Moriarty

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Stand where you are, Mr Mortlake,’ Jones announced. ‘I have witnessed everything that has taken place here and I have heard you name your accomplice. I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit burglary and for receiving stolen goods. You are exposed as part of a criminal network that has brought terror and bloodshed to the streets of London but this is the end of it. You, your brother and Clarence Devereux will answer to the courts.’

  Throughout this lengthy speech, Edgar Mortlake had stood there, showing no expression at all. When Jones had finished he turned not to the detective but to the thief, John Clay, who was blinking uncomfortably. ‘You knew of this,’ he said, simply.

  ‘They gave me no choice. But I will tell you that, in actual fact, I don’t give a jot. I’ve had enough of your threats, your violence, your greed and I cannot forgive you for what you did to my friend Archie. You give crime a bad name. London will be better off once it’s seen the back of you.’

  ‘You have betrayed us.’

  ‘Wait …’ Clay began.

  I saw Mortlake’s hand swing through the air and thought he had slapped the other man across the face although it was strange, for there was no sound of any contact. Clay looked puzzled too. Then I realised it was far, far worse. Mortlake had something concealed in his sleeve, a viciously sharp blade on some sort of mechanism which had sprung out like a snake’s tongue. He had used it to cut Clay’s throat. For just one moment, I entertained the hope that he had missed, that Clay had not been harmed, but then a thin line of red appeared above the thief’s collar. Clay stood there, gasping for air, looking to us for explanation. Then the wound opened and a torrent of blood poured out. Clay fell to his knees and Archie screamed and covered his eyes. I could only watch as the nightmare continued before me.

  The hooligan boys had dropped the sacks that they had been carrying and produced guns. Moving almost mechanically, they spread out and began to blast at the policemen, killing two or three of them in the first volley. Even as the bodies fell to the ground, one of them picked up a machete – it was lying on a crate – and swung it through the air, severing a rope just a few feet away. Mortlake had reached out and taken hold of a second rope: the two of them were connected and there must have been a counterweight for he was suddenly lifted high into the air like a magician performing a trick or perhaps an acrobat at the circus. In seconds, even as the noise of the gunfire and the smoke from the revolvers billowed out, he had become a tiny figure four storeys up, swinging himself onto a platform and disappearing from sight.

  ‘Get after him!’ Jones shouted.

  Most of the policemen were armed and returned fire. Hopelessly outnumbered, Mortlake’s protectors continued to empty their pistols but were quickly shot down, one of them spinning onto a trestle table, which collapsed beneath him. I could only wonder at the sense of loyalty or fear that had persuaded them to sacrifice their lives for their master who had simply abandoned them to their fate.

  I had not stayed to watch any more of the shoot-out. Ducking down, afraid for my own safety, I had obeyed Jones’s command and had already reached a wooden staircase that zigzagged from floor to floor. There was a second, similar set of stairs at the far end and, as I watched, three policemen peeled off to cover them. Mortlake might have made a dramatic escape from the area of combat but he must still be trapped within the building.

  I climbed the stairs, which creaked and bent beneath my weight. Dust and the smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils. Finally, I reached the top and – breathless, my heart pounding – I found myself in a narrow passageway with a wooden wall on one side of me and an unprotected drop on the other. Glancing back down, I saw Athelney Jones had taken charge of the situation. He was not physically able to follow me. Clay lay spreadeagled in a widening pool of blood which seemed even more shocking from this height, like a vast red ink blot. There were casks, crates, hogsheads and bulging sacks scattered all around me and I proceeded slowly, suddenly remembering that although I was unarmed, Mortlake carried a dreadful weapon and could leap out from any of a hundred hiding places. The three police officers had also reached the top but were some distance away, silhouetted against the round window, proceeding slowly towards me.

  I came to an opening. It was as if part of the wall had been folded back – not exactly a door nor a window but something in between. I saw the grey of the evening and the rushing clouds. The Thames was before me, a couple of tugs making their way east but otherwise still and silent. In front of me was a long platform connected to the warehouse by two rusting chains with a complicated winch system constructed beside it. Perhaps Mortlake had hoped to use it to lower himself back down, but either it wasn’t working or I had arrived too quickly for there suddenly he was, in front of me, his coat flapping in the breeze and his dead eyes fixed on mine.

  I remained where I was, not daring to move forward. The knife, now stained with blood, was still jutting from his sleeve. Standing there on the platform, with his oily black hair and moustache, he reminded me more than ever of an actor on the stage. I’m sure the Kiralfy brothers of New York never presented a character more vengeful nor more dangerous.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he exclaimed. ‘Pinkerton, you surprise me. I have come upon your sort before, Bob Pinkerton’s boys, and they are not usually so astute. You seem to have outplayed me.’

  ‘You have nowhere to go, Mortlake!’ I returned. I did not dare move any closer forward. I was still afraid that he would rush at me and use that hideous weapon. He stood where he was. The sluggish water of the river was below him but if he tried to jump he would surely drown, if the fall did not kill him first. ‘Put down your weapon. Give yourself up.’

  His reply was a profanity of the worst sort. I felt the presence of the police officers nearby and saw them out of the corner of my eye, gathering uncertainly in the doorway behind me. Not exactly the cavalry, but I was relieved that I was no longer on my own.

  ‘Give us Devereux!’ I said. ‘He is the one we want. Turn him in and it will go easier for you.’

  ‘I will give you nothing but this: the promise that you will regret this until the end of your days. But trust me, Pinkerton, there won’t be many of them. You and I will have our reckoning.’

  In a single movement, without hesitating, Mortlake turned and jumped. I saw him fall through the air, his coat flapping up behind him, and watched as he plunged feet first into the river, disappearing beneath the surface. I ran forward, the wood tilting beneath me and suddenly I was dizzy and might have fallen myself had not one of the constables grabbed hold of me.

  ‘It’s too late, sir!’ I heard a voice shouting. ‘He’s finished.’

  I was being held and I was grateful for it. I stared down at the water but there was nothing more to see, not even a ripple.

  Edgar Mortlake had gone.

  SIXTEEN

  We Make an Arrest

  That evening, we raided the Bostonian for a second time.

  Inspector Jones had instructed me to meet him at eight o’clock and, accompanied by an impressive entourage of uniformed constables, we marched in at exactly that hour, once again silencing the pianist as we made our way past the gilded mirrors and marble panels, in front of the bar with all its glittering crystal and glass, ignoring the muttered protests of the largely American assembly, many of whom were having their evening interrupted for a second time. This time we knew exactly where we were going. We had seen the Mortlakes emerge from a door on the other side of the bar. This must be where their private office was to be found.

  We entered without knocking. Leland Mortlake was sitting behind a desk, framed by two windows with red velvet curtains. There was a glass of whisky in front of him and a fat cigar, smouldering in an ashtray. At first, we thought he was alone but then a youth of about eighteen with oily hair and a pinched, narrow face got to his feet, rising up from the place where he had been kneeling next to Mortlake. I had seen his type many times before and felt revolted. For a moment neither of us spoke. The boy stood th
ere, sullen, unsure what to do.

  ‘Get out of here, Robbie,’ Mortlake said.

  ‘Whatever you say, sir.’ The boy hurried past us, anxious to be on his way.

  Leland Mortlake waited until the door had closed, then turned to us, coldly furious. ‘What is it?’ he snarled. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’ His tongue, moist and grey, flickered briefly between his bulbous lips. He was wearing evening clothes and his hands, curled into fists, rested on the desk.

  ‘Where is your brother?’ Jones demanded.

  ‘Edgar? I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Do you know where he was this afternoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are lying. Your brother was at a warehouse in the Blackwall Basin. He was taking receipt of a collection of items, stolen from the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit. We surprised him there and would have seized him had he not committed murder in front of our eyes. He is now a wanted man. We know that you and he organised the theft in collaboration with a third man, Clarence Devereux. Do not deny it! You were with him only the other night at the American legation.’

  ‘I do deny it. I told you the last time you came. I know no Clarence Devereux.’

  ‘He also calls himself Coleman De Vriess.’

  ‘I don’t know that name either.’

  ‘Your brother may have slipped through our fingers but you have not. You will come with me now for questioning at Scotland Yard and you will not leave until you have informed us of his whereabouts.’

  ‘I will do no such thing.’

  ‘If you will not come of your own volition, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Obstruction and as an accessory to murder.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  There was a long silence. Mortlake was sitting there, fighting for breath, his shoulders rising and falling while the rest of his body remained still. I had never thought it possible for the human face to display such intense hatred but the very blood was swelling in his cheeks and I was worried that if he had some weapon – a gun – close at hand, perhaps in one of the drawers of his bureau, he would not hesitate to use it and to hell with the consequences.

  Finally he spoke. ‘I am an American citizen, a visitor to your country. Your accusations are false and scandalous. I wish to telephone my legation.’

  ‘You can telephone them from my office,’ Jones replied.

  ‘You have no right—’

  ‘I have every right. Enough of this! Will you accompany us or must I call my men into the room?’

  Scowling horribly, Mortlake rose from his seat. His shirt was hanging out of his trousers and, with a slow, deliberate movement, he tucked it back in. ‘You are wasting your time,’ he murmured. ‘I have nothing to tell you. I have not seen my brother. I know nothing of his affairs.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  We stood there, the three of us, each waiting for the other to make a move. Finally, Leland Mortlake smashed out the cigar, then walked to the door, his bulky frame passing between us. I was glad that there were two policemen waiting outside for, with every moment that we stood in the Bostonian, I felt myself to be in enemy territory. As we made our way back past the bar, Mortlake turned to the barman and called out: ‘Inform Mr White at the legation.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Henry White had been the councillor, introduced to us by Robert Lincoln himself. I had a suspicion that Mortlake was bluffing, attempting to intimidate us. Jones ignored him anyway.

  We continued through the silent, indignant crowd, some of them jostling against us as if they were unwilling to let us leave. A waiter reached out as if to take hold of Mortlake and, imposing myself between them, I pushed them apart. I was quite relieved when we passed through the door and found ourselves in Trebeck Street. There were two growlers waiting for us. I had already noticed that Jones had decided to spare his prisoner the indignity of a Black Maria, the famous coach used by Scotland Yard. A lackey at the door handed Mortlake a cape and a walking stick but Jones took hold of the latter. ‘I will keep this, if you don’t mind. You never know what you might find in such a device.’

  ‘It is a walking stick, nothing more. But you must do as you must.’ Mortlake’s eyes blazed. ‘You will pay for this. I promise you.’

  We stepped onto the pavement. It seemed to me that the street was darker than ever, the gas lamps unequal to their struggle against the night sky and the thin drizzle that was falling constantly. The cobblestones with their oily reflections provided more illumination. One of the horses snorted and Mortlake stumbled. I was close by and reached out to steady him, for it appeared that he had lost his footing. But one glance in his direction showed that something much worse had occurred. All the colour had left his face. His eyes were wide and he was gasping for breath, grinding his jaw as if he were trying to say something but could no longer speak. He seemed to be terrified … frightened to death was the thought that crossed my mind.

  ‘Jones …’ I began.

  Inspector Jones had already seen what was happening and had taken hold of his prisoner, one arm stretched across his back. Mortlake was making the most horrible sound and I saw some sort of foam appear on his lower lip. His body began to convulse.

  ‘A doctor!’ Jones shouted.

  There was no doctor to be found; certainly not in the empty street and nor, it would seem, in the club itself. Mortlake fell to his knees, his shoulders heaving, his face distorted.

  ‘What is happening?’ I cried. ‘Is it his heart?’

  ‘I don’t know. Lay him down. Surely a doctor can be found, for Heaven’s sake?’

  It was already too late. Mortlake pitched forward onto the pavement and lay still. It was only then that we saw it, illuminated by the street lamp; a slender reed protruding from the side of his neck. ‘Do not touch it!’ Jones commanded.

  ‘What is it? It looks like a thorn.’

  ‘It is a thorn! It is poisoned. I have seen this before but I cannot believe … I will not believe … that it has happened a second time.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Pondicherry Lodge!’ Jones knelt beside the prostrate form of Leland Mortlake. He had stopped breathing and his face was utterly white. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘How? I don’t understand! What has happened?’

  ‘He has been the victim of a blowpipe. Someone has fired a dart into his neck as we attempted to get him out of the club and we allowed it to happen even while he was in our hands. It is strychnine or some such poison. It has taken immediate effect.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To silence him.’ Jones looked up at me with anguish in his eyes. ‘And yet it cannot be. Once again, Chase, I tell you, nothing is as it seems. Who could have known we were coming tonight?’

  ‘Nobody could have known. I swear that I told no one!’

  ‘Then this attack must have been planned whether we were here or not. The blowpipe, the dart, they were already prepared. It had been decided that Leland Mortlake must die long before we arrived.’

  ‘Who would want to kill him?’ I stood there, all sorts of thoughts rushing through my mind. ‘It must have been Clarence Devereux! He is playing some devilish game. He killed Lavelle. He tried to kill you … for who else could it have been in the brougham that was parked nearby? Now he has killed Mortlake.’

  ‘It could not have been Devereux at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the driver dropped him in the street – had it been Devereux, he would surely have been unable to step out into the open.’

  ‘Then if it was not him, who was it?’ I gazed helplessly. ‘Was it Moriarty?’

  ‘No! That cannot be possible.’

  We were both of us attenuated, drenched through by the drizzle, close to exhaustion. It seemed that an eternity had passed since we had ridden out together to the London docks and that expedition too had not worked out as we had pla
nned. We stood facing each other, helpless, while around us the police officers crept forward, staring at the corpse with dismay. The door of the club suddenly slammed shut, cutting off the light. It was as if the people who worked there wanted nothing more to do with us.

  ‘Deal with this, Sergeant!’ Jones called to one of the policemen, although I could not tell which. All the life seemed to have gone out of him. His face was drawn and there was nothing in his eyes. ‘Have the body removed and then take down the details of everyone in the club. I know we have done it once before but we must do it again! Allow no one to leave until you have their statements.’ He turned to me and spoke more quietly. ‘They will find nothing. The killer will have already left. Come with me, Chase. Let us get out of this damned place.’

  We walked down the street and into Shepherd’s Market. There we found a public house on a corner – the Grapes. We went inside, into the warmth, and Jones ordered half a pint of red wine which we shared between us. He had also produced a cigarette, which he lit. It was only the second time I had seen him smoke. At length, he began to talk, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Moriarty cannot be alive. I will not believe it! You must remember the letter … the coded letter that began all this. It was addressed to Moriarty and it was found in the pocket of the dead man. It follows, therefore, that the dead man must in all probability have been Moriarty. As always, the logic is inescapable. It was only because he was killed that Devereux and his cohorts were able to take his place, fully establishing themselves in London. And it is only because of the letter that we have been able to proceed thus far.’

  ‘Then if it is not Moriarty taking revenge, it must be his former associates. Even before he set out for Meiringen, he could have left them instructions …’

  ‘There you may be right. Inspector Patterson said that he had arrested them all but he may have been mistaken. Certainly, we seem to have stumbled onto two opposing factions. On the one side, Lavelle, the Mortlakes, Clarence Devereux. And on the other …’