The Revenge of Moriarty (31 page)

‘It is all mere supposition, Crow,' barked the Commissioner. ‘You do not even make it rhyme. You are looking for a man called Morningdale because a former associate of Moriarty's is seen talking to him in Paris. He turns up at the Grosvenor. So do some fakesters posing as detectives; so, indeed, do three Frenchmen. The manager tries to find you and fails. You leave no message as to where you can be found. There is some kind of fracas at the hotel. Two of the so-called detectives chase one of the Frenchmen out of the hotel. Morningdale leaves – paying all the bills in a proper manner. The manager again tries to find you. An officer is even sent to your house, and your good lady wife does not know that you are off duty. When you finally arrive at the Grosvenor, the birds have flown. You offer no explanation as to what you imagine they were about, nor even evidence that the law has been flouted – except for a bit of horseplay involving public transport: a misdemeanour at the most. That kind of thing comes before the courts every day, or is dealt with by the constable on the spot. Or perhaps you are not conversant with the dangerous game of hare and hounds which the young rips play across the tops of omnibuses? Perhaps, Inspector Crow, a term of duty back in uniform, dealing with everyday problems, would make you more familiar with the difficulties of this force.'

It was a direct threat, and Crow knew it. What the Commissioner was saying, in effect, was do your job properly or you'll be back at some divisional police station up to your ears in paperwork and routine – with a generous loss in status to boot. A fate worse than death to the ambitious Crow.

Even with this knowledge, he could not pull himself out of the dreadful lethargy, loneliness and sleepless desire which now possessed him. Every waking thought turned on Harriet. Where was she? Why had she left? Had he caused some calamity? In the weeks that followed, Crow's work began to run downhill at an alarming rate. His mind could not seem to grasp at the most simple pieces of evidence; decisions became more and more difficult to make; he was vague in giving orders; on two occasions he followed wrong trails and once made an arrest so unjustified that the man had to be released with grovelling apologies from all involved. The most galling problem was that he had nobody in whom to confide. In the week before Easter it became apparent, even to Crow in his state of mind, that the axe would fall at any moment. The Commissioner would be upon him like the proverbial ton of bricks. Yet he still yearned for Harriet; mooned over her like a lovesick boy; pined for her; could not sleep for her.

In a final act of desperation, Crow sent a message to Holmes for an interview, under the private conditions which they had maintained since the spring of '94.

‘My dear fellow,' Holmes greeted him in good humour. ‘You look unwell, Crow. If I was not so set in keeping you and Watson apart, I'd get the good doctor to take a look at you. What's amiss, man? Are you off your feed or what?'

‘More than that, Mr Holmes,' replied the unhappy police officer. ‘I fear that I am in great trouble and have none but myself to blame for it.'

‘You have come to make a clean breast of it to me, then,' said Holmes, seating himself in his favourite chair and igniting his pipe. ‘An indiscretion, perhaps?'

Crow poured out his sorry tale, leaving nothing hidden, and even including the embarrassing details of his intrigue with the comely Harriet.

Holmes listened gravely, and when all was finished, he pulled hard on his pipe.

‘The story you have told me is as old as time, Crow. Women, I have found on the whole, come between man and his natural flow of clear thought. I have personally eschewed their company like the plague, though I understand the problems. Indeed, there was one woman who might just …' His voice trailed off as though his heart had momentarily taken control of the incisive brain. ‘If you can remain a bachelor, taking pleasure without becoming emotionally troubled, all well and good. It would seem that you managed to do this for a long while. Until Mrs Crow, eh?'

Crow nodded sadly.

‘As for your marriage, you are old enough to know that the art of a good marriage is not so much in the loving as in the controlling. There is an old Arabian proverb which says that the discontented woman asks for toasted snow. It strikes me that Mrs Crow, begging your pardon, is just such a woman. You have to decide. Do you provide the toasted snow for her, or do you remain master in your own home? You have done neither. You have sought refuge with a woman below your station – and one who has given you up on a whim.'

‘It is difficult with Sylvia,' Crow tried lamely.

‘I am quite disappointed in you, Inspector Crow, for you have committed one of the most deadly sins. You have allowed your emotions to affect your work, and that could be the end of you.'

‘I think the Commissioner will send for me any day.'

‘You must address yourself to your work and put the wretched Harriet from your mind.'

‘It is not that easy.'

‘Then to blazes with you, sir. It should be, What of our pact against Moriarty? Come, tell me more of this business with Morningdale and Grisombre – for I have no doubt that you are right in your deductions there. Morningdale equals Moriarty.'

Crow spoke for some five minutes concerning his theories on Professor Moriarty and the revenge he was seeking against those whom he imagined were his enemies.

‘You see,' said Holmes gleefully. ‘You are really quite capable of logical thought, even in the midst of your darkness. There has been no sign of the German since the business at Edmonton, and I doubt we'll hear much more of the Frenchman now. Both at the bottom of the river if I know Moriarty's diabolical methods.' He suddenly stopped in mid-flow. ‘Describe this Harriet creature to me again. In her mid-twenties you said?'

Angus Crow described the object of his affections in great detail, though with a certain amount of dramatic license as is often the case with those afflicted by Cupid's dart.

‘I see you are riddled with this damnable disease,' remarked Holmes. ‘But be a good fellow and make a long arm for that large volume there. You say her surname is Barnes? It rings a bell that may well blot out your misery.'

Crow passed over the large index volume in which Holmes kept references on every subject and person who proved an interest to him.

‘Barnes …' Holmes turned the pages. ‘Baker … Baldwin … Balfour – bad business that, Crow, fourteen years penal servitude,
*
Banks, Isabella – a shade before my time but interesting, like all murderous doctors.
ϯ
Ah, here we are, I thought as much. Barnes, Henry: born Camberwell 1850. Common thief. 1889 vagrant though with some resources. See Parker. One daughter, Harriet, brought up in common lodging houses. 1894 prostitute working from house owned by Mrs Sally Hodges. Is that not a load off your mind, Crow?'

‘I don't …?'

‘Indeed? Parker, as we both know, ran Moriarty's network of spies for a long time. Barnes worked for him, and if you have no idea who Sally Hodges is, then you have no right to your present occupation. The Professor is on to you, Angus Crow, and you have been enticed like a rabbit into a gin. Moriarty is diabolically clever. I've seen him at this game time and again. He catches people by the hip, traps them by the weakest chink in their fabric. Miss Harriet was meant to lead you into this, and through it Moriarty has all but consumed your mind.' He had risen and was pacing the floor in an agitated manner. ‘A pity I cannot use Watson in this. We have to give you a breathing space, so that you can recover your senses and be saved from the wrath that is to come. I would suggest a good doctor who will order you to rest for a week or two. In that time we might well lay that devilish man by the heels. I'll warrant there's evil work afoot in Italy or Spain now.' He ceased his pacing and faced Crow. ‘I know of a good man in Harley Street. Will you go to him?'

‘I will do anything to put myself straight. And bring Moriarty down.'

Crow's fury, at having been duped by a woman in the Professor's employ, showed in his face and the tense way in which he held his body.

‘Dr Moore Agar will put you right,' Holmes smiled grimly. ‘Though he probably despairs of me. He recently prescribed a rest cure which was somewhat interrupted. You must remind me to tell you of the Cornish Horror sometime.'
*

‘Then I shall go to your Dr Agar.'

Luigi Sanzionare, the most dangerous man in Italy, was a person of habit when it came to matters of religion. He went to Mass twice in the year – at Easter and on his saint's day – and made his confession each Holy Saturday, at the same confessional box in Il Gesù, the Jesuit church in Rome.

No matter what other plans were pending, what robberies to be arranged, what orders to be given to the many criminal men and women who looked to him as a leader, Luigi Sanzionare did his best to make Eastertide a holy time, therefore insuring his soul against hell and damnation.

His mistress, Adela Asconta, who had little in the way of religious faith, did not care for the manner in which Luigi would leave her at their villa in Ostia on each Good Friday, and not return until after the High Mass in the Basilica di Pietro within the walls of the Vatican, on Easter Day. She could quite well have stayed in their large house on the Via Banchi Vecchi, but Adela Asconta could not abide the city at this time of the year: there were so many foreigners, and the place became unbearably crowded. She understood that this was good for her lover's trade: for visitors were easy marks, particularly for the pickpockets and hotel thieves who had their own feast days with pilgrims to the Eternal City.

However, each Holy Week was the same. Adela Asconta would fret at Ostia, worrying, not for Luigi Sanzionare's immortal soul, but for her possible betrayal. Luigi had a way with the ladies and Signorina Asconta was capable of extreme jealousy. This year it was all worse than ever because of the telegram from England.

The telegram had arrived on Holy Thursday, as Luigi was preparing to make the journey into the city.
WE NEED YOU HERE URGENTLY. GREAT PROFIT ASSURED. ROOM RESERVED FOR YOU ALONE AT LANGHAM HOTEL. WILLY AND JEAN
.

‘Willy Schleifstein and Jean Grisombre,' Luigi explained to her.

‘I know who they are. You think me as much a buffoon as yourself?' For all her beauty and charm, Adela Asconta had a rocket temper, and the pudgy Luigi Sanzionare was complete master of his world, except when it came to women. In particular, he was slave to his mistress. ‘You will go to them, Gee-Gee?' She continued to spit fire. ‘It is they who should be coming to you.'

‘They would not send for me unless there was some great profit,
cara mia
. The best kind of profit which buys you the things you like best.'

‘And which you also like. You will go alone?'

‘It would seem so. My heart will not be still until I return to you, Adela. You know that.'

‘I know nothing. There are women in London also. Alone, Luigi? Is that really safe?'

She would at least prefer one of his close men – either Benno or Giuseppe – to be with him. Either would report any indiscretions to her.

‘Benno can come as far as Paris. After that I go alone.'

‘And you'll give up your precious Easter in Rome?'

‘Never. I leave on Monday. You think I would miss our Easter Sunday afternoon together?'

‘Yes, if it meant more power, more money.'

‘I shall go on Monday. There is a poste restante address here.' He tapped the form. ‘I will telegraph them today.'

Having betrayed her anger at the thought of being separated from her protector, Adela now tried a wheedling approach.

‘You bring something nice back for me. Something really special.'

‘The gift of a lifetime.'

In truth, Luigi Sanzionare had already begun to look forward to a respite from the toils of crime in Rome. The city was an ugly place at the moment. The politics of last year still sent reverberations through the streets. They lived in a time of turmoil in Italy, and the defeat of the army at Adowa in the previous March, had caused the government to fall. Now, a year later, the wounded and prisoners were just returning, bringing their own personal humility with them, reminding people of the instability.

Sanzionare recalled that meeting with the great Professor Moriarty on the last time he had travelled to London. Moriarty had said they should sue for chaos, for in a state of chaos their own particular trades would prosper. He wondered now if Il Professore had been right. There was not much prosperity to be scavenged from a defeated army. But then, Moriarty had been proved useless. A failure. Yes, it would be good to get out of Italy for a while. The spring would soon turn to summer, and Adela was never at her best in the heat – so demanding.

He travelled in to the city, with Benno, swarthy, hawk-eyed, always somewhere near in case enemies – and there were many, particularly from among the Sicilians – decided that it was time for a change in the power structure.

On Good Friday, Sanzionare addressed himself to his religion, visibly moved at the rituals of the day – the unveiling of the cross, the veneration and the solemn chanting as the altar was stripped bare and washed, like the washing of the body of Christ after the crucifixion. He prayed for the souls of his parents, and friends who had died in his service. He also prayed for his own soul and reflected upon the evil which ran riot in this vale of tears.

After the liturgy of the day, Sanzionare returned to his house on the Via Banchi Vecchi and received various visitors – two men who were to be trusted with starting a fire in a well-known shop on the Via Veneto. The increase of prices was affecting everybody. The owner of this establishment was refusing to pay more for the honour of being insured by Sanzionare's people.

‘Just a small fire,' he told the pair of
piromani
. ‘So that they will understand.'