The Return of Moriarty (6 page)

Yet Moran was pleased to observe that the more hedonist pastimes were also well catered for in the Haymarket and its adjacent alleys and streets. Those of Sally Hodges' girls who were allowed to hunt in the West End were doubtless there among the others. The individual beats of this area were not so strictly controlled as those down in the City, toward the East, so dollymops mingled easily with their harder sisters in the family of love, all of them watched by the hawk-eyes of the cash carriers and the occasional rampsman.
^*

Moran indulged himself in the thought that when his work was done, he might well repair to one of the better night houses, perhaps Sal Hodges' best house off St. James, where he knew there was a pair of French girls, newly brought from Paris, who were particularly expert in the gamaruche. The thought was pleasing to the old soldier and hunter, whose quarry that night was very big game, the smell of which brought a thrill to his stomach and the inevitable tingle to the loins.

Moran was dressed in white tie because it was
de rigueur
in the dining rooms of the Anglo-Indian Club, and the evening found his appetite demanding the spices of Indian cooking.

He lingered in the club for some two hours, dining on a rich
Murghi Doh-Peeazah
—the aromatic chicken carbonnade; with
Phali Dum
—beans, onions and ginger served very hot;
Alu Turracarri
—the simple potato curry, much beloved of Englishmen who had served in India; a turnip dish known as
Korma Shalgam
; fried cucumbers—
Kheera Talawa
; and the hot
Mattar Paneer
—a curry of peas with Indian cheese. There were also urd lentils, lime, tomato and onion pickles, mango chutney, an onion
raita,
and crisp poppadoms together with thick, whole-wheat-flour
roti.

The meal in itself gave the colonel fresh confidence, for it could not fail to remind him of those days he had spent, a younger man then, with the Indian Army, and the pleasures he experienced—delights, it must be said, that were laced with violent, even sadistic, overtones—in what was, to him, an enchanted country.

When he left the club, Moran was beginning to feel a tense sensation, a tightening of the muscles at the back of his neck, a prelude to the action he was about to take. Once more he hailed a hansom, this time ordering the cabbie to put him down at the crossing between George Street and Baker Street.

As he paid off the cab, Moran's heart was pounding. He knew that if luck was with him, he would, for the second time in a matter of weeks, be able to commit a perfect crime. At this moment a large force of detectives from Scotland Yard was attempting to unravel the seemingly impossible murder of the young Honorable Ronald Adair. Now Holmes was back in London, the one man whom Moran knew had the mental agility not only to understand how Adair could be shot dead by a revolver bullet in a locked room, but also penetrate the identity of his killer.

Moran walked slowly along Baker Street, his head down against the wind, moving toward the point where Blandford Street sliced through at a right angle. He could feel the bulky objects in his pockets and, as he came closer to the area that was his goal, his gnarled hand took a tighter grip on the heavy cane he carried. He was aware of one of Parker's barkers loitering at the Blandford Street end and, as he came almost directly opposite number 221B, where Holmes had his chambers, Moran's heart almost skipped a beat.

As he looked up at the windows that undoubtedly belonged to 221B Baker Street, he could see, outlined against the luminous window blind, the sharp, black shape of a man's head and shoulders. As Moran glanced upward, the head moved, as though in a gesture of negation in mid-conversation. Moran knew the shape of the head and squareness of the shoulders as well as he knew his own palms. The figure behind the blind was, without question, Sherlock Holmes himself.

Moran continued to move, more slowly now, casting a glance back up the street. There were two more of Parker's men, huddled, as though sheltering in a doorway; apart from them, few people were now abroad. Moran smiled grimly to himself and plunged forward, turning right at the corner, into Blandford Street, then right again down a narrow passage, through a wooden gate and into a bare yard, the back door of a house, its windows dark and silent, facing him.

Moran, slipped a key from his pocket and swiftly had the door open. He closed it softly behind him and, using all the cunning of the great hunter he had once been, stood silently in the dark passageway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blackness. In a matter of minutes he could see almost as well as in the street and, once more with stealth, he made his way toward the stairs, creeping steadily on the balls of his feet, making little noise during his progress.

Moran knew which room he wanted on the first landing. He moved almost noiselessly into it, a front room overlooking Baker Street. Once inside his mind was filled with one thought, his eyes penetrating the darkness, moving to the window and peering out toward the casement across the street, where the silhouette of Holmes' head was still outlined. Slowly Moran inched up the window and knelt behind it. Through the opening he had a perfect view, and, as he concentrated, the colonel began to remove the items from the pockets of his overcoat.

As he worked, screwing the skeletal rifle butt onto the heavy metal cane, which was in reality the barrel and mechanism of a special high-powered air gun, made specifically for Moriarty in Germany, the pictures moved clearly, in Moran's mind—pictures of the last time he had used the weapon. He saw young Adair confronting him in the private room at the Bagatelle Card Club.

“Colonel,” the young prig had said, “I would rather not believe it, but now I have proof.” He held out the piece of cork fitted with the “shiner,” which had fallen from Moran's pipe. “I may be young and inexperienced in some of the ways of the world, but I know what this is. In Australia we have firsthand knowledge of this kind of thing. I know a “shiner” when I see one. You are a cheat, sir, and, as I have been playing with you, and winning with you, I am implicated.”

Moran had stayed silent, it was better to let the young fool get it out of his system.

“I can only presume, sir,” Adair had continued, “that some pressing and personal difficulty has forced you into this distressing, ungentlemanly and dishonorable act. I will not precipitate matters. You may rest easy on that score, but I cannot stay silent forever. There is, as I see it, only one course of action open to you. You must remove yourself from the temptation of resorting to this behavior again, by which I mean you will have to resign from all your clubs. A week should be more than ample time for that. I would ask you, therefore, to give me evidence of your various resignations within the week. If you have not done so in that time, then I will be forced to go at least to the secretary of this club and present him with the evidence, no matter what scandal it may bring upon me.”

Moran knew the puppy was fool enough to do it. Two days later he set out for Adair's temporary home at 427 Park Lane, equipped as he was now, with the air gun and the box of soft-nosed bullets that were the weapon's deadly projectiles. While there was murder in his heart and mind, he had, on that occasion, no firm plan, as he had now. It was only when he arrived opposite the Park Lane house and saw that young Adair's window was open and the man actually in his room, visible from the street, that Moran quickly made his plan, slipped into the shadow of a convenient doorway, put the weapon together, pumped in the air, loaded it with one bullet, stepped into the street again, took fast and careful aim and noiselessly fired the fatal shot.

This business, now, was of a different mettle: calculated, cold and performed with unswerving malice. The weapon was ready, locked together, the small hand pump providing the necessary pressure of 500 pounds per square inch, and the soft bullet loaded into the breach. Moran still did not take his eyes from the quarry in the room across the street, conscious that this was possibly the most important shot of his entire life.

The black outline of Moran's target against the yellow blind was aligned with the foresight and the V of the back-sight, the skeletal butt firm against his shoulder, the chill of its cold metal against the colonel's cheek.

Slowly his hand tightened as his finger squeezed the trigger. With no kick or jerk, only a slight popping sound, the air gun fired. Moran was conscious of the tinkle of glass as the bullet penetrated the window across the street.

Then all hell and chaos broke out in the dark room.
^*

Moriarty's face was gray. He had not taken the news of Moran's arrest well. Initially there was a reaction of rage which was quickly followed by a cold, hard, silent anger which could be felt by anyone who approached him. The lamps still burned in the main room of his chambers, though by now it was almost three in the morning. Spear had wakened Mrs. Wright—for it was Mrs. Kate Wright and her husband Bartholomew who ran the bar in the “waiting room” and also attended to the Professor's personal needs: his laundry, food, and the cleaning of his chambers. Kate Wright, knowing Moriarty's likes and dislikes, had prepared a glass of mulled claret, fussing about the room, hooking the mulling pan onto the grate before the fire to heat, finishing it off with the traditional warm poker and adding the cinnamon, ginger, lemon and lemon rind. Moriarty drank slowly, sipping it and staring into the fire, Spear and Lee Chow silently looking on, Ember having been sent out in an attempt to locate Paget, who had not yet returned from his commissions regarding Alton at Coldbath Fields, and the sinister Michael the Peg.

“Where's Paget got to?” Moriarty suddenly exclaimed.

“Could take all night, Professor, if he's on the lay for the Peg. Got to go easy with a man like the Peg.”

“I'm not going easy with any cheap gonoph, nor anyone else. I just hope Paget isn't wasting his time in some lushery or doing a mattress jig with one of Sal's tails.”

“Come on, Plofessor. Paget no faggot master or Rushington.”

It was the first time Lee Chow had spoken. Moriarty allowed himself a half-chuckle at the Chinaman's short-tongued speech defect.

“Rushington, Lee Chow? Paget no Rushington? My Lord Lushington would like to hear you say that.”

“True though, guv'nor,” grinned Spear, glad that the Chinese had at least goaded a tip of humor from his master. “Paget'll have to work the lushing-kens for intelligence of the Peg and Peter. No other way, but I don't see him doing no mattress jigs. He's got a steady lackin of his own now.”

“Oh?” Moriarty's eyebrows raised. “I wasn't told of that. So, Paget's become a family man in all senses of the name?” The Professor looked hard at Spear, realizing, for the first time, that the facial mutilation intersecting the right corner of the man's mouth gave him a permanently surprised expression.

“Well, not as how they're spliced or anything. But he has this Judy. She's here in his quarters.”

“Is she now?” The Professor had once more become cold. “Moran bothers me, Spear. He was supposed to keep me informed, and when I get to the bones of it, he has done little more than give me a half-finished picture. There's never been any detail, and now they have him in the lockup. I wonder how much he'll blow on us to escape being popped into the saltbox?”

“They've got the colonel square by all accounts. All the blowing in the world's not going to get him off the apple tree.”

“But he can still blow, Spear. Blow on a large number of matters. I think there is no—”

The sound of boots hurrying up the stairs cut short the Professor's sentence. A second later, Paget, followed closely by Ember, was in the room.

“Ember's just told me.” Paget breathed heavily. “Is it true?”

“As the dawn. You've taken time, Paget.”

“I saw Alton first, at his drum in Clerkenwell. He's willing, but it will not come light on your purse.”

“Our purse, Paget.” Moriarty rose, stretching himself before the fire. “This is a family matter, and I am determined to have the Jacobs boys out of the 'Steel as soon as I can.”

“Then it can be done. He'll meet you at any time, and you to name the place.”

“And what of the Peg and Peter?”

“Whitechapel.”

“Both of them?”

“Both. And more besides. They been laying out of a drum off the Commercial Road. Owns the place and four or five netherskens besides, and his bullies're carrying the cash for a couple o' dozen tails. I saw Blind Fred up the Lamb and Teazle, said he'd complained to the colonel several times over the last three months. The colonel said as how he'd do something about it, but he never did. There's some of our people been done over, and I know for sure the Peg's takin' a share of cash out of a couple of flash-houses and another dozen netherskens that he don't own. That man's a real trasseno, Professor, not a don like you.”
^*

Moriarty ignored the intended compliment.

“How many're with him?”

“Hard to tell, but it seems he's got a lot of rampsmen in the area: bullyboys, dippers, cracksmen. A lot of rackets going.”

Moriarty's face was set in a hard mask. All four members of the “Praetorian Guard” knew the look and sensed the charged atmosphere. When Moriarty was like this, it was time to look to oneself, to beware, to watch your tongue and manner. Moriarty was as dangerous as a poisonous reptile when this mood was upon him; in fact the odd oscillation of his head appeared to become more pronounced.

“That's our beat and has been for years,” was all he said.

The other men nodded in agreement.

“What about the colonel, then, guv'nor?”

Paget's face betrayed his own anxiety.

“Yes.” Moriarty's voice was even more soft than usual. “Indeed, yes, what about the colonel, Paget? What in hell has the colonel been up to in my absence? It would seem that Colonel Moran has been playing the shirkster at everybody's expense.”