Detective Gordon drifted away to lounge on the museum steps, and Holmes began an enthusiastic rendition of St. Paul's Cathedral in pink chalk as Moriarty's four-wheeler passed in front of the British Museum and pulled to a stop at 64 Russell Square. A hansom cab loaded down by two large men in black bowlers who were doing their best to look invisible pulled off into Montague Street right before Moriarty's carriage stopped.
The carriage door opened, and the hulking figure of the professor emerged, his black greatcoat buttoned up to the neck. Holmes stared at the familiar figure. It was Moriarty, all right; there was no mistaking the massive forehead under that top hat, the slightly bulging eyes, the beak of a nose. But there was something wrong; something Holmes couldn't put a name to. Moriarty moved up the steps to his front door with a rapid walk, taking curiously short steps. The door opened as he reached it, and he disappeared inside.
What was wrong? Holmes went over in his mind what he had just seen. Something—
Holmes fell backward to a sitting position on the pavement and threw the piece of chalk in the air. "Perfect!" he yelled. "Oh, perfect!" He burst out laughing.
Detective Gordon came up behind Holmes, trying to look casual. "What is it, Mr. Holmes?" he asked out of the side of his mouth, staring earnestly down at the pink dome of St. Paul's.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Holmes gasped. "You saw Moriarty go into the house."
"I did," Gordon said, sounding puzzled.
"You did!" Holmes broke out laughing again. "Oh, that is rich. I have to give him credit for this one."
Detectives Macy and Stevens, the two bulky gentlemen who had been in the hansom following Moriarty's carriage, came trotting down the street, ready to take up their observation posts. "Those must be your friends coming," Holmes said. "Call them over here, Detective Gordon. Call them over here."
"But Mr. Holmes," Gordon said, "Professor Moriarty might see us together. It is very bad for an observation team to allow the subject to see them all bunched together."
Gordon looked puzzled when this statement also caused Holmes to laugh. He shrugged and signaled Macy and Stevens to join them, and explained to them who the ragged-looking street artist was while Holmes stood up and dusted himself off.
"Gentlemen," Holmes said after shaking hands with the two policemen, "no need to worry about Professor Moriarty seeing us together. No need to keep watching his house, for that matter. The professor has made fools of the three of you. He has almost made a fool of me."
"What's that? What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?" Detective Gordon asked.
"Why, man, you saw it. You just don't know what you saw."
"Saw what, Mr. Holmes?" Detective Stevens asked.
"The gentleman who just left that carriage, Mr. Stevens. The gentleman whom you have been following about for the past few days. It isn't Professor Moriarty at all!"
"What?" Stevens asked.
"But," Gordon protested, "how could you mistake that face? He is a very distinctive-looking man, the professor."
"Indeed he is," Holmes agreed. "And that has been your downfall. You have been so preoccupied with his face that you never noticed his feet!"
"His feet?" Gordon asked.
"And his arms. You really should have noticed his arms. I should say that the motions of his arms were quite worthy of notice."
"But, Mr. Holmes," Gordon protested, "as I remember, his arms didn't move."
"True. They did not. And was that not quite remarkable?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. Holmes," Gordon said. Stevens and Macy looked uncomfortably away, as though wishing to disassociate themselves from this madman that the Commissioner of Police had temporarily placed over them.
Holmes looked from one to the other of them, and then burst out laughing again. "Why, men, don't you see? It wasn't Moriarty at all. It was a wax dummy. That's what you saw last night, and that's what we just saw emerging from the carriage."
"A wax dummy, sir? Walking?" Gordon asked.
"Judging by the stride, I should say it was being carried on the shoulders of a midget," Holmes said.
Gordon looked stricken. "A midget!" he exclaimed. "Mummer Tolliver!"
"Exactly!" Holmes said. "Why, man, didn't you see that short stride? It shouldn't have fooled us for a second."
"Well, sir, what do we do now?" Gordon asked.
"We call for some more men to surround the house," Holmes said. "Subtly, very subtly. And then, acting on information received, we get an order from the Home Secretary and proceed to search the house from top to bottom."
"Information received? From whom, sir?"
"From me, Detective Gordon, from me!" Holmes said firmly.
NINE — THE CHASE
As I was going up the stair I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again to-day. I wish, I wish he'd stay away.
— Hughes Mearns
A mass of burly policemen in ill-fitting civilian clothes burst through the front door of 64 Russell Square when Mr. Maws answered the bell. Five of them grabbed the powerful butler and were struggling to subdue him and clap handcuffs on him when Barnett, in a mouse-gray dressing gown, armed with a large revolver, ran out of the dining room to see what the commotion was about. "What's this?" he yelled. "Unhand him, you men, and put your hands up! Mrs. H, run outside and whistle for a policeman."
"Come, come, now, Mr. Barnett," Sherlock Holmes said, appearing in the front doorway. "You know quite well that these men are policemen. Now put down that horse pistol and behave like a gentleman."
"Mr. Holmes!" Barnett exclaimed. "Is this your idea? Will you please tell me what it is that's happening? If you are responsible for the hoard of burly savages in this hallway, will you make some attempt to get them to behave in a civilized fashion. Have you a warrant for Mr. Maws arrest? If so, on what charge?"
"Nobody is attempting to arrest your butler," Holmes said. "It merely seemed to us that the element of surprise might be useful. We do have a warrant to search this house. And we intend to do so, immediately."
"That's fine," Barnett said. "Show me the warrant and, if it is in order, go ahead and search the house. There is no call to manhandle the butler."
"Where is your master?" Holmes asked, signaling the policemen to release Mr. Maws.
"I have no master," Barnett said. "I am an American. George the Third was the last man to consider himself our master, and he's been dead these past sixty-seven years."
Mr. Maws dusted off his jacket and trousers. "If any one of you gentleman would like to step outside," he said, his voice a study in exaggerated politeness, "I would be delighted to give him a lesson in proper manners. Or any three of you?"
"I do apologize, Mr. Maws," Holmes said lightly. "These gentlemen were merely overeager, having heard of your reputation as a pugilist, I'm sure. No harm done."
"Lucky thing, that," Mr. Maws said. "Busting in here like that. Grabbing a man and tussling about with him. Where do you think you are, France?"
"The police would like to ask some questions of Professor James Moriarty," Holmes said. "Where is he?"
"Not at home at the moment," Barnett said. "Had you sent word that you were coming, I'm sure he would have stayed around to greet you."
"Where has he gone?" Holmes asked. "And when did he leave?"
"Why?" Barnett asked.
"What do you mean, why?" Holmes demanded, eyeing Barnett closely. "Exactly which of the words did you fail to understand?"
"I mean, why do you want to know?" Barnett said, glaring back at Holmes, his arms crossed across his chest and his voice even. "What right have you to burst in here, attack a resident of the house, and demand to know anything at all about Professor Moriarty? Why did you bring fifteen policemen? On what basis did you get a warrant to search this house? Mr. Holmes, I think perhaps you have gone too far."