The Return of Moriarty (28 page)

They pulled Spear backward, dragging his heels across the boards. He tried to struggle, but there was no escape. They held him down and passed ropes about his body. Butler had his coat off and was rolling back his sleeves.

“Right, Mr. Spear. What were you up to? What the plot? What the progress?” Butler turned to Bovey. “Go down and get Bridget to heat some water—boiling water. But don't tell her what it's for—you know women when they've had their fur tickled. And bring the pincers.”

Spear, confused as he was, held fast to the fact that even with the Professor gone, Paget and the rest would still carry out the plan to blot Green and Butler from London.

 

*
  The interview between Moriarty and Holmes is well documented by Dr. Watson in
The Final Problem.
And from the events so far related, a new perspective is now added to Moriarty's speech to Holmes, in which he says: “You crossed my path on the fourth of January. On the twenty-third you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; by the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position by your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible one.”

*
  Watson ably recounts in
The Final Problem
how Holmes, outthinking the Professor, left the train at Canterbury, watched Moriarty's “special” steam past, and then made a cross-country journey to Newhaven, from thence to Dieppe and onward, bypassing Paris, where Moriarty doubtless lost at least two days.

Monday, April 9, 1894, 9:00
P.M.
onward

(THE NIGHT OF THE PUNISHERS)

M
ORIARTY'S ARM WAS
in a sling. Apart from that his appearance and demeanor had not altered. They had all been gathered together since late afternoon, bullies and hard men alike, generating almost a holiday atmosphere, for they were to be about the work which they enjoyed most.

They were fed in shifts, with Mrs. Wright, Fanny, and Mary McNiel bringing out batches of hot pies, baked potatoes and jugs of ale into the “waiting room.” There was a lot of rough laughter and coarse humor:

“What's for dinner then?”

“There's four turds for dinner.”

“Aye, stir turd, hold turd, treat turd and must turd.”

Then, under Paget's supervision, they got down to the serious work of arming up. Revolvers and somewhat ancient pistols were taken from the cache in the store next to Paget's chamber. Knives, life preservers and holy-water sprinklers—the short bludgeon laced with sharp nails—razors and brass dusters.

Only when all was ready did Moriarty begin to divide the men into squads, each with a leader—a process that caused the rank and file to spill out of the “waiting room” and into the warehouse itself.

The Professor, standing on a box, then addressed the evillooking army.

“It's bloody work I'm after tonight, lads,” he began. “And why not? The bastards have tried to blood me today. Michael the Peg and Peter the Butler are the first men in this city to have opened me, and if you want the likes of them as your dons, then you know what to do.” There was a murmur of protest, and cries of “No!” and “You're our man, Professor.”

Moriarty smiled with his whole face. “Well, if I'm your man, you're my men.”

A ragged cheering, at which the Professor put up a quieting hand.

“Never underestimate your enemy though, boys. Three years ago I would not have given you a brace of new-minted farthings for Michael Green and Peter Butler, even with their ways and ambitions. But make no doubt of it, they have gained much ground and they obviously think they're a match for us. They ring our manors and yesterday they took Spear. Today they tried for me. So now, from all hell, I want them smashed come Lombard Street to a China orange, or I'll wear the devil's claws myself.”

This time the cheering was unanimous.

Moriarty then began the careful work of apportioning the night's business. It took more than an hour, because there was some argument about the quickest way to descend on certain of the houses and taverns and a little bickering regarding who would use the vans and wagons that had been provided by Parker.

From six o'clock onward there had been a steady stream of lads, Parker's runners, bringing in the latest intelligence on the movements of Green's and Butler's people. The two leaders of the rival gang were still at the flash-house in Nelson Street, which was Paget's target. And, as he loaded his old five-shot revolver, the Professor's most trusted man thought briefly of Spear, wondering what they would find when they burst into the Peg's hideout.

They were due to leave, by groups, starting from half-past seven, and before he went, Paget sought out Fanny for a short and snatched moment.

She looked concerned, having covered it all night by hard work, assisting with the cooking and feeding. Now the lines of anxiety rode in a small spray of barbs between her fine eyebrows.

“There's going to be blood let tonight, Pip, isn't there? A lot of blood.”

“Some.” He nodded, sounding as diffident as he could.

“Oh, Pip, take care, my love.” Her hands pressed hard around his arms.

Paget drew back, opening his coat to show her the butt of his revolver.

“Anyone getting in my way, I'll see his innards first.”

Fanny's frown increased. “Watch for yourself.”

“Shall you be all right, Fan?”

She inclined her head.

“You've kept busy enough today, girl, what with all the kitchen bustle.”

“It was pleasant.”

“You get on with the Professor's pusher?”

“Mary?”

“Mary McNiel, who's giving her Mary Jane to the Professor.”

Fanny Jones gave a little giggle. “She's all right, a bit of a know life. But that isn't surprising, the questions she asks.”

“A listener?”

“Doesn't miss much.”

Paget thought for a second or two. “Watch yourself, Fan. We've got Moriarty's protection, but Sal Hodges' girls know more tricks than you've ever thought about. Don't tell her much.”

She reached up and kissed him, softly, on both sides of the mouth, her arms about his neck as though to hold him close, and away from what was to come. Paget looked at her, thinking he had the finest bargain a family man could ever want. Then he kissed her full on the mouth, held her tight for a moment, and was gone.

The Collins family was large: father, mother, one grandfather, two grandmothers, six children—ranging from eighteen to eleven—eight uncles, nine aunts, three of whom were true blood relatives, and some twelve cousins.

They lived in a sprawling old house that had once been part of the great St. Giles rookery, which was still in the process of being dismantled. The Collins' house was far from unique, but it remained a warren of its own; passages, stairs and room upon room interconnected with cupboards and traps—like some burrowed lair.

This leaning and crumbling complexity was ideal for the den in which Edward Collins—the family head, a scrawny, thin scarecrow—mustered his relatives in the forger's arts. There was space, both for living and working, and, essential for safety, the place could only be approached from one direction—along an alley leading off Devonshire Street. In the alley, day and night, one of the Collins lads or a trustworthy hireling lurked as a crow to warn off strangers. Edward Collins also kept four dogs—big brutes, kept low on food—chained near the door.

Ember, leading twelve heavy mobsmen, had the Collins family as their first goal, and they took the crow—a boy of some twelve or thirteen years—in a rush before he could even spot them in the dark or raise the alarm.

One of the bullies thumped the crow unconscious while another had him quickly tied with St. Mary's knot. The dogs were another matter. Roused by the scuffling, they set up a clamor of barking, straining at their chains. But almost before the young crow was down, Ember had led the others to the door. The lock was shattered by a pistol bullet—as were the two nearest dogs—and the force was inside, rampaging through the rooms, smashing and destroying molds and presses, spilling out the molten metal and throwing the working men to the ground.

Ember had only to make an example of three—Edward, his brother William, and Howard, a cousin—for they were the three most cunning fakers in the whole pack. The foxy little man gave the orders quickly so that there was no time for pause or sentiment because of the cries of women. Edward, William and Howard Collins were held down and had their hands and fingers well broken by the two heaviest punishers in the group.

Ember then led his people away, pausing only to shout back at the wailing, cowering bunch, “The Professor sends his compliments and will find work for all loyal and true family men.”

Then they were gone and the time was only half-past nine. Half an hour earlier, a gang of some fifteen ruffians, led by the burly Terremant, began their rampage through Lambeth and toward the docks where the Peg's street women had their beats. The women they treated mildly, Terremant's men thrashing those they caught with short leather straps; the cash carriers, both in the streets or drinking in their three usual dens in the area between Lambeth Palace and Waterloo Bridge, were given stronger terms. Two lay dead before it was over, the rest were cut about like carpetbags or at least knocked insensible. Terremant then carried the thrust onward, turning his band toward the West End fringes of Charing Cross to seek out the rips, dippers, magsmen, rampsmen and macers whom they knew to be in Green's and Butler's employ.

Those they found were beaten or cut—one, a leading bully whom they suspected of being in high position with Green, was shot dead outside a public house off the Strand.

By this time the police were out in force, put on alert by the swift and sudden acts of violence that seemed to be sweeping large areas of the city, and two of Terremant's men were taken down by the river.

But in the meantime Lee Chow had overseen the destruction of the two brothels in Lupus Street, and the fashionable night house in Jermyn Street.

Lee Chow treated the whores much as Terremant's men had dealt with the soldiers' and sailors' women farther east. Only here there was more scandal and many a respectable tradesman and husband, even a few men of exceptional breeding, would not go near a knocking shop for a long while to come.

The interiors of the houses were ransacked—furniture broken, windows shattered, linen and clothing ripped to shreds. Three of the five girls who had absconded from Sal Hodges' house were taken in Lupus Street, quickly bundled outside (one wrapped only in a sheet), forced at gunpoint into a waiting van, and driven away for Sal to deal with as she saw fit.

The cash carriers and protectors, both in Lupus Street and Jermyn Street, were given short shrift. Within half an hour, following a running battle, two were dead, one dying, three maimed for life and the remainder seriously beaten.

Of Lee Chow's men, one died of a knife wound in Lupus Street, another was badly injured (at the same house), and one was taken by the police in the Haymarket.

John Togger, the fence who lived across the river in Bermondsey, among the reeking smells of the tanners and leather workers, was going through a haul of silver plate when his door splintered. At first he thought it was the police (whom he had so successfully evaded for many years). But the four men who came at him were not coppers. They beat him, cut him, left him senseless, then, ignoring the evil odors of the area, calmly loaded all his hidden and valuable goods and cash into the van that had brought them.

An hour later the same four men repeated the process with Israel Krebitz in Newington.

The half-dozen doss-houses up near Liverpool Street Station were easy meat, taking only a pair of men apiece. The housekeepers offered little resistance, and the inmates were too frightened by the fists, threats and oaths of the big, iron-muscled men, to offer any convincing argument.

They carried out Moriarty's orders with a system—lacerating the bedding, taking axes to the rough tables, chairs and beds, cracking the cooking pots and dishes, and, in many cases, the doss-keepers' heads.

Also about nine o'clock, The Nun's Head—together with a number of other taverns much frequented by the Green-Butler faction—suddenly appeared to acquire much new custom: aggressive men who started to brawl and argue within minutes of ordering their drinks. The arguments became more heated, and the brawls more violent; fists were thrown, then chairs and mugs, glasses and pots.

At The Nun's Head the most damage was done to regular customers, many of whom were known to the police. The main public rooms also sustained breakages and injuries that took a long time to repair.

The strength of Parker's lurkers around the house in Nelson Street was doubled during the early evening. They were all well hidden, some in disguise, all alert. At eight o'clock the first part of Moriarty's plan for that particular target was put into action. After eight, all persons arriving or leaving the house were quietly apprehended.

Every skill and artifice was used, so at about ten past the hour two muscular bruisers arriving at the front door found their attentions distracted by a young woman of trim and pleasant appearance. The girl seemed to materialize from the shadows before either of the callers could raise the knocker on the front door. She appeared to be distressed and in agitation regarding the whereabouts of some address in the neighborhood.

The two men, drawn much by the woman's pleasant demeanor, turned from the doorway and offered assistance, but as they stood in the thin, diffused light from the one bracketed streetlamp, they were taken from behind—hands clamped over their mouths, life preservers blotting consciousness. In a matter of seconds the would-be callers were dragged into the shadows and the young woman had melted away, leaving the street quiet again.