The Revenge of Moriarty (36 page)

He was clutching a small tissue paper packet. Unwrapping the paper, he almost threw the object from him, for there in his hand were the three silver-linked strands of rubies and emeralds, with the magnificent pendant ruby hanging from them. Carlotta's necklace which he had so coveted on that disastrous first night of the journey.

Sanzionare caught sight of himself in the long mirror across the bedroom, hardly recognizing what he saw – a stoutish, middle-aged man, white faced as though shocked, with trembling fingers clutching at the elaborate necklace.

He looked from the mirror to the necklace and back again. A dream? Hardly. The precious stones in his hand were real enough. He had been close to it during dinner on the train, and had handled too many jewels in his time to be wrong. But how? Why? He had the keys to his baggage during the entire journey. Benno? It was the most likely solution. Benno, against all instructions, might have stolen the necklace before they reached Paris. He could quite easily possess the spare luggage keys, and he certainly had the opportunity to slip the jewels into the portmanteau. A plot? Or merely an act of unthinking vengeance on behalf of his master? Well, Benno was on his way back to Rome now.

Sanzionare slumped on the bed, hands still clutching the necklace loose in his lap. This was a dangerous piece of goods to keep. Yet far too valuable to let go.

He began to think logically. The Smythes could not have missed the piece before Paris. If they had discovered their loss since, he would most certainly have been stopped in France, before taking the boat to England. Or if they had found it gone since, he would have been questioned on arrival at the port, or in London.

Had he mentioned this hotel when talking to the Smythes? He thought not. Twenty-four hours. He would give it one day. Maybe a few hours more. If Grisombre and Schleifstein did not come to the hotel by then, he would be off – with the necklace. The long journey would then have been at least worthwhile. Yes, he could not risk staying longer.

Sanzionare, fingers still trembling, completed his unpacking and looked around for a safe hiding place for the jewels. Long ago he had learned that often the most obvious place was the safest. His travelling bag was fitted with all the usual appurtenances, including five glass jars and bottles with sterling silver dome tops. The largest of these he kept filled with eau de cologne, and it was, at the moment, half empty. Unlocking the bag, Sanzionare took out the jar, unscrewed the lid and, holding the necklace by its clasp, dropped it into the liquid.

The lurkers had both Charing Cross and Victoria railway stations well watched, and a team of good young boys placed at intervals from both stations to act as runners right back almost to Albert Square itself. They were, as usual, in many and varied disguises, each carefully instructed.

The Langham Hotel was also the target for a dozen pairs of eyes. Harkness, with the Professor's own private vehicle, stayed at the ready and Terremant, the big punisher, was playing a new role – that of a hansom driver, moving between the two railway termini and the Langham Hotel in a very special cab which, strangely, avoided picking up any fares.

Adela Asconta arrived, with her retinue of maid and the swarthy Giuseppe, exactly as Moriarty had predicted – some twenty-four hours after Sanzionare made his appearance.

She was tired and travel-stained, sharp-tempered with the porters who carried her luggage out to the hansom, driven by Terremant who helped her inside, together with her maid. Giuseppe was instructed to follow in a second cab.

The chain of boys, stationed at street corners and in doorways, began to do their work, and, within a short space of time, a raggedy runner arrived at the door down the area steps of Number Five Albert Square.

Moriarty – in the guise of his academic brother – had been waiting and ready since an early hour, and Sal Hodges had got Carlotta out of bed some three hours before her normal rising time. Harry Allen was in the hall, dressed respectably, his suit covered with a Chesterfield waterproof coat, a brown bowler in his hands. Harkness had the cab at the door, and Moriarty spoke a few last words to Harry Allen and Carlotta before this pair left, en route for the Langham. Harkness would deposit them there and return for the Professor so that the last act in the snaring of Sanzionare could be played out with perfect timing.

Adela Asconta had not reserved rooms at the Langham, but the hotel had plenty of space to spare and she was greeted affably by the staff, allotted a suite on the second floor, with accommodation next door for her maid and a small room for the manservant – as she so described Giuseppe.

She remained calm, if a little tetchy, during the formalities of booking in, and it was only as she was leaving, to follow the page and the two porters towards the great staircase, that she paused to ask after, ‘A kinsman who I believe is staying in this hotel. A Signor Luigi Sanzionare.' She was told that Signor Sanzionare had registered on the previous day and that his room number was 227 – on the same floor as herself.

Arriving at her room, Adela Asconta paused only to fling down the claret-coloured travelling cape she wore, before marching with great purpose towards room 227.

Sanzionare had decided that if Grisombre and Schleifstein had not arrived, or sent word by ten o'clock, he would leave, catch the first boat train available, and head back to Rome. It was common sense. He had breakfasted alone in his room, scanning every column of
The Times
for any report regarding Carlotta Smythe's necklace. Nothing. Yet he felt uneasy, as though some predestined doom was crashing towards him with the inevitable force of an avalanche.

He sipped his coffee, and at a quarter to ten made up his mind that he would be leaving that very morning. At five minutes to ten there was a tap on the door. The Frenchman or the German?

Adela Asconta stood in the corridor, one small foot tapping an impatient tattoo, her cheeks flushed with anger pent up during the journey, building within her like a head of steam in a boiler.

‘Where is she?' She pushed Sanzionare out of the way and stalked into the room, her head turning from side to side, fists clenched aggressively. ‘I'll kill her. And you also.'

‘Adela! You're in London. What?' stammered Sanzionare.

‘You're in London, you're in London,' mimicked Adela. ‘Of course I am in London,' she rattled it out in fast Italian. ‘And where would you expect me to be? Sitting quietly in Ostia while you betray me?'

‘Betray you,
cara
, I would never betray you, not even in my thoughts. Not for a second.'

‘Where is the whore?'

‘There are no whores. Who …'

‘That woman. That Carlotta.'

It struck Sanzionare then that he was deeply in trouble.

‘Carlotta?' he echoed hollowly.

‘Carlotta,' shouted Adela. ‘I know, Luigi. I know about Carlotta.'

‘You know what? There is nothing to know.'

A jumble of possibilities raked through his head – that Benno had betrayed him, filling her with some fabrication; or that Carlotta, discovering the theft of her necklace, had been in touch with police in Rome. So bemused was he that he did not even realize this last was impossible.

‘Nothing to know? You deny then that you travelled to London with Carlotta Smythe?'

‘Of course I deny it.'

‘She was on the train. The Cook's man in Rome had her booking.'

‘Yes, there was a Carlotta Smythe on the train. Travelling with her father. They dined with me on the first night. I have not set eyes on them since, let alone journeyed with them.'

‘She is not with you?'

‘Certainly not. I have you, what would I want with this Carlotta? You take me for a fool, Adela?'

‘I take you for a man. You are telling me the truth?'

‘On my mother's grave.'

‘I don't trust you. Nor your mother either.'

‘Calm yourself, Adela. What is this? Why have you followed me?'

She stood, shoulders drooping, her perfect chest rising and falling rapidly, the red spots on her cheeks more crimson than before.

‘A letter,' she said in a voice more uncertain than any of her statements so far.

‘A letter?'

‘Here.' She had the paper in her sleeve, in preparation.

Sanzionare quickly scanned the document, looking hard at the date. Terrible possibilities started to surge through his already fuddled mind. The letter had been written at least on the morning of his departure. The author had known the Smythes would be on the train. Carlotta had goaded him on, he had been certain of that at the time. Then the necklace suddenly appearing in his portmanteau. A trap? It could be nothing but a trap. Who, and why, eluded him for the moment.

‘Adela,' he willed his voice to speak calmly. ‘I cannot explain all now, but we have been duped, the pair of us. For what purpose I cannot tell, but I know we must be out of here very fast.' People, he thought quickly, had to rise uncommonly early to get the best of Luigi Sanzionare. He would still show them. Even to getting away intact with the necklace.

He dashed for the bedroom, fingers fumbling with his key chain to open the travelling bag and tear out the glass jar.

Later he recalled stuffing money into one pocket as he tipped the contents of the jar into the wash basin, in which he had so recently performed his morning ablutions. He recovered the glittering trophy from the scummed cold water, wiped it off on a hand towel, and was emerging into the drawing-room of his suite to face Adela with some triumph, when the main door burst open.

‘That is the man, Inspector,' Carlotta screamed, an accusing finger pointing at him. Behind her was a solid young man with a brown bowler hat crammed onto his head.

‘That's the man who tried to rape me, and who stole my jewels. Look, he has them there.' Carlotta went on screaming.

The young man closed the door carefully behind him and approached Sanzionare.

‘I should come quietly, sir, if I were you. Now, just you hand over the necklace to me.'

‘Luigi! Who are these people?' Adela, the crimson now replaced by chalk white.

‘I am Inspector Allen, ma'am, if you speak English.'

‘I speak.'

‘Good. This lady is Miss Carlotta Smythe.'

‘Sanguisuga
!' hissed Adela. ‘Bloodsucker!'

‘I am from the official detective force of the Metropolitan Police,' continued Allen.

‘Vecchia strega,'
spat back Carlotta. ‘Old witch.'

‘I can explain,' offered Sanzionare lamely, looking at the necklace and then away again as if to pretend it was not there.

‘Miss Smythe claims, sir …'

‘He forced his way into my sleeping compartment, attempted to rape me. Later I found that my ruby and emerald necklace was missing. He has it now, in his hand.'

There was an intake of breath from Adela: the sound of a wild beast about to spring. Sanzionare opened his fingers allowing the necklace to fall to the carpet, lifting his arms to protect his head.

‘Monstro informe
!' Adela launched herself towards him.

‘What's all this then?' ‘Inspector' Allen reached forward to separate the struggling pair. ‘Luigi Sanzionare,' he continued, bravely holding on. ‘I am taking you into custody for the theft of this ruby and emerald necklace, and I must tell you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.'

‘Scandalo!'
wept Sanzionare, knowing that this was the springing of the trap. Adela whimpered, occasionally forcing obscene abuse from her lips.

Then, suddenly everything went quiet. Sanzionare saw Adela Asconta look fixedly towards the door. Allen's grip relaxed slightly.

Luigi Sanzionare lifted his head. Inside the door stood the tall, thin and gaunt figure of Professor James Moriarty.

‘Luigi. How good it is to see you again.' Moriarty's head moved slowly to and fro.

Carlotta was smirking, stifling a laugh.

‘Be silent, girl,' snapped the Professor. ‘You think this is now a laughing matter.'

‘What …?' Sanzionare felt his legs turning to the consistency of well-boiled spaghetti, and there was a thumping in his head. The room spun once before his eyes, then settled uneasily. He blinked, staring at Moriarty, fearing the onslaught of death at any moment. Dimly, he perceived the full extent of his undoing. ‘Moriarty,' he breathed.

‘The same.' The Professor's mouth was set in a grim line.

‘This is all your doing.'

‘You grow astute in your dotage, Sanzionare.'

‘They told me you were finished. Done for after the business at Sandringham.'

‘Then you were foolish to believe them, my friend.'

The Italian looked around him, as though not fully in his right senses. ‘But why? Why this?'

‘Is your brain so full of vanity that you cannot see why?' Moriarty took a step towards the hapless Italian villain. ‘It is to teach you an object lesson, Luigi. To show you several things. To inform you in the best possible way that I am master of crime in Europe; that at any time I can reach out and have you flicked from the earth like a piece of dung.' His voice was low, like the soughing of wind in trees.

Sanzionare shivered. ‘Then …?'

‘Yes, I have fitted you, as they say. If this had been real, and not the charade I planned, you would be on your way to judgement at this moment.'

‘Charade?' The Italian croaked weakly, casting about him, his eyes full of dread.

Moriarty allowed himself a thin smile.

‘You deal in precious stones, eh?' he said, using Smythe's voice. ‘Precious coals more like. I doubt you can tell glass from garnet.'

‘You were Smythe.' Sanzionare's voice was dead, flat and without music.

‘Of course I was Smythe.' The Professor turned to Adela. ‘Signorina Asconta, you must forgive Luigi. He stood little chance against Carlotta here. I think she could have lured even St Peter himself.'