‘All but the leader himself,’ Barton agreed and, around the table, the inspectors, who had been listening intently, nodded their heads in sombre silence.
‘We now know that Moriarty had taken off after Holmes,’ Patterson concluded. ‘I hold myself at least in part responsible for what ensued, but at the same time I cannot believe Holmes had not expected it. Why else would he have left the country so abruptly? At any event, there you have it. Barton and I are preparing the charges even now and the cases will come to court soon enough.’
‘Excellent work,’ MacDonald said. He paused for a moment and frowned. ‘But am I alone in finding a disparity here? In February of this year, you and Sherlock Holmes begin to close in on Moriarty and at around about the same time an American criminal by the name of Clarence Devereux arrives in London, seeking an alliance with that same Moriarty. How can it be?’
‘Devereux did not know that Moriarty was finished,’ another inspector said. ‘We’ve all seen the letter, sent in code. It was only in April that they agreed to meet.’
‘Devereux could have been very useful to Moriarty,’ Gregson suggested. ‘His arrival couldn’t have been better timed. Moriarty was on the run. Devereux could have helped him rebuild his empire.’
‘I disagree!’ Lestrade pounded his fist on the table and looked around him peevishly. ‘Clarence Devereux! Clarence Devereux! This is all the merest moonshine. We know nothing about Clarence Devereux. Who is he? Where does he live? Is he still in London? Does he even exist?’
‘We knew nothing about Moriarty until Sherlock Holmes drew him to our attention.’
‘Moriarty was real enough. But I suggest we address ourselves to the Pinkerton Agency in New York. I would like to see every scrap of evidence that they have concerning this man.’
‘There is no need,’ I said. ‘I brought copies of all the files with me and I will happily make them available to you.’
‘You left America three weeks ago,’ Lestrade responded. ‘Much can have happened in that time. And with respect, Mr Chase, you are a junior agent in this business. I wouldn’t talk to a police constable if I wished to be brought up to date. I would prefer to deal with the people who sent you here.’
‘I am, sir, a senior investigator. But I will not argue with you.’ I could see there was no point antagonising the man. ‘You must address yourself to Mr Robert Pinkerton himself. It was he who assigned me to this case and he takes the closest interest in every development.’
‘We will do that.’ MacDonald scribbled a note in front of him.
‘Clarence Devereux is here in London. I am certain of it. I have heard his name mentioned and I have felt his presence.’
The speaker was, by some margin, the youngest person in the room. I had noticed him sitting upright in his chair throughout the lengthy speeches, as if he could barely prevent himself from breaking in. He had fair hair, cut very short, and a keen, boyish face. He could not have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. ‘My name is Stanley Hopkins,’ he said, introducing himself to me. ‘And although I never had the honour of meeting Mr Sherlock Holmes, I very much wish he was still with us for I believe we face a challenge such as none of us in this room has ever encountered. I am in close contact with the criminal fraternity. Being new to this profession and even newer to this rank, I make it my business to maintain a presence in the streets of London – in Friars Mount, in Nichols Row, in Bluegate Fields …
‘In the past few weeks, I have become aware of a silence, an emptiness – a sense of fear. None of the auction gangs are active. Nor are the pawners, nor the cardsharps. The young women in the Haymarket and on Waterloo Bridge have been absent from their trade.’ He blushed slightly. ‘I speak to them sometimes because they can be useful to me, but now even they have gone. Of course it may be the case that the superlative work of Mr Barton and Mr Patterson has been rewarded with the state of affairs we have all wished for, if only in our dreams: a London free of crime, that with Moriarty finished, his followers have become disheartened and crept back into the sewer from which they came. Sadly, I know that is not true. As the philosopher puts it, nature abhors a vacuum. It may be that Devereux came here to ally himself with Moriarty. But finding Moriarty gone, he has simply taken his place.’
‘I believe it too,’ someone – I think Lanner – said. ‘The evidence is there, in the streets.’
‘Outbursts of violence,’ Bradstreet muttered. ‘That business at the White Swan.’
‘And the fire on the Harrow Road. Six people died …’
‘Pimlico …’
‘What are you talking about?’ Lestrade cut in, addressing himself to Hopkins. ‘Why should we believe that anything has changed? Where’s the proof?’
‘I had one informer who was prepared to speak to me and I have to say that in a way I had a certain liking for him. He had been in trouble from the day he climbed out of the cradle. Petty stuff. Fare dodging, thimble-rigging – but lately he had graduated in the school of crime. He had fallen in with a bad lot and I saw him less and less. Well, one week ago, I met him by arrangement in a rookery near Dean Street. I could see at once that he did not want to be there, that he had only come for old times’ sake for I had helped him once or twice in the past. “I can’t see you, Mr Hopkins,” he said to me. “It’s all changed now. We can’t meet any more.” “What is it, Charlie?” I demanded. I could see that he was pale, his whole body shaking. “You don’t understand …” he began.
‘There was a movement in the alleyway. A man was standing there, silhouetted against the gas lamp. I could not see who he was and anyway he was already moving away. I cannot even be sure he had been observing us. But for Charlie, it was enough. He did not dare to speak the name but this is what he said. “The American,” he said. “He’s here now and that’s the end of it.” “What do you mean? What American?” “I’ve told you all I can, Mr Hopkins. I shouldn’t have come. They’ll know!” And before I could stop him, he hurried away, disappearing into the shadows. That was the last I saw of him.’ Hopkins paused. ‘Two days later, Charlie was pulled out of the Thames. His hands were tied and death was due to drowning. I will not describe his other injuries, but I will say only this: I have no doubt at all that what Mr Chase tells us is the truth. An evil tide has come our way. We must fight it before it overwhelms us all.’
There was a long silence after this. Then Inspector MacDonald once again turned to Athelney Jones. ‘What did you find at Bladeston House?’ he asked. ‘Are there any lines of enquiry you can pursue?’
‘There are two,’ Jones replied. ‘Although I will be honest and say that there is a great deal about these murders that still remains unclear. The evidence takes me in one direction. Common sense takes me in quite another. Still … I found a name and a number in Lavelle’s diary: HORNER 13. It was written in capitals and circled. There was nothing else on the page. It struck me at the time as very strange.’
‘I arrested a man called Horner,’ Bradstreet announced, rolling his pipe in his hands. ‘John Horner. He was a plumber at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Of course, I’d got completely the wrong man. Holmes put me right.’
‘There is a tea shop in Crouch End,’ Youghal added. ‘It was run by a Mrs Horner, I believe. But it closed long ago.’
‘There was a block of shaving soap in the same drawer,’ I recalled. ‘I wondered if that might be significant?’ Nobody spoke so I continued. ‘Could Horner perhaps be a druggist or a chemist’s shop?’
Again, this elicited no reply.
‘What else, Inspector Jones?’ MacDonald asked.
‘We met a man, an unpleasant character by the name of Edgar Mortlake. Mr Chase knew him from New York and identified him as one of Devereux’s associates. It seems that he is the proprietor of a club in Mayfair, a place called the Bostonian.’
That name caused a stir around the table.
‘I know it,’ Inspector Gregson said. ‘Expensive, trashy. It opened only recently.’
‘I visited t
he place,’ Lestrade said. ‘Pilgrim had a room there at the time of his death. I looked through his things but I found nothing of any interest.’
‘He wrote to me from there,’ I concurred. ‘It was thanks to him that I knew about the letter that Devereux had sent to Moriarty.’
‘The Bostonian is the home of almost every wealthy American in London,’ Gregson continued. ‘It’s owned by two brothers – Leland and Edgar Mortlake. They have their own chef and they create their own cocktails. There are two floors, the upper one of which is used for gaming.’
‘Is it not obvious?’ Bradstreet exclaimed. ‘If Clarence Devereux is anywhere in London, surely that is where he is to be found. An American club with an American name, run by a known felon.’
‘I would have thought, in that case, it would be the last place he would present himself,’ Hopkins said, quietly. ‘Surely, the whole point is that he doesn’t want to make himself known.’
‘We should raid the building,’ Lestrade said, ignoring him. ‘I myself will arrange it. A surprise visit with a dozen or more officers this very day.’
‘I would suggest the early evening,’ Gregson said. ‘For that is when it will be busiest.’
‘Perhaps we will find this Clarence Devereux at the card table. If so, we will make short work of him. We are not going to be colonised by criminals from foreign countries. This gangsterish violence must stop.’
Soon afterwards, the meeting came to an end. Jones and I left together and as we made our way down the stairs, he turned to me.
‘Well, it’s agreed,’ he said. ‘We intend to mount a raid on a club which has but a tenuous link with the man we are seeking and a man whose existence several of my colleagues are inclined to doubt. Even if Clarence Devereux happens to be there, we will be unable to recognise him and going there will only tell him that we are on his tail. What do you say, Chase? Would you not call it a complete waste of time?’
‘I would not be so bold,’ I replied.
‘Your reticence does you credit. But I must return to my office. You can spend the afternoon seeing something of the city. I will send a note to your hotel and the two of us will meet again tonight.’
NINE
The Bostonian
In fact, Jones was wrong. As things turned out, the raid on the Bostonian did prove useful in one small but significant respect.
It was already dark when I left my room at the hotel and as I stepped into the corridor I was aware of the door next to mine swinging shut. Once again I did not see the occupant beyond a shadowy figure who vanished immediately as the door closed but it occurred to me that I had not heard him go past, which I should surely have done as the carpet was threadbare. Had he been waiting outside as I made my preparations? Had he left when he heard me approach? I was tempted to challenge him but decided against it. Jones had been precise about the hour of our meeting. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation for the behaviour of my mysterious neighbour. At any event, he could wait.
And so we found ourselves, an hour later, standing beneath a gas lamp on the corner of Trebeck Street, waiting for the signal – the scream of a whistle and the tramp of a dozen leather boots – which would announce that the adventure had begun. The club was in front of us: a narrow, quite ordinary white-fronted building on a corner. But for the heavy curtains drawn across the windows and the occasional snatch of piano music jingling into the night, it could have been a bank. Jones was in a strange mood. He had been virtually silent since I had joined him and appeared to be deep in thought. It was unseasonably cold and damp – it seemed as if the summer was never going to arrive – and we were both wearing heavy coats. I wondered if the weather was accentuating the pain in his leg. But suddenly he turned to me and asked, ‘Did you not find Lestrade’s testimony to be of particular interest?’
The question had taken me by surprise. ‘Which part of it?’
‘How did he know that your agent, Jonathan Pilgrim, had a room at the Bostonian?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I have no idea. It could be that Pilgrim was carrying the key to his room. Or I suppose he could have had the address written down.’
‘Was he a careless man?’
‘He was headstrong. He could be reckless. But he was very aware of the danger of discovery.’
‘My point exactly: it’s almost as if he wanted us to come here. I hope we are not making a grave mistake.’
He lapsed once again into silence and I took out my watch. There were another five minutes until the raid began and I wished we hadn’t arrived so early. It seemed to me that my companion was avoiding my eye. He always stood awkwardly and I knew that he was in fairly constant discomfort and needed his walking stick. But as we waited there, he was more awkward than ever.
‘Is there something the matter, Jones?’ I asked at length.
‘No. Not at all,’ he replied. Then: ‘As a matter of fact, there was something I wished to ask you.’
‘Please!’
‘I hope you will not find it presumptuous but my wife wondered if you might like to join us for dinner tomorrow night.’ I was amazed that something so trivial should have caused him so much difficulty but before I could answer, he continued quickly, ‘I have of course described you to her and she is most keen to meet you and to hear something of your life in America.’
‘I would be delighted to come,’ I said.
‘Elspeth does worry about me a great deal,’ he went on. ‘Between ourselves, she would be much happier if I were to find another occupation and she has often said as much. Needless to say, she knows almost nothing of the events at Bladeston House. I have told her that I am engaged on a murder investigation but I have given her none of the details and would ask you to do the same. Fortunately, she does not often read the newspapers. Elspeth has a very delicate nature and if she had any idea of the sort of people we were up against, she would be greatly troubled.’
‘I am very glad to be invited,’ I said. ‘For what it’s worth, the food at Hexam’s Hotel is atrocious. Please don’t worry yourself, Inspector. I’ll take my lead from you and will answer any questions that Mrs Jones poses with the utmost discretion.’ I looked up briefly into the gaslight. ‘My dearest mother never once discussed my work with me. I know it caused her discomfort. If only for that reason, I’ll take the greatest care.’
‘Then it’s agreed.’ Jones looked relieved. ‘We can meet at Scotland Yard and travel together to Camberwell. You will also meet my daughter, Beatrice. She is six years old and as eager to know about my business as my wife is to avoid it.’
I already knew that there was a child involved. Beatrice was doubtless the recipient of the French puppet that Jones had brought back from Paris. ‘Dress?’ I asked.
‘Come as you are. There is no need for formality.’
Our discussion was interrupted by the shrill scream of a whistle and at once the quiet street was filled with uniformed men running towards a single door. Jones and I were here as onlookers – Lestrade had taken charge of the operation and he was the first to climb the steps and grab hold of the handle. The door was locked. We watched him step back, search for the doorbell, and ring it impatiently. Eventually, the door was opened. He and the police constables piled in. We followed.
I had not expected the interior of the Bostonian to be quite so lavish, despite what Inspector Gregson had told us. Trebeck Street was narrow and poorly lit but the front door took us into a glittering world of mirrors and chandeliers, marble floors and ornate ceilings. Paintings in gilt frames covered every inch of the walls, many of them by well-known American artists … Albert Pinkham Ryder, Thomas Cole. Anyone who had ever visited the Union Club in Park Avenue or the Metropolitan on 60th Street would have felt themselves at home, and that was surely the point. A rack of newspapers by the entrance contained only American publications. The dozens of bottles set out on the brightly polished glass shelves were largely American brands – Jim Beam and Old Fitzgerald bourbon, Fleischmann Extra Dry Gin. There were
at least fifty people in the front room and I heard accents from the East Coast, from Texas, from Milwaukee. A young man in a tailcoat had been playing a piano, the front panel removed to show its inner workings. He had stopped the moment we came in and sat there, his eyes fixed on the keys.
Police officers were already moving through the room and I could feel the indignation of the crowd as the men and women, all in their finest evening wear, separated to allow them to pass. Lestrade had marched straight up to the bar as if demanding a drink and the barman was staring at him, open-mouthed. Jones and I hung back. Neither of us had been sure of the wisdom of this enterprise and we were both wondering where to begin. Two policemen were already climbing the stairs to the second floor. The rest of them were covering the doors so that nobody could enter or leave the club without being challenged. I will admit that I was greatly impressed by the Metropolitan Police. They were well-organised and disciplined even if, as far as I could tell, they had no idea why they were here.
Lestrade was still haranguing the barman when a door at the side opened and two men came out. I recognised them both at once. Edgar Mortlake we had already met. This time, his brother was with him. Just as the maid at Bladeston House had told us, the two of them were very much alike (they were both dressed in black tie) and yet they were nonetheless curiously different, as if some artist or sculptor had been at work and deliberately created from one a more brutal and hot-blooded representation in the other. Leland Mortlake had the same black hair and small eyes as his brother but no moustache. He was a few years older and they weighed heavily on him: his face was fleshier, his lips thicker, his whole expression one of contempt. He was several inches shorter than Edgar but even before he spoke I could see that he was the more dominant of the two. Edgar was standing a few steps behind him. It was his natural position.
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