The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (44 page)

             
"This is to be a business dinner," Barnett said stiffly.

             
"Could it be otherwise?" asked Moriarty blandly. "Incidentally, I meant to remark on your ept handling of the Trepoff affair in your article for the popular press."

             
"Well," Barnett said, "I figured if I didn't write it, then someone else surely would. As it is, I preempted the story and selected the facts to be told."

             
"Excellent," Moriarty said.

             
Barnett looked pleased. "Thank you."

             
"You kept my name out of it," Moriarty said. "And I thank you." He looked at the ship's chronometer above the study door. "You'd best go to dinner," he said. "Business before pleasure, after all."

             
"We are meeting Mr. Bernard Shaw at Covent Garden after dinner," Barnett said. "Cecily—Miss Perrine—is trying to talk him into doing a series of articles for us."

             
"Shaw," Moriarty said. "I have read some of his criticism. A great talent. Not a genius, as he thinks, but a genuine talent. A well-developed second-rate talent with a first-rate Irish ego."

             
"Speaking of Irish egos—" Barnett said.

             
"Go to dinner!"

             
Sherlock Holmes and his Boswell, Dr. John H. Watson, were on the steps as Barnett opened the door on his way out. "Good evening," he said. "The professor is expecting you, I
believe." Barnett tipped his black silk topper at them, adjusted it carefully on his head, and hurried off toward the British Museum.

             
Holmes and Watson entered the house and were ushered into the study by Mr. Maws. "I've come to thank you for your assistance, Professor," Holmes said, dropping into the leatherback chair in front of the desk. "I owe you that."

             
"We work well together, Holmes," Moriarty said, adjusting his pince-nez glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I suspected we would."

             
"It's quits between us now," Holmes said. "You knew that, also."

             
"I was afraid you were going to say that," Moriarty said.

             
"I have been engaged to investigate the robbery of the London and Midlands Bank which occurred some six weeks ago," Holmes said.

             
"Ah," Moriarty said.

             
"There are certain signs," Holmes said, "which point in a certain direction
..."

             
"Oh," Moriarty said.

             
"Of course, even if I apprehend the actual thieves," Holmes said, "the mastermind behind the plan will somehow manage to remain free."

             
"Of course," Moriarty agreed.

             
"I don't think that is right," Holmes said.

             
"You wouldn't," Moriarty said.

             
"I am going to do my best to see that he, also, is awarded penal servitude."

             
"You would." Moriarty stood up. "This conversation is beginning to take on an awful familiarity. Would you like a drink?
"

             
"
No, thank you," said Holmes.

             
"I think not," said Doctor Watson, looking slightly offended.

             
"Is there any word from St. Petersburg?" Holmes asked.

             
"They believe," Moriarty said, "that Trepoff is no more. At least, they have no sign that he is still alive. We may have, as they say, done him in."

             
"Good," Holmes said. "Then our relationship is officially over as of now."

             
"Back to the old games, eh, Holmes?"

             
Sherlock Holmes turned to Dr. Watson. "This man," he said, hooking his thumb toward Professor Moriarty, "is the Napoleon of crime. Two weeks ago he saved the life of his sovereign. A month
before that he robbed, or caused to be robbed, the London and Midlands Bank of some two millions in bullion."

             
"They exaggerate," Moriarty said. "These banks always exaggerate. It's for the insurance. Think about that, Holmes."

             
"Deucedly inconsistent," Watson said.

             
"When you write up my little cases," Holmes told Watson, "I want you to avoid all mention of the infamous Professor here. Someday either I shall eliminate him, or he will eliminate me. Until that time, do not speak of him or write of him."

             
"Of course, Holmes," Watson said. "Whatever you say."

             
"Dear me," Moriarty said, "such a pity. And I do so love publicity."

             
Holmes rose from his chair. "Come, Watson," he said. "There are a few little matters which engage our attention now. Good evening, Professor."

             
"As always," Moriarty said, "it has been my pleasure. Do come back soon and we can continue our little talk."

             
"We can find our own way out," Holmes said. "Good evening!" And, followed by Watson, he stalked out the front door.

             
Mrs. H came downstairs from the landing, where she had been listening to this final exchange. She sniffed. "An unforgiving lad," she said.

             
Moriarty shook his head sadly. "Perhaps some day ..." he said. "But probably not. Have Mrs. Randall fix me a bite to eat, will you, Mrs. H? I shall be downstairs in the laboratory."

             
It
is a damp, chilly Saturday, the sixteenth of April, 1887, as I sit before the small coal fire in the front room of Professor James Moriarty's Russell Square home making these notes; setting down while they are still fresh in my memory the queer and astounding events surrounding the problem with which Professor Moriarty and I found ourselves involved over the past few days. The case itself, a matter of some delicacy involving some of the highest-born and most important personages in the realm, had, as Moriarty put it, "a few points that were not entirely devoid of interest to the higher faculties." Moriarty's ability to shed light on what the rest of us find dark and mysterious will come as no surprise to anyone who has had any dealings with the professor. But what will keep the events of these past days unique in my mind forever is the glimpse I was afforded into the private life of my friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty.

             
Certain aspects of the case will never see print, at least not during the lifetimes of any of those involved; and I certainly cannot write it up in one of my articles for the American press, without revealing what must not be revealed. But the facts should not be lost, so I will at least set them down here, and if this notebook remains locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at my office at the American News Service until after my death, so be it. At least the future will learn what must be concealed from the present.

             
My name is Benjamin Barnett, and I am an expatriate New Yorker, working here in London as the director and owner of the American News Service; a company that sends news and feature stories from Britain and the continent to newspapers all around the United States over the Atlantic cable. Four years ago I was rescued
from an unfortunate circumstance—and being held prisoner in a Turkish fortress is as unfortunate a circumstance as I can imagine that does not involve immediate great pain or disfigurement—by Professor James Moriarty. I was employed by him for two years after that, and found him to be one of the most intelligent, perceptive, capable; in short one of the wisest men I have ever known. Most of those who have had dealings with the professor would, I am sure, agree, with the notable exception of a certain consulting detective, who places Moriarty at the center of every nefarious plot hatched by anyone, anywhere, during this past quarter-century. I have no idea why he persists in this invidious belief. I have seen that the professor sometimes skirts the law to achieve his own ends, but I can also witness that Professor Moriarty has a higher moral standard than many of those who enforce it.

             
But I digress. It was last Tuesday evening, four days ago, that saw the start of the events I relate. We had just finished dinner and I was still sitting at the dining table, drinking my coffee and reading a back issue of
The Strand Magazine.
Moriarty was staring moodily out the window, his long, aristocratic fingers twitching with boredom. He was waiting, at the time, for a new spectrograph of his own design to be completed so that he could continue his researches into the spectral lines of one of the nearer stars. When he is not engaged in his scientific endeavors, Moriarty likes to solve problems of a more earthly nature, but at the moment there was no such exercise to engage his intellect; and to Professor Moriarty intellect was all.

             
I finished the article I was reading, closed the magazine, and shook my head in annoyance.

             
"You're right," Moriarty said without turning from the window. "It is shameful the way the Austrian medical establishment treated Dr. Semmelweis. Pass me a cigar, would you, old chap?"

             
"Not merely the Austrians," I said, putting the magazine down and reaching for the humidor on the mantel. "The whole medical world. But really, Moriarty, this is too much. Two hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake as a sorcerer."

             
Moriarty leaned over and took a cigar from the humidor as I held it toward him. "After all the time we have been in association," he said, "surely you can follow my methods by now."

             
"It is one thing to watch from the audience as De Kolta vanishes a girl on stage," I told him, "quite another to know how the trick is done."

             
Moriarty smiled and rolled the cigar between his palms. "My
'tricks' are in one way quite like those of a stage conjurer," he said. "Once you know how they're done, they don't seem quite so miraculous." He paused to clip and pierce the ends of the cigar with his silver cigar cutter. Then he lit a taper from the gas mantle on the wall, and puffed the cigar to life. "But think back. This particular miracle should succumb even to your analysis."

             
I rose and went over to the sideboard to pour myself another cup of coffee. The serving girl had yet to clear away the dinner dishes, and I absently banged the coffee spoon against a wine glass that had recently held its share of a fine '63
Chateau de Braquenne
Bordeaux. Some months ago Moriarty had cleared up a particularly delicate problem for Hamish Plummet, partner in Plummet & Rose, Wines and Spirits, Piccadilly. Plummet presented the professor with a case of that rare vintage as a token of his appreciation, and tonight Moriarty had uncorked a bottle and pronounced it excellent. I was pleased to agree.

             
"You read the article," I suggested.

             
"Bravo, Barnett," Moriarty said. "A capital start."

             
"And you saw me reading it. But wait—you were across the room, looking out the window."

             
"True," Moriarty acknowledged. "I saw you reflected in the window glass."

             
"Ah!" I said. "But how did you know which article—even if you saw me reading—"