"Ready," Holmes agreed.
Moriarty applied the burning fuse to the short fuse of the skyrocket, which sputtered and smoldered and disappeared into the tube. Eight seconds later a blast of flame came out of the rear of the tube, and the skyrocket shot out the front. It arced across the sky, over Trepoff's balloon, and released a series of colored balls before exploding in a shower of red and green sparks.
An answering salvo from Trepoff put a rocket between the gondola and the balloon, but it passed harmlessly through the shrouds before disintegrating into a crowd of flame-snakes that spiraled to the sea below.
Holmes corrected his aim and Moriarty touched off the next skyrocket. This one fell short and exploded in a puffball of blue light that was quickly extinguished by the sea.
Suddenly a spark appeared in Trepoff's gondola, and a flame curved upward. And then, in a moment that etched itself in the minds of all the onlookers for miles up and down the Solent, a tracery of flame worked over the fabric of Trepoff's balloon, creating fiery designs in the rounded sides. Then it burned off, and for a second seemed to have gone out, when all at once the balloon erupted and a plume of flame spurted out the side and enveloped the whole craft.
Barnett saw a white, frightened face at the side of the gondola before the craft fell from the sky, a fiery comet tail streaming out behind it.
"Miro was right," Moriarty said calmly, as the flaming mass struck the water far below. "This is a dangerous business."
"I only hope they find the bodies," Holmes said, "or we shall never know if that was Trepoff."
Moriarty shook his head. "Only the future will tell us whether Trepoff was in that aerostat," he said. "Remember, we have no idea of what he looks like. Barnett, can you get us down?"
Barnett reached up and untied a rope that valved hydrogen out of the top of the gasbag. "It will be a slow descent," he said.
"Good," Moriarty remarked. "I have just seen a fast descent."
By the time their aerostat reached the water, a cutter was standing by to pick them up. The lieutenant in command saluted them as they came aboard. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "I have orders to take you to the Victoria and Albert. Her Majesty would like to have you presented. At your convenience, of course."
TWENTY-THREE — THE UNWRITTEN TALE
On earth there is nothing great but man; In man there is nothing great but mind.
— Sir William Hamilton
You are going out?" Moriarty asked.
"I am having dinner with Miss Perrine," Barnett told him.
"Ah, of course," Moriarty said. " 'Jedem nach seinen Bedürfnissen,' as that strange little fellow at the British Museum put it.
"This is to be a business dinner," Barnett said stiffly.
"Could it be otherwise?" asked Moriarty blandly. "Incidentally, I meant to remark on your ept handling of the Trepoff affair in your article for the popular press."
"Well," Barnett said, "I figured if I didn't write it, then someone else surely would. As it is, I preempted the story and selected the facts to be told."
"Excellent," Moriarty said.
Barnett looked pleased. "Thank you."
"You kept my name out of it," Moriarty said. "And I thank you." He looked at the ship's chronometer above the study door. "You'd best go to dinner," he said. "Business before pleasure, after all."
"We are meeting Mr. Bernard Shaw at Covent Garden after dinner," Barnett said. "Cecily — Miss Perrine — is trying to talk him into doing a series of articles for us."
"Shaw," Moriarty said. "I have read some of his criticism. A great talent. Not a genius, as he thinks, but a genuine talent. A well-developed second-rate talent with a first-rate Irish ego."
"Speaking of Irish egos—" Barnett said.
"Go to dinner!"
Sherlock Holmes and his Boswell, Dr. John H. Watson, were on the steps as Barnett opened the door on his way out. "Good evening," he said. "The professor is expecting you, I believe." Barnett tipped his black silk topper at them, adjusted it carefully on his head, and hurried off toward the British Museum.
Holmes and Watson entered the house and were ushered into the study by Mr. Maws. "I've come to thank you for your assistance, Professor," Holmes said, dropping into the leatherback chair in front of the desk. "I owe you that."
"We work well together, Holmes," Moriarty said, adjusting his pince-nez glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I suspected we would."
"It's quits between us now," Holmes said. "You knew that, also."
"I was afraid you were going to say that," Moriarty said.
"I have been engaged to investigate the robbery of the London and Midlands Bank which occurred some six weeks ago," Holmes said.
"Ah," Moriarty said.
"There are certain signs," Holmes said, "which point in a certain direction…"
"Oh," Moriarty said.
"Of course, even if I apprehend the actual thieves," Holmes said, "the mastermind behind the plan will somehow manage to remain free."
"Of course," Moriarty agreed.
"I don't think that is right," Holmes said.
"You wouldn't," Moriarty said.
"I am going to do my best to see that he, also, is awarded penal servitude."
"You would." Moriarty stood up. "This conversation is beginning to take on an awful familiarity. Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you," said Holmes.
"I think not," said Doctor Watson, looking slightly offended.
"Is there any word from St. Petersburg?" Holmes asked.
"They believe," Moriarty said, "that Trepoff is no more. At least, they have no sign that he is still alive. We may have, as they say, done him in."
"Good," Holmes said. "Then our relationship is officially over as of now."
"Back to the old games, eh, Holmes?"
Sherlock Holmes turned to Dr. Watson. "This man," he said, hooking his thumb toward Professor Moriarty, "is the Napoleon of crime. Two weeks ago he saved the life of his sovereign. A month before that he robbed, or caused to be robbed, the London and Midlands Bank of some two millions in bullion."
"They exaggerate," Moriarty said. "These banks always exaggerate. It's for the insurance. Think about that, Holmes."
"Deucedly inconsistent," Watson said.
"When you write up my little cases," Holmes told Watson, "I want you to avoid all mention of the infamous Professor here. Someday either I shall eliminate him, or he will eliminate me. Until that time, do not speak of him or write of him."
"Of course, Holmes," Watson said. "Whatever you say."
"Dear me," Moriarty said, "such a pity. And I do so love publicity."
Holmes rose from his chair. "Come, Watson," he said. "There are a few little matters which engage our attention now. Good evening, Professor."
"As always," Moriarty said, "it has been my pleasure. Do come back soon and we can continue our little talk."
"We can find our own way out," Holmes said. "Good evening!" And, followed by Watson, he stalked out the front door.
Mrs. H came downstairs from the landing, where she had been listening to this final exchange. She sniffed. "An unforgiving lad," she said.
Moriarty shook his head sadly. "Perhaps some day…" he said. "But probably not. Have Mrs. Randall fix me a bite to eat, will you, Mrs. H? I shall be downstairs in the laboratory."
The Paradol Paradox
It is a damp, chilly Saturday, the sixteenth of April, 1887, as I sit before the small coal fire in the front room of Professor James Moriarty's Russell Square home making these notes; setting down while they are still fresh in my memory the queer and astounding events surrounding the problem with which Professor Moriarty and I found ourselves involved over the past few days. The case itself, a matter of some delicacy involving some of the highest-born and most important personages in the realm, had, as Moriarty put it, "a few points that were not entirely devoid of interest to the higher faculties." Moriarty's ability to shed light on what the rest of us find dark and mysterious will come as no surprise to anyone who has had any dealings with the professor. But what will keep the events of these past days unique in my mind forever is the glimpse I was afforded into the private life of my friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty.