"You never were one to mince words, Colonel," Percy the Painter said approvingly. " 'Comrades-in-crime.' Yes; within the confines of this lovely room — I particularly admire that Berkman oil to the left of the door — I admit to the justice of that description. Lovely."
"Beg pardon," the Twopenny Yob said, "but I believe we are creating sound without facilitating the exchange of information." He turned to Moriarty. "Professor, we have come to see you on behalf of the Amateur Mendicant Society. We are a specially formed committee of that society empowered to represent the entire membership in our discussions with you."
Moriarty sat back down in his chair and leaned forward, peering with his intense gaze at each of his visitors. "The Amateur Mendicant Society," he said finally. "I don't believe I am acquainted with it."
"It's a brand-new organization, Professor," Upper McHennory said. "A group of us from the different corners of the snide decided we had to get together and discuss subjects of mutual benefit—"
"Such as what it is what we is going to be telling you about." Twist interrupted.
"There are things happening in London," said the Twopenny Yob, "that are against the common interests of us artisans of the underworld. So we decided to get together and discuss these things. But you can see the problems an attempt on the part of our collective brethren to assemble would cause. The authorities would not encourage such a gathering. Particularly at the present time, they would frown upon it. They would do their best to discourage it."
"The present time?" Moriarty asked.
"You bloody well said it there, Professor," Twist said. "The present times is different from other times, 'cause of some bloody bastard what is going about knocking off the toffery."
"Ah! The murders," Moriarty said.
"Indeed," the Twopenny Yob agreed. "And so we formed a club. It was Percy the Painter's notion—"
Percy shrugged modestly. "It comes of employing a competent solicitor," he said. "Expensive, but well worth it in times of need. My solicitor pointed out that gentlemen's clubs were quite legal, quite common in London, could have anyone they wished as members, and could exclude nonmembers from attendance if they wished. So we formed a club. The Amateur Mendicant Society. We rented the ground floor and vault of a furniture warehouse, and fixed it up quite nicely."
"Vault?"
"For private discussions," Snoozer explained.
"Ah!" Moriarty said. Barnett, who had come to know his moods quite well over two years, could tell that he was doing his best not to look amused. Since the average person couldn't tell when the professor was amused, his attempt at concealment worked quite well. "So now there is a club — no doubt with billiard tables and a reading room — for gentlemen purse snatchers, pickpockets, panderers—"
"Sir!" Colonel Moran said sharply, his face flushing. "We may indulge in occasional activities which are technically on the wrong side of the laws of this effete country, but we are none of us lacking in respect for the ladies. There are no panderers welcome in our group!"
"Accept my apologies, Colonel," Moriarty said. "I was carried away by the lure of alliteration. So, at any rate, you have discovered that it is possible to make a den of thieves respectable by giving it the facade of a gentlemen's club."
"Well," Upper McHennory said, smiling, "it has worked so far."
"Can we get back to the purpose of this visit?" Colonel Moran said, impatiently slapping his walking stick against the side of his shoe.
"Very well," the Twopenny Yob said. "Professor Moriarty, in the name of the collective membership of the Amateur Mendicant Society, we request your assistance. We must see to it that this vile murderer who has been haunting the West End is apprehended."
"I see," Moriarty said. "And why this interest? A sense of civic duty, perhaps?"
"Pah!" Twist exclaimed, scrunching forward in his chair. "The rozzers 'as been 'arassing us sumfing awful. Knocking my boys off the street corners, chasing blind and lame beggars up the street. I tells you, it ain't good."
"I believe you," Moriarty said. "Seeing a lame beggar outrun a bobby must stretch your customers' credulity."
"You wouldn't think it humorous," Percy the Painter commented, "if it was your men being harassed and arrested by the police anytime they enter a swank neighborhood. And keeping them out of swank neighborhoods is not sensible. Stealing from the poor goes against ancient English tradition; it's in bad taste and it's unremunerative."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "What about the great and growing body of the middle class?" he asked. "Surely you can still steal from shopkeepers, factory owners, salesmen, innkeepers, bank clerks, and assorted merchants, tradesmen, and professionals?"
"You doesn't grasp the magnanimousness of the situation," Twist said. "Strangely, when the rich are struck at, it is the middling classes what feel most threatened."
"It's the truth," the Twopenny Yob said. "Now, with this madman going around and murdering the aristocracy, you could clearly see where it would make my profession difficult. The swells are just naturally going to be more cautious as to who they let into their mansions. Even during the wildest soirees, they are not going to suffer the chance of having their throats cut merely for the privilege of having their pockets picked."
Very nicely put, Barnett thought, and made a note to use it in a future article.
"But the odd thing about it," the Yob continued, "is the reaction of your bourgeois shopkeeper. He feels personally threatened, and writes letters to the Times about it. The public uproar causes the police to cancel all leaves and bring in auxiliary men, and get a visible patrol on every street. Calms down the masses, don't y'see."
"And, just for the raw fun of it, " 'cause they ain't got nothing else to do," Snoozer added, "the rozzers arrest everybody in sight for 'suspicious loitering.' Now I tell you, Professor, it's a sad day when a chap can't do a bit of suspicious loitering without getting thrown in quod for his troubles!"
Moriarty leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. "An interesting scene you are painting, gentlemen," he said. "And a sad tale it is, indeed, that this one unknown murderer is putting the entire criminal class of London out of business. What, exactly, is it that you want me to do about it? Help you compose a letter to the Times? Get the police off your collective backs? What?"
"They're on your back too, you know," Percy the Painter said, and then put his hand to his mouth, as if frightened by his own audacity.
Moriarty turned his head slightly and inspected Percy speculatively for a moment. "Pray tell me, Percy, whatever are you talking about?"
"One of my customers, you know," Percy said. "Collector of Georgian china. Which I can't imagine why, for the life of me. Ugly, hideous, gross chamber pots they are, too. But he likes them. Lestrade is his name."
Professor Moriarty laughed. "Giles Lestrade, a collector of Georgian chamber pots! The man has untold depths."
"You know him then? Scotland Yard inspector. Always makes me a bit nervous when he visits the shop, if the truth be told. Well, last time he came in, about three days ago, it was, he had one of his Scotland Yard buddies with him, and they were having a conversation, which I couldn't help overhearing, while they looked at the china."
"And what did they say?" Moriarty asked.
"Inspector Lestrade said that Sherlock Holmes — he's—"
"I know who he is," Moriarty growled. "Go on."
"Well, Inspector Lestrade said that Sherlock Holmes was still convinced that you, Professor Moriarty, are responsible for these murders. The chap with him — named Gregson — said it was Holmes's idee fixe, and there wasn't anything to be done about it. And he hoped they wouldn't have to keep too many men away from their other duties for too long, while Holmes has them following you about. It seems that Mr. Holmes is in some position of authority over at Scotland Yard, at least insofar as this investigation is concerned."