The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (94 page)

             
"The death is officially listed as the result of 'injuries received in a street accident.' Supposedly, she was thrown from a carriage. But from the description of the attending physician, whom I happened to find on duty in the emergency room of St. Luke's, it appears the girl was probably tortured. And over a period of several days. The physician didn't want to come right out and say it, since he had no way to prove it, and he could get into considerable trouble if he was wrong. But that's clearly what he meant."

             
"You have indeed been busy, Barnett," Moriarty said. "Anything else?"

             
"On some obscure impulse, I went to the graveyard where the daughter is buried. I think the idea at the back of my mind was to see if I could get an address for the professor from the sexton—that's what the fellow who keeps the graves is called, isn't it?"

             
"Usually," Moriarty agreed. "It's also the name of a beetle of the genus
Necrophorus.
Go on."

             
"Yes, well, I was assuming that Professor Chardino might visit his daughter's grave occasionally."

             
"And leave his card?"

             
Barnett shrugged. "He might leave something. Perhaps flowers, which could then be traced back to the florist by someone with the deductive genius of a Professor James Moriarty."

             
"Did he?"

             
"As it happens, he did. Unfortunately, by the evidence of the sexton, who, come to think of it, did look a little like a beetle, they were always purchased from a florist right down the street. A little outdoor stand."

             
"Pity," Moriarty said. "And no card with the sexton?"

             
"No," Barnett said. "But"—he waved his hand at the olive envelope—"he did leave something else!"

             
Moriarty reached for the envelope and tore it open. "Well," he said, sliding the contents onto the one clear spot on the desk. "What's this?" He picked up the two small objects that had been in the envelope and examined them closely, comparing one with the other. "Identical medallions, except for such differences as one would expect from wear and handling, and for a tiny hole drilled at the top of one. Presumably for the link of a gold chain, as the medallions themselves would seem to be gold."

             
"That's it, Professor," Barnett said, smiling. "I think those are what you've been looking for."

             
"What Holmes had been looking for," Moriarty said. "I have no doubt. Exactly where did you find them?"

             
"At the gravesite, buried in the dirt."

             
"Ah. And what prompted you to look in the dirt?"

             
"The sexton. He told me that Chardino used to sit by the grave for long periods of time, talking to his daughter. And he thought that Chardino occasionally left things there besides the flowers. 'Trinkets,' he called them. So I looked, and I found two."

             
"You did indeed. Curious things, these." Moriarty hefted the two medallions in his hand. "They tell the whole story—and a horrible story it is."

             
"What do you mean?"

             
"This sigil has an interesting history," Moriarty said. "Oh, not these particular baubles, of course; but the design, the pattern, the notion behind it. It explains all to one who understands such things."

             
"And you do?"

             
"Indeed," Moriarty said. "As you know, I have always been interested in the obscure, the bizarre, the esoteric—the darker recesses of the human mind. I have seen you, on occasion, perusing my collection of books on these subjects."

             
"What has this to do with that?" Barnett asked.

             
"I will explain," Moriarty said. "Let us examine these medallions. On the obverse: a satanic figure, legs wide, arms akimbo, staring out at the observer. Around the figure, evenly spaced, the letters
DCLXVI
On the reverse"—Moriarty flipped over the medallion—"a floral design twined about the tracery letters H
C
.
Do you agree?"

             
Barnett, who had picked up the other medallion, examined it closely and nodded. "That's what it looks like to me," he said.

             
"Let us take it from front to back," said Moriarty, holding his medallion up to the light of the desk lamp and examining it through a small lens. "The pleasant-looking figure glaring out at you is a chap named Azazel, leader of the Sleepless Ones."

             
"The Sleepless Ones?"

             
"That's right. The symbolism is very interesting. The story is in Genesis, in an abbreviated form." Moriarty stretched his hand behind him for an old black leather-bound Bible, and opened it. "Here it is: Genesis Six: 'And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.

             
" 'And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.

             
" 'There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

             
" 'And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that the whole imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.' "

             
Moriarty closed the book. "Right after that God asks Noah to build himself an ark."

             
"I'm sorry, Professor, but I don't follow any of that," Barnett said. "I never really paid much attention in Sunday school."

             
"Let me expand on it for you," Moriarty said. "And I assure you, that they did not teach you this in Sunday school. The old myths sometimes tell us a surprising amount about the human
unconscious. The 'sons of God' were angels; specifically in this tale a group of angels known as the Sleepless Ones, whose particular job it was to watch over men."

             
"Headed by this fellow," Barnett said, tapping the medallion. "Azazel."

             
"Correct. Now, these Sleepless Ones observed the 'daughters of men,' and they liked what they saw. They lusted after these beautiful human women, and so eventually they came down and married them."

             
"Naturally."

             
"Angels, I would imagine, can be very persuasive. But since they were angels, their children were not human children, but the Nephilim, or giants. And these giants were unruly children. Wait a second." Moriarty went over to a bookcase and ran his fingers along the spines of the books. "Here's the one. The whole story is in the Book of Enoch. A different, and longer, version of the story from that in Genesis. 'And it came to pass when the children of men had multiplied that in those days were born unto them beautiful and comely daughters. And the angels, the children of heaven, saw and lusted after them, and said to one another: Come, let us choose wives from among the children of men and beget us children.' "

             
Moriarty ran his finger down the page. "Here's more; now we get to the giants: 'And when men could no longer sustain them, the giants turned against them and devoured mankind, and they began to sin against birds and beasts and reptiles and fish, and to devour one another's flesh and to drink the blood.' " Moriarty closed the book. "This, according to one legend, was the origin of evil on the earth."

             
Barnett thought this over. "That's interesting," he said, "even fascinating, but what relevance does an ancient legend have on what is happening today?"

             
"Think of it this way, Barnett. What sort of people would chose to use Azazel, the progenitor of evil, as their symbol? What do they say about themselves? They are either fools, or knaves, or—
they
are evil!"

             
"Evil." Barnett stared down at the medallion he held. "It is a term that doesn't seem to have direct relevance anymore, not to this day and age; but you make it seem to come alive."

             
"They
make it come alive, not I. Any man who does not believe in the existence of evil—pure, deliberate, virgin evil—or who believes it to be a thing of the past is not truly aware of the world in which he lives. But the evil, my friend, is within us. We need no Azazel to bring it to life."

             
"What of these letters around the rim of the medallion?" Barnett asked.

             
"There is, indeed, the other half of the story," Moriarty said. "Think of the letters as Roman numbers:
DCLXVI.
Six hundred and sixty-six."

             
Barnett looked blank. "So?"

             
"The answer to that is, once again, in the Bible—this time in the Book of Revelation." Moriarty flipped through the last few pages of his Bible. "Here it is—Chapter Thirteen:

             
" 'And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.'

             
"And then, at the end of the chapter, after describing how evil the beast is: 'Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast:—for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six.' "

             
"What does it mean?" Barnett asked.

             
"Nobody is sure," Moriarty said. "The Book of Revelation is by far the most obscure book of the Bible. The most usual belief is that it somehow represents the anti-Christ through some cabalistic numbering code."

             
Barnett leaned back and stared at his medallion, considering the sort of people who would favor this particular symbolism on their watch fobs. He found that he was weary from his day's exertions but still eager to go on. "What's on the back?" he asked.

             
Moriarty flipped over the medallion he was holding. "The flowers traced around the letters are
Veratrum,
commonly called hellebore. In ancient times it was believed to cure madness, and the soothsayer and physician Melampus is supposed to have used it to cure the mad daughters of Praetus, King of Argos."

             
"You seem to know an awful lot about these medallions, Professor," Barnett said. "I am aware that you have a most impressive store of esoteric knowledge. Many's the time you've told me that there is no bit of information that is not worth knowing. But this approaches prescience. Have you ever seen one of these trinkets before?"

             
"You suspect me of clairvoyance?" Moriarty asked. "No, I've never seen one exactly like these, but I've been expecting to run across something similar at any time over the past fifteen years. It seemed to me inevitable that someday I'd be staring at a sigil very much like this."

             
"It's new to me," Barnett commented. "I assume it has some specific meaning to you. What does it signify?"