The Revenge of Moriarty (28 page)

The clerk agreed that it certainly was, and had a page show Albert Spear and the Jacobs brothers up to the suite which Jarvis Morningdale occupied.

As he was preparing to go down for dinner, the manager of the Grosvenor Hotel suddenly recalled where he had seen the name Jarvis Morningdale. He hurried to his office, unlocked his desk and began to flip through the correspondence files. A few minutes later he had the letter in his hand. It was an official piece of paper with the crest of the Metropolitan Police at the top, and the printed letterhead of the Police Offices at New Scotland Yard.

This letter
, he read,
is going to all good hotels in the metropolis. It is not concerned with a specific crime, nor even a specific criminal. We are, however, most anxious to speak with an American gentleman, a Mr Jarvis Morningdale. If, therefore, Mr Morningdale reserves accommodation at your hotel, or presents himself with the object of being a guest, we ask that you quickly contact Inspector Angus McCready Crow of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard personally. In doing this you may well save Mr Morningdale and yourselves a great deal of trouble
. The letter was signed by Inspector Crow himself, was dated early in February, and how the manager had come to let it slip his mind he would never know. He immediately telephoned the Police Offices, only to be told that Inspector Crow had already left and would not be back until the morning. The manager presumed that it would be all right if he left it until then, though he half suspected that he should have asked for the Inspector's private address. It would have been to no avail, however, if he had done so. Sylvia Crow was on her own at King Street on that particular evening. Her husband, she was certain, was on duty until quite late and it was Harriet's evening off.

The Grosvenor Hotel abutted directly onto the side of Victoria Station with its main entrance in busy Victoria Street which abounded with traffic, from cabs and drays to the many green or yellow omnibuses which plied constantly to and from the station from morn till midnight.

As an hotel, the Grosvenor was probably the most extensive of those managed in association with the railway companies, and, as such, took pride in its standard of service and cuisine.

On the night of 8 March 1897, the Grosvenor was watched almost from every angle. Well-dressed lurkers of both sexes took turns in patrolling the Buckingham Palace Road, over which the largest part of the hotel looked, while a small group of men in disguises, running from beggar to railway porter and traveller, guarded the hotel entrance and the various approaches to it from the railway station. Moriarty had chosen the venue on the assumption that Grisombre would wish to hand over the painting as soon as possible after landing in England, and Victoria Station was the main terminus for the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. Grisombre had but to step off the train and proceed straight to the hotel in order to unload the treasure, in return for the vast fortune offered by Jarvis Morningdale.

Moriarty was also shrewd in suggesting that he would be available at the hotel from eight o'clock on each of the prescribed evenings, for one of the coast trains connecting with the Cross-Channel packet arrived each night at Victoria a little before eight.

The Professor also considered that Grisombre, hungry for the reward, would leave little time before his arrival. In fact he expected him on the first night. He was correct in that assumption, and when the Dover train drew in, it was one of the lurkers, wearing the uniform of a porter, who first approached Grisombre and his pair of bodyguards, placing their four portmanteaux onto his trolley and responding, with a pulling of his forelock, to the instructions to take them to the Grosvenor Hotel. None of the Frenchmen even noticed their porter nod briefly to a pair of boys idly watching the train come in, nor did they see one of the boys speed off up the platform and wave a signal to a group of three men and another boy – this time in the uniform of the Post Office – lounging at the end of the platform. A few seconds later, this same uniformed boy was handing in a yellow telegraph envelope at the reception desk of the Grosvenor. The telegraph was passed on to a page who took it speedily to the third floor, where Jarvis Morningdale's suite was located.

The envelope was in Moriarty's hands before the trio from France had even arrived at the desk of the foyer.

‘He's here already, then.' The Professor held the envelope aloft so that it could be seen by all – Harry Allen, Spear and the Jacobs brothers. They were gathered together in the drawing-room, one door of which led directly to the corridor, two others to the bedrooms occupied, respectively, by Allen and Moriarty. ‘They will be a while yet, but it is best to be prepared. Harry, bring the lady out.'

Harry Allen went straight to the Professor's room where the true Mona Lisa lay on the bed, covered by a black cloth. Also on the bed, laid out as if ready for some party, were the clothes which Moriarty used when donning the disguise of his late academic brother – the striped trousers, white shirt and collar, the long black coat, and the harness. On the floor stood the boots with built-up soles, while the remainder of the disguise – the cosmetics and that extraordinary bald pate wig – were on the dressing-table.

There were other things on the dressing-table. The Professor's favourite weapon, the Borchardt automatic pistol which Schleifstein had given him three years before, when they had all met in London to make the alliance. Beside the pistol stood a bottle of Winsor & Newton's turpentine, a flat-bladed palette-knife, and a dry rag.

Harry Allen took the painting, cradling it in his hands, hardly allowing his fingers to touch the work, and carried it through to the drawing-room where Moriarty himself assisted in setting it up on the easel nearest his bedroom door. Allen then went to fetch the black cloth which they draped over the Leonardo, assuring that it hung down well at the back in order that no chance touch would dislodge it.

‘They will, doubtless, be washing and settling themselves in their rooms,' Moriarty addressed the assembled quartet. ‘I'll not be caught napping, though. To your places. We'll wait it out ready for them.'

The four men gave their assent, Bertram Jacobs and Albert Spear going off into Harry Allen's bedroom while William Jacobs, with a sly smirk, left the room through the main door.

Outside, he paused, listening for the sound of any rustle or tread on the thick carpeting. Some fifteen yards up the long corridor there was a broom cupboard. William Jacobs headed straight for this hiding hole, slipped inside and pulled the door almost close upon him.

They had some forty minutes to wait before Grisombre and his pair of rampsmen came up to the third floor, one of the thugs carrying a flat brief bag. They had enquired in the foyer for Mr Morningdale and, on hearing the French accents, the clerk had informed them that they were expected. After going through the necessary formalities of booking in, Grisombre had ordained that they should get rid of the painting as quickly as possible. He had no wish to stay in London longer than could be helped and, though they had rooms in the Grosvenor, it was his avowed intention to catch the night train to Dover, and so be in Paris again, a richer man, by the morning.

Harry Allen answered the tap on the door and Morningdale rose to meet his guests.

‘Come in, gentlemen, I had a feeling that you would not keep me loitering.'

The door was closed behind the visitors, hands were clasped, glasses of brandy handed around, smiles everywhere. Outside in the corridor William Jacobs came out of the broom cupboard and took up his station in front of the door to Morningdale's suite.

‘So you have it,' Morningdale's gaze seemed not to shift from the brief bag clutched tightly in the French bodyguard's paw.

‘I have it,' Grisombre made a small gesture towards the bag. ‘There is no hue and cry, it can be yours, Monsieur Morningdale, if you have the money.'

Morningdale gave an impatient click of the tongue. ‘The money, the money, that is no problem. It is here, of course. But let me see it. Let me look at what you have brought.'

Grisombre hesitated. ‘Monsieur, this transaction has been performed on trust, I …'

‘Trust backed up with five thousand pounds. You can hardly call that mere trust. The picture.'

His snap, he knew, came perilously close to the normal voice and manner of his real self. But it passed unnoticed. After another slight hesitation, Grisombre nodded to the man with the bag which was now set down on the floor, the key produced and the painting, wrapped in velvet, drawn out. Harry Allen came forward to take the piece of wood, ready to set it on the vacant easel near his own bedroom door.

‘Hold.' Morningdale stepped into the circle before the painting was even unswaddled. ‘I'll look at the back before you set it up. I'm not an expert for nothing, Monsier Grisombre. There are certain identifying marks.'

Grisombre's face went dark, anger brewing like thunder on his brow. ‘You are suggesting that I would cross you?'

‘Shush-shush,' Morningdale made placating motions. ‘There is no need to become waxy with me, Grisombre. A simple precaution. There are marks on the right hand side of the panel; and other things: specific cracks, certain smudges on the back of the right hand; abrasions around the mouth; marks on the index finger of the right hand, and, of course, that network of cracks across the entire picture. It sounds like a medical report, yes? There, you see, on the back of the right hand of the panel.' The painting was now unwrapped and the marks plain to see. ‘Just place it on the easel, Harry.'

Harry Allen took the wooden panel from the bodyguard and began to place it on the easel. As though noticing it for the first time, Grisombre gestured towards the other easel.

‘And what is that?'

‘A mere daub,' Morningdale raised his eyebrows. ‘A dealer is trying to pass it off as an unknown Rembrandt. I will show you later. Ah,' he stood back to admire the
Mona Lisa
now in place. ‘Is she not beautiful? The mystery. The knowing yet unknowing. The timelessness. A tangible link with true genius.'

It was, without doubt, the copy which Labrosse had done for him, and Moriarty wondered what the Leftly reproduction was like. He hoped that it was of a similar standard. Inwardly he smiled, for whatever it was like, the Louvre would never allow it to be known that it was not the original – even if they discovered it. He went close to the painting, as though examining it in minute detail.

‘Who did the copy?' he asked, almost as though he spoke to himself.

‘As you suggested. Reginald Leftly.' Grisombre was at his elbow.

‘It is good?'

‘They are like peas in a pod.'

‘And Leftly will not carouse and spill out the truth in some garden shop or gin house?'

‘Mr Leftly,' said Grisombre softly, ‘will remain silent as the grave.'

Morningdale nodded. ‘Why should you share your commission, eh?'

‘What about the money?'

‘In a moment. How was the … er … the exchange effected?'

‘As I told you, it was easy. By some mischance there was a small accident to one of the windows. A glazier had to go and put it right – in the Salon Carré. After the museum was closed. The man worked there.'

‘I see.'

‘Very sad, as it turned out, Monsieur Morningdale, very sad. The next day he was killed. An accident on his way to work. A runaway horse. Very sad. Now, what about the money?'

‘You have done an excellent job,' Morningdale looked him straight in the eyes. This proposition had cost three lives. ‘Excellent. Yes, it is time for you to be repaid, Monsieur Grisombre. If you gentlemen will just wait for a few moments. My secretary will provide you with another glass. Sit down, my friends.' He turned and walked slowly into his bedroom.

It took a few seconds over six minutes. When he returned it was as Professor James Moriarty, the one-time Mathematician, author of the
Treatise on the Binomial Theorem
and
The Dynamics of an Asteroid
. The three Frenchmen were ranged easily on the couch between the pair of easels and Harry Allen stood by Moriarty's door. As the Professor entered, so Harry Allen's hand came out of his jacket holding a pistol. The door to the other bedroom opened, Spear and Bertram Jacobs coming fast into the room, the barrels of their revolvers pointing steadily at the French trio, while, at the same moment, the main door opened disclosing William Jacobs similarly armed.

Grisombre and his companions, moved slightly, their hands reaching for hidden weapons, then freezing in mid-air as the potential danger of the situation became apparent.

‘How nice to see you again, Jean.' Moriarty's voice was almost a whisper, his head performing the familiar reptilian oscillation. ‘Mr Jarvis Morningdale sends his compliments, but he is unable to help you any further.'

Grisombre appeared to have lost his voice. The pair of bodyguards glowered, and Bert Spear stepped forward to relieve them of the weapons they carried.

‘I really have to congratulate you, Monsieur Grisombre,' Moriarty spoke in his Jarvis Morningdale accent. ‘It is time for you to be repaid.'

‘I knew there was something. I knew that I had seen you before.' Grisombre's croak came from the back of his throat. ‘That first night in
La Maison Vide.'

‘What a pity you did not identify me then, Jean. But, calm yourself, my friend. I am not a vindictive man. I know your value to my grand strategy. You remember that? Our united plan for Europe? The alliance with me at its head. No harm will come to you. I merely wished to show you who is superior.'

Grisombre made a disgusted noise. ‘I stole
La Joconde
for you, did I not? Without a hint to the authorities.'

Moriarty gave a heavy mock sigh. ‘I am afraid that is where you are wrong, my friend. It is on that point alone that I rest my case. Harry,' his head inclined towards the bedroom door.