"You see," Moriarty said, turning to Barnett. "It is as I suspected."
"What is?" Barnett asked.
"This house has been being watched for the past two days. Three men at least, at all times. Now Tolliver has picked the pocket of the tall gentleman who was loitering across the street by the statue of Lord Hornblower, and found a police badge in his wallet."
" 'At's right," Tolliver agreed. " 'Oo says I didn't?"
"This sudden interest in our doings corresponds with your visit to the CID," Moriarty told Barnett. "There may be some connection between that correspondence and the fact that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been retained to assist the police in the matter of those murders that so fascinate you."
"How do you know that?" Barnett asked. "Sherlock Holmes certainly didn't tell you. He doesn't seem to have a very high opinion of you."
"Every time a purse is snatched anywhere in the greater London area, Holmes is certain that I am behind it," Moriarty said. "It gets tiresome."
"How do you know that he is helping Scotland Yard solve the murders?"
Moriarty chuckled. "I spoke to his landlady."
"His landlady?"
"Yes. Mrs. Hudson, by name. Charming lady. A bit deaf. I dressed myself as a nonconformist clergyman and went to Baker Street at a time I knew Holmes would be out. I told Mrs. Hudson that I needed the great man's services immediately. I was very put out that he wasn't at home. I told her I needed Holmes in relation to a case involving a politician, a lighthouse, and a trained cormorant. She told me that it was just the sort of thing that Mr. Holmes would be happy to take up, but that at the moment he was working with the police on the baffling murders of those aristocrats."
"I see," Barnett said.
"I told the charming lady how sorry I was to have missed Mr. Holmes, and that I was unable to wait. She begged me to stay, saying she was sure Holmes would want to talk with me. I said something to the effect that I thought so myself, but I really couldn't stay."
Barnett shook his head. "There is a certain justice in all of this, you will have to admit," he said. "While you are out with a false beard questioning Sherlock Holmes's landlady, he is having your house watched by Scotland Yard."
"There is indeed an elegant symmetry," Moriarty admitted. "But I assure you there was no false beard. Ecclesiastical muttonchops was as far as I went."
The Mummer hopped down from the bench, where he had been examining the telescope. "Quite a pickle you've got there, Professor," he said. "Is there anything else you need of me?"
Moriarty thought this over for a minute. "Yes," he said. "Go to that cupboard in the corner and open it up. Mr. Potts, please give the Mummer your key."
Tolliver took the key from old Potts and skipped over to the corner. He opened the cabinet, and for a second Barnett felt his heart rap against his chest and he caught his breath. There, inside the cabinet, was Professor Moriarty!
Barnett half turned to make sure that the professor was still, in reality, standing alongside of him, and then he approached the cabinet to figure out what he had just seen. It still, even from four feet away, appeared to be Moriarty closeted within the narrow confines of the small cabinet. He bent down to examine the apparition. "A dummy!" he exclaimed.
"Indeed," Moriarty said. "It was made at my direction some time ago. Amberly, the forger, did the face of papier-mâché, with the coloring accomplished with stage makeup dissolved in wax. Do you think it is good? You are a better judge than I, as my face is seldom visible to me except reversed in a glass."
"Good?" Barnett cried. "It is excellent! Remarkable!"
"I am glad to hear that," Moriarty said. "Because for the next two weeks, that dummy will be me." He turned to old Potts. "Do you think you can make a frame for it that the Mummer can wear on his shoulders?"
Old Potts looked reflectively at Tolliver and at the dummy. "Take a couple of hours," he said.
"Excellent," Moriarty said. "Then I leave with my telescope. Mummer, you will be me while I am gone. Follow Barnett's suggestions in that regard. That should keep the hounds away from Crimpton Moor while I complete these observations."
"I'll do my best, Professor," the Mummer said.
Moriarty turned to Barnett. "I leave you in charge of such of my activities as come within your purview in my absence," he said. "Do not get overenthusiastic. I shall see you in a fortnight."
"Goodbye, Professor," Barnett said. "Good luck!"
"Indeed?" Moriarty said. "Let us hope that luck plays small part in either of our endeavors for the next two weeks. For if you invoke the good, you may have to settle for the other. Goodbye, Mr. Barnett."
SEVEN — INTERLUDE: THE WIND
Thou wilt not with predestined evil round Enmesh, and then impute my fall to sin!
— Edward Fitzgerald
By ten-thirty in the evening he was done with his day's work, which had been his life's work; the daily repetition that had been his life, and was now but a senseless blur that marked the passing time. At ten-thirty he would be able to come to life; the new life that spread its endless days before him: days of seeking, days of hunting, days of revenge, days full of the infinite jest that had become his life, the jest that was death. At ten-thirty, with the sun safely down, the creature of the night that he had become could once more roam the streets of London and stalk its prey.
But he had to hunt out the right streets, for his prey was subtle; stalk silently through the ever-changing streets, for his prey was wily. And his prey was clever, for they went about disguised as gentlemen; but he knew them for secret devils by the mark of Cain, the hidden mark of Cain they wore.
He walked west on Long Acre, with a quick, gliding step, his great cape gathered about his stocky form, and considered where to go; where best to hunt for the hated men, the evil men, the doomed men.
It was the hunt that kept him alive. He did not want to live. His wish, his dream, his desire was but to die; to join his beloved Annie. But first there was this work to do. He was the wind.
This was Wednesday, the last Wednesday in March, and that was good. The fog, the all-enveloping fog, had returned tonight, and that was also good. Wednesday they were out, the men he sought. Wednesday they gamed, they drank, they did unspeakable things to innocent children. This Wednesday, with the help of a nameless god, another of them would die.
Frequently they changed the place at which they met, the building which housed them in their pleasures. Their horrible pleasures. They must have some means of communicating with each other, some devil's post office by which they could know when to change and where then to go. But although he had searched for some clue to what it was in the chambers of those he had already killed, and though he was skilled at reading such clues, he had not found it yet.
But he had his Judas goats, those he knew who would unknowingly be spared so that they could lead him to those he sought.
He quickened his step. It would not do to reach the Allegro after the evening performance had let out. The Allegro always ran a trifle late, trying to cram in fourteen turns where most houses were satisfied with twelve. But it served him well these nights. This Judas goat liked pretty girls, and the Allegro had a line of pretty girls. This Judas goat had a box at the Allegro, the closest box to the stage.
He stopped across the street from the Allegro, out of the actinic glare that curved around the theater entrance from the bright gaslights embedded in the ornate marquee overhead. From this shadowed position he could see all who left the theater through the lobby, without himself being seen. If necessary he could reach the cab stand in a few strides, if he had to give chase.
Five minutes passed, and then ten, as he stood in his dark corner, muffled by the creeping fog. And then the lobby of the Allegro began to fill, and the patrons of such of the arts as were represented by the evening's entertainments prepared to go home. Or elsewhere.