"You think someone might be after me?" Holmes asked, clearly astounded at the notion.
"I think it possible," Moriarty said. "I don't think it probable, but I decided it would be worthwhile to keep an eye on you."
"Well!" Holmes said. "You suspect that Miss Perrine might have been kidnapped because of something she knew? But she knew nothing that wasn't published the next day in ten morning newspapers."
"Perhaps the kidnapper was not aware of that," Moriarty said. "Or perhaps she discovered something of which we are unaware."
"Really, Moriarty," Holmes said. "I profess, I dislike this role reversal, whatever your excuse. Let us keep things in their proper perspective: you are the criminal and I am the detective."
"One of the first things you must realize about categories, Holmes," Moriarty said, lecturing the detective in the dry, didactic tone he was so fond of, "is that they are not immutable."
"Come now, Professor," Holmes said. "As a scientist, you surely cannot maintain that the truth is not a fixed quantity."
"No, sir, but I can and do maintain that our perception of the truth is ever changing. What was regarded as 'truth' in science but a generation ago is laughable now. And human affairs, Mr. Holmes, change even more rapidly. Also human beings are far more complex than you give them credit for. It is not enough to read the calluses on a man's fingers and know that he is a cork-cutter. To understand him, you must also be able to read his souclass="underline" to know his fears, his needs, his ambitions, his desires, and his secret shames."
"All of which you, undoubtedly, perceive at an instant, eh, Professor?" Holmes said smugly.
"I do not claim to be a detective, Holmes. The hearts of stars are, to me, far more transparent than the hearts of men."
"Are you going to persist in having me followed?" Holmes demanded.
"Not if it bothers you," Moriarty said. "I wouldn't dream of it. Are you going to persist in having me followed, Holmes?"
"Of course," Holmes said. He stood up. "If you can name this mad killer, or locate Miss Perrine, I shall be the first to applaud. But I still intend to establish your complicity in the treasure-train robbery."
"You'll understand if I don't wish you luck," Moriarty said dryly.
"Is there any other action which you have taken in regard to these killings that you have failed to mention?" Holmes asked.
"One obvious measure," Moriarty said, "in an effort to precipitate some sort of reaction." He handed a folded copy of the Morning Telegraph to Holmes. "I placed a small boxed advertisement in several dailies. Here is its first appearance."
Barnett stood up and read over Holmes's shoulder.
LOST — several small medallions. Identical designs.
Apply 64 Russell Square. REWARD.
"Interesting idea," Holmes said. "If it is, indeed, a medallion that the murderer has been taking from his victims."
"That's the most likely word to describe whatever the objects are," Moriarty said.
"You don't think the killer is going to answer your advertisement?" Barnett asked. "I mean, he's going to a lot of trouble to collect these things, whatever they are. He's not likely to band them over to you."
"That's so," Moriarty agreed. "But strange things happen in this world, especially if one encourages them. He may have an avaricious landlady who wonders why he is collecting so many identical artifacts. Or he may just leave them somewhere after using them for whatever he does use them for. Or a sneak thief may by some great chance filch them from his bureau drawer, where he has them secreted. One can never tell, can one, Holmes?"
Holmes put down the newspaper. "I must go," he said. He reached out for the small bronze statuette of Uma that stood on a corner of Moriarty's desk. "I shall borrow this for a while if you don't mind, Professor."
"You'll what?" Moriarty demanded, leaping to his feet. "Now look here, Holmes—"
"I hold in my hand," Holmes said, raising the object to eye level, "a small bronze statuette inlaid with precious and semiprecious stones, obviously of Indian origin. It was not here the last time I visited. Indeed, I can safely say that it was nowhere in the house. And now, shortly after a vast Indian treasure has been stolen, I find it here on your desk. Surely, knowing of my suspicions, you want me to take this statuette away with me and compare it against all the items on Lord East's list, don't you, Professor? You want to show me up, prove that my suspicions were for naught, have the last laugh — don't you, Professor James Moriarty?"
Moriarty glared at his thin, intense antagonist. "I am tempted to say no," he said. "The impulse to annoy you as strongly as you annoy me is almost irresistible. You know you have no right to remove that bronze without my permission unless you get a warrant, showing probable cause. Which would be stretching the truth, something you would not consider in other circumstances. I am strongly tempted to make you step outside and whistle up a policeman, and force the poor fellow to scurry off in search of some complaint magistrate who is unaware of your vendetta against me and might possibly issue such a warrant. But then I'd have to put up with your sitting here glaring at me for half the day, clutching the bronze to your breast, wondering whether the warrant had been issued or not.
"And so I won't. I haven't the time for such fancies. Take the thing, Holmes. Give me a receipt for it. And when you're forced to return it, I shall frame the receipt and hang it next to the ten-thousand-pound Vernet you object to so much."
Holmes brought out his small notebook and scribbled a receipt on a page, which he ripped out and handed to Moriarty. "I shall be back within two days, Professor," he said. "Either to return the bronze, or to take you away. Which do you suppose it will be?"
"I expect an apology," Moriarty told Holmes, "when you return the bronze."
"I expect a confession," Holmes replied, "when I take you to prison. Do you suppose either of us will be satisfied with what we actually get? But enough! Much as I am enjoying our little chat, I really must be off."
"If you must—" Moriarty said.
Holmes turned to Barnett. "Dealing with Professor Moriarty creates in me an attitude that is destructive of my manners and my sentiments," he said. "I want you to know that I am aware of your attachment to Miss Perrine, and I fully sympathize with the sense of loss that you must be feeling now."
Barnett nodded his thanks. "It is more a sense of futility," he replied. "There is little I can do that is useful. I can keep busy, which keeps my mind off the problem but brings me no closer to finding Miss Perrine."
"I and my temporary associates of Scotland Yard are doing everything we can to locate and rescue the girl. I pray we will be successful," Holmes nodded to Moriarty. "Don't bother showing me out."
With a final glance around the room, Holmes stepped purposefully to the front door and threw it open. "Au revoir, Professor," he called, striding through the door and slamming it behind him.
"A unique man," Barnett commented.
"True," Moriarty agreed. "For which I am profoundly grateful. More than one Sherlock Holmes on this planet at the same time is an idea that I do not wish to contemplate."
"Tell me, Professor," Barnett said, "is that statuette from the robbery?"
"Yes," Moriarty said.
"Can Holmes prove it?" asked Barnett.
"That remains to be seen," Moriarty replied.
A loud clattering sound came from the street outside the house, followed almost immediately by a great crash. Moriarty and Barnett jumped to their feet. Before the sound of the crash had died away, the voices of several people yelling and the shrill sound of a woman screaming joined the cacophony.