon for this visit. ‘If we are to question the staff without arousing too much interest, our best disguise will be as guests,’ he had told Crow, who felt the extravagance truly a little above his means.

  Once they were installed, however, in the somewhat palatial apartments which Holmes had reserved for them, Crow found himself quite enjoying the visit. The only cloud on the horizon was the thought of Sylvia left to her own devices back in King Street. On the last occasion that he had left her alone, the wild goddess of social betterment had entered into her heart. He now prayed fervently that the lessons he had tried to teach her since becoming resolute of purpose would not go unheeded. Crow dreaded yet another tussle with his wife.

  The Scottish detective bathed and dressed at his leisure, emerging to discover that Holmes had already been about their business. A curt note was attached to the mirror of the dressing-table. I have jogged the servants’ memories, it read. Please join me for dinner as soon as you feel purified enough to expose yourself to the wickedness of the city.

  Crow hurried downstairs to find Holmes sitting comfortably among the elegant diners in the large restaurant.

  ‘Ah, Crow,’ he made an expansive gesture. ‘Do sit down and try some of this excellent duck, it is positively the best I have ever tasted.’

  During the meal Crow attempted to draw the great detective, but he remained resolutely silent on the question of Morningdale and his enquiries so far; chattering away knowledgeably about Paris, and, in particular, French cuisine and the good wines of the country.

  It was not until they reached coffee that he finally spoke of their venture.

  ‘Friend Morningdale is well remembered here. Apparently he was what they call a good tipper, and to begin with it is clear to me that his sole purpose was some form of meeting with Grisombre, the famous French criminal leader.’

  ‘We were pretty certain of that already,’ said Crow, somewhat disappointed.

  ‘Indeed we were, but the talk I have had with the porter, and some of his staff, has made it positive beyond doubt that Morningdale was Moriarty. For one thing, this Morningdale claimed to hail from Boston, Massachusetts. By some judicious questioning I am led to believe that his accent was that of a man who
has lived extensively in California. I am something of an expert on American dialects as you may know. Some years ago I published a short monograph on the subject of the natural vowel sounds among people born and bred in the various states.’

  ‘And your case rests on this alone?’

  ‘Oh no, there are other reasons which I will not bore you with at present. But, Crow, we must be about our business. It appears that Morningdale spent some time, together with his secretary, roistering in the Montmartre area. A sleazy part of the city at the best of times, but that is where we should be looking.’

  So Crow and Holmes spent that first evening together combing the bars and cafés of Montmartre. To no avail, for however subtly Holmes phrased his questions, he was met with blank stares or shakings of the head.

  Three days passed before they even touched upon anyone who remembered the American and his English secretary, and Crow judged that Holmes was becoming increasingly depressed, a nervous irritability replacing the more jovial manner of his arrival in the capital.

  They had almost given up, on the third night, having covered a dozen or so of the dubious haunts of pleasure, when Holmes suggested that they visit the Moulin Rouge.

  ‘I am not anxious to view the heathen spectacle of women displaying themselves in that wild orgy again tonight, Crow,’ he remarked somewhat sourly. ‘But I fear we will have to put up with it once more for the sake of criminal science.’

  At the Moulin Rouge they encountered a waiter who thought that he recalled the American and his companion, but could not be absolutely certain.

  ‘I’ll warrant that a large tip would loose his tongue,’ said Holmes. ‘But I’ll only stoop to the method of bribery as a last resort.’

  At a little before one in the morning the two detectives left the establishment, and, as they awaited a cab in the Place Blanche, they were approached by one of the girls who, inevitably, plied their wanton trade on the streets of that area.