The Return of Moriarty (3 page)

Moran—Colonel Sebastian Moran, Chief of Staff to Moriarty, for that is who he was—repeated, “Let me deal with Holmes.”

“I have to think. This is not the time for any quick decisions, as you should well know. There is too much at stake in the future. If Holmes has only just returned to London and is seeing his friend Watson for the first time, twenty-four hours will make little difference. Watson has believed his friend dead for the past three years; there will be some emotional shock. Following that, they will have a great deal to talk about.”

“I would rather complete the matter now. Today.” Moran sounded peppery.

Moriarty looked hard at his lieutenant, the eyes, like those of a mesmerist, reaching grimly into Moran's mind. People often noted the chilling power of Moran's blue eyes, but they were no match for the austere and commanding stare Moriarty was able to summon.

“I would prefer you to set certain other business in motion.” Moriarty seldom raised his voice, but the tone he could produce, and the authority with which he spoke, generated obedience from all but the most foolhardy and willful among those who followed him.

Moran gave a grudging nod of acquiescence.

“Good. There are matters I wish you to arrange. If I am to resume control, then it will be necessary for me to meet with all our leading captains in Europe. The meeting can be here or in Paris, I do not mind either way, but I wish a date to be set within the next ten days. Arrange the date and place. And on your way out would you tell Ember that I am ready to see those who have come for help or favors?”

Moran hesitated, his mouth half open as though he wished to make another appeal to the Professor, then, thinking better of it, he gave a curt movement of his head, turned on his heel and left the room.

Professor Moriarty's chambers, however pleasant and well appointed, were not set in the most salubrious of neighborhoods. London in the 1890's was still a city of great contrast, the glitter of the West End having little in common with the relatively dark and dangerous East End. Moriarty lived hard down by the river, close to the docks and the Chinese quarter of Limehouse, in paradoxical luxury, above an unused warehouse, the bleak and dingy front of which could be reached only by walking through a narrow maze of alleys, courts and streets; the houses, drinking dens and grubby shops squeezed tightly in on one another, by day active and noisy with their cosmopolitan population, by night an area in which a stranger would have to be nothing short of lunatic to walk alone through the ill-lit passages.

The façade of the warehouse would never arouse suspicion, even in the most observant; it gave the impression of a place uninhabited, except perhaps by rats or vagrants seeking shelter for the night. Cracked windows and scarred brickwork bore testimony to a state of decay. Yet the warehouse was known to a horde of villains, footpads, murderers, pickpockets, forgers, scoundrels, prostitutes, garroters—male and female—thugs, burglars, tricksters and the like, as a place of importance.

Several hundred of such people were acquainted with the method of obtaining access to the interior of the building—a series of sharp raps, in sequence, on the small door inset in the large, boarded, wooden gates, through which, at one time or another, cargoes ranging from grain to silk had been driven and stored until ship or other transport had dispatched them.

Immediately inside the doors, the impression of a storehouse, long inactive, remained. It was only when one crossed to the far end of the grubby expanse of floor and passed through the small door, which, to even the keenest eye appeared to be rotten, insubstantial and flaking, that you entered a different world.

On the far side of the door was a long narrow room set about with bare wooden tables and benches. To the right a fat, ruddy-complexioned man and a thin woman in her late thirties stood behind a wooden counter over which they dispensed hot tea, soup, beer, spirits and bread. At the far left a wooden stairway led to a solid doorway behind which Professor Moriarty lived in quarters that vied for comfort with some of the best bachelor chambers to be found in the more fashionable West End.

Colonel Sebastian Moran descended the stairway with mixed feelings. Below him some twenty or so men and women were seated at the tables, eating, drinking and talking in low tones. During the three years of Moriarty's absence, and presumed death, it had been Moran who greeted the twice-weekly deputations of people such as these. But he was now all too aware that during his interregnum the gatherings in the “waiting room,” as it was known, had not been as quiet and apprehensive as the one upon which he now looked. Moran knew why, and it irritated him. The same officers were present: Ember; the tall muscular Paget; Spear, with his broken nose and heavy features, which might have passed for good looks had it not been for the scar, which, like a lightning fork, ran down the right side of his face, narrowly missing the eye but unhappily connecting with the corner of his mouth; and Lee Chow, the agile, dangerous Chinese. Yet today there was an orderly calm, a sense of reverence almost, which had been lacking during the three years in which Moran had taken care of matters.

The irritation was a mixture of elements; jealousy, of course, played a large role. Moran had known, during the time since Moriarty's disappearance following the Reichenbach Falls affray, that his leader was still alive. Indeed, he had met with him on a number of occasions, in small, unsuspected villages and hamlets in different parts of Europe, in order to discuss strategy, tactics and other complex matters concerning the Professor's interests. But as far as the general, run-of-the-mill members of Europe's criminal element were concerned, the Professor was dead and Colonel Moran had become the man to whom they turned.

Even though Moriarty himself had only just praised Moran's leadership and organizational ability, the older man was all too conscious that he lacked the extraordinary powers of the Professor, who seemed to exude an authority and confidence that demanded an almost supernatural obedience. Now that Moriarty had returned, as though from the dead, Moran knew that his own power was considerably reduced. But it was not simply the fact of natural jealousy that disturbed the Colonel. With Moriarty's return, and that of the meddling Sherlock Holmes, his own position was in jeopardy. It had been in jeopardy only recently through the folly of young Ronald Adair, but Moran had concluded that business with deadly efficiency.

Colonel Moran was a man with a good background, a man who had every chance to make a way for himself in the world. As with so many criminals, his life had at one time been balanced on a watershed between good and evil; that he had eventually toppled toward the criminal tendencies that beset all men is established fact. Moran was born into a family of some note, his father being Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., at one time British Minister to Persia; he was educated at Eton and Oxford, served with some distinction with the Indian Army and was the author of two books,
Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas
and
Three Months in the Jungle,
but his passions were undoubtedly shooting (he was a crack shot and big-game hunter) and gambling: obsessions that inevitably led him toward the criminal life in which he finally indulged himself, working under the influence and direction of James Moriarty. It was the latter passion, gambling, that had led him into the situation in which he now, on this April evening, found himself.

Sebastian Moran in many senses lived for gambling, because, apart from the monies paid to him and gained from his association with James Moriarty, his present income was supplemented to a very high degree by the large sums of cash that came his way across the card tables in London's gaming clubs. Moran was a skilled gambler who only rarely lost, a fact that to any knowledgeable student of human nature and the ways of the world means one thing only—that Moran was a cheat.

Indeed, Moran was a professional cheat, a sharper of more than ordinary dimensions—a
macer,
in criminal parlance. He had made card sharping a life's work—second only to shooting—and knew such men as Kepplinger, the San Francisco sharp; Ah Sin, the so-called Heathen Chinee; Lambri Pasha; and the Spaniard, Bianco.

Yet Moran could outwit all the great names, being an expert in every department of his trade, from the more automatic devices like card marking,
^*
reflectors
^†
and holdouts, as well as the more sophisticated methods of manipulating cards while a game was in progress. He was exceptionally skilled in bottom dealing, crimping, bridging, false shuffling and knocking.

It is a matter of record that early in the year Moran had been a constant whist partner of the Honorable Ronald Adair, the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, Governor of one of the Australian colonies. Young Adair had returned to London with his mother and sister, Hilda, and was living with them at 427 Park Lane, the mother having come to England for an eye operation.

On the evening of March 30 Ronald Adair was found shot—his head horribly mutilated by an expanded revolver bullet—in his locked room at 427 Park Lane. The murder had caused widespread shock and concern, there being no evidence of any weapon inside the room and no signs of any killer having climbed the twenty feet to Adair's window, or indeed of having made an escape from thence.

The true and hidden facts tumbled through Colonel Moran's mind as he made his way through the dingy thoroughfares to pick up a hansom and return to his rooms in Conduit Street. At the moment only two people in London knew of the truth surrounding Adair's inexplicable murder: Sebastian Moran, who had perpetrated the crime, and Professor James Moriarty, in whom Moran had been forced to confide. As he sat back in the hansom, Moran was well aware that if someone did not act quickly, it would only be a matter of time before others would know the facts. Watson was already interested in the case, though that worried him as little as the knowledge that Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was investigating Adair's murder. Neither Watson nor Lestrade, thought Moran, would ever hit on the truth, but Holmes' return to London put an entirely new complexion on the matter. The anxiety of these facts, combined with the gall of jealousy and the necessity of carrying out Moriarty's instructions, made Moran more peppery and edgy than usual.

He stopped the hansom in the Strand in order to send four telegraphs: one to Moriarty's man in Paris, another to Rome, a third to Berlin and a fourth to Madrid. The messages were in simple prearranged code. Each telegraph read:

IMPORTANT THAT BUSINESS IS CONCLUDED IN
LONDON BY THE TWELTH INSTANT. SEBMORE.

Moran then returned to Conduit Street, exchanging a few words with an elderly road sweeper near his house. He then prepared to bathe and dress for dinner. Outside, the chill day was overtaken by a night which became bleak and blustery.

Inside the “waiting room” at the rear of the warehouse, Ember, Paget, Spear and Lee Chow watched Moran's departure in silence. A stillness had fallen over those who waited, ate and drank at the long bare tables. An expectancy was in the air from the knowledge that the Professor was now alone in his chambers up the stairs. Eyes were turned toward Ember, Paget, Spear and Lee Chow, for these four were in some ways an elite, having occupied positions of close proximity to the Professor from a time dating back before his supposed death at the Reichenbach Falls.
^*

There was a slight hesitation before Paget, the tallest and most muscular of the men, moved with extraordinary grace and silence, bounding up the stairs and softly knocking at the door.

Moriarty stood by the windows, looking out into the night gathering about the river, the low mist creeping up the waters to seep over the embankments and flow into the lanes and alleyways. At Paget's knock, he called gently:

“Come.”

Paget closed the door behind him.

“There are many waiting, Professor.”

“I know. There is much on my mind, Paget. It is a strange feeling to have, shall we say, risen from the dead.”

Paget inclined his head toward the door.

“To them down there, guv'nor, and to us for that matter, it is nothing short of a miracle. But they're patient. They'll wait.”

Moriarty sighed.

“No, we must go on as before. They have come for help, favors, to supply ideas and to show their respect for my position. I would not be facing my responsibilities if I did not see them. After all, they are family men and women. Who are the most important?”

Paget was silent for a moment.

“There's Hetty Jacobs, whose two sons have been taken in custody and her left with little, with no help and none to bring in a ha'penny. Millie Hubbard, whose husband, Jack, got hisself done in last month. It's a matter that should be set to rights. And there's Rosie McNiel whose daughter, Mary, got took by Sally Hodges' girls—against her will Rosie claims. I got Sal here with the girl.”

“Are there none but women?”

“No, Bill Fisher's here, with Bert Clark and Dick Gay. They've a case they want to work. It's in the monkery and sounds worthy.”

“Good.”

“And old Solly Abrahams is here with a load of ream swag. Then there's a dozen or so more.”

“I will see Hetty Jacobs,” Moriarty allowed one of his rare smiles. “She has always been reliable and deserves some justice.”

Paget nodded.

“It would be best if you and Lee Chow remained with me during the meetings.”

Paget looked pleased.

“Very well, Professor.”

“That will be a regular situation,” said Moriarty. “There are certain alterations I wish to make in our daily and weekly routine. When I am advising or giving favors, I shall have you, Paget, and Lee Chow present. Inform Chow before we start.”

Paget left the room, and Moriarty turned again to the window. Over the past three years his life had been free of trouble. True, he had not completely kept to the terms of his bargain. He had seen Moran, advised him, and remained in touch. He also tightened up certain matters on the Continent, as he traveled from town to town and city to city. The European side of his operation had been in need of consolidation, and the time spent there was already paying off handsomely.