Moriarty was the shark now, scores of teeth in his smile.
I did not raise the matter foremost in my mind as these subtle, cruel, cunning, logical madmen entered into the final phase of their protracted dance. Whichever mind mastered the others, the Firm would — unless drastic measures were taken — be practically extinct come Monday morning.
And since when was I only the second most dangerous man in London?!
XII
So, to Switzerland…
I have no idea how the Thin Man tracked Mabuse to Meiringen. Thanks to the bloodhound’s (if I might say) Moriartian habit of not telling his number two anything important, J.H. Watson, Medical Dolt, is in the dark too. In his scandal sheet write-up, Watson presents his friend’s bizarre decision to hare off across Europe, rather than stay in London to close his greatest case, as a spur-of-the-moment decision to take a pleasant holiday. Of course, this is from the man who claimed he hadn’t heard of Moriarty until that week… then later ‘remembered’ he’d been made aware of the Professor, ‘Fred Porlock’ and the Firm much earlier [57]. As I’ve said, the detective was in that bad business at Birlstone Manor. Not to do speak ill of the annoying, but note: when the Thin Man cracked the case, he announced the supposed victim was still alive. I’m sure Birdy Edwards, when thrown into the sea, found time to thank the sleuth for deigning to solve the mystery of his fake murder so Moriarty could commit his real one.
As then, the Thin Man was flushing out our quarry for us. We really should have bunged him some cash for services rendered.
Moriarty told me to pack the Von Herder for a hunting trip. He had spies at all the transport terminals and, after supper, a message came in from Victoria Station that our bloodhound had reserved a carriage on the next morning’s boat-train to Paris. The Prof seized on this intelligence with a troubling glee. I’d seen it on tiger hunts: some idiot is so high on the idea of bagging a prize cat, he doesn’t much care if he comes back from the jaunt in one piece. The lives of native bearers — even other white guns — become a currency to be spent freely for a chance of a clean shot. On occasion, I have been that idiot. Now, I found myself thrust into the unwanted role of sensible companion.
All the while Moriarty was playing silly beggars, the Firm was coming apart. Our lieutenants were assailed by summonses to appear in court, notifications of legal action, constables brandishing fresh search warrants, and the sudden refusals of bought-and-paid-for officials to lose paperwork. When Patterson of the Yard showed up in his outer office, Nathaniel Rawlins squeezed through a tiny rear window. After wandering the streets in a tizzy, he hanged himself with his college scarf in a stall in the Theobald’s Row conveniences. Opinion differed as to whether Rawlins took the easy way out to avoid disgrace or knew that turning Queen’s Evidence to get off would earn him the ‘Fred Porlock’ treatment.
As it stood, I don’t know if the Prof had attention to spare for keeping the help terrified. He was busy giving a bewildered Polly instructions for the care of his wasps while he was away. He was most insistent the inconvenience of a police raid should not disturb the insects’ routine, and assured her that she’d be out on bail in time for their midday feed. I didn’t mention that our brief was dangling in a public bog and might not be at his best when delivering bonds.
Sophy was to be included in our party. It turned out, in one of those small-world-isn’t-it? — type things, she had cause to blame the Thin Man for failing to prevent her brother’s murder. Another instance of his habit of curing the disease only for the patient to die anyway. The Great Detective hadn’t even bothered to bring the killers of Paul Kratides to book, which is why Sophy had to do for Latimer and Kemp herself. I told her that the Prof wanted the boob alive for the moment. A disappointment, I fancy. I said it was probably all right if she wanted to cut Watson’s throat, but she shrugged that off as a distant second best. Women, eh?
If you want railway timetables, you’ll have to dig out The Strand. I’ve not the patience. The next day, the Thin Man and the Fat Head tried to shake us off by sending their luggage on to Paris while they hopped off the boat-train at Canterbury and took the Newhaven ferry to Dieppe. Moriarty saw through the trick, but decided our hound would sniff better if he thought he’d lost us. The Professor and I followed the trunks to Paris and spent a few days there as guests of Les Vampires. Sad to report, the Grand Vampire who’d come to Kingstead had just died in a fall from the Eiffel Tower, but his replacement was suitably hospitable. He only tried to murder us once, and then with little conviction, merely as a formality.
We all drank champagne out of Napoleon’s skull. I squired Irma Vep to the Moulin Rouge, where I merrily purloined the evening’s take as she performed a service for one of the first families of France. Jewels were abstracted from a dressing room before they could fall into the dainty clutches of a dancer who’d worked for a month to seduce a young vicomte to get them. Of course, Irma switched the sparklers and gave the old comte fakes, then whisked me off to after-hours anis in a den of apache.
While we were enjoying la vie Parisienne, the Thin Man spent two days in Brussels. That’s something of a record: I don’t know another Englishman who’s stuck Belgium for more than a single day without getting drunk on their beer, sick on their chocolate or in trouble with their schoolgirls. We knew what he was up to because Sophy, who’d stuck with him quietly while we ostentatiously lost his trail, sent telegrams every few hours. We also had word from London, via Simon Carne: Patterson had made his raids, most of the Firm were locked up, Margaret Trelawny was en route to Egypt, Mrs Halifax’s house was shuttered, the Creeper was reported drowned (a likely story) and Raffles found it expedient to spend some time in the nets. All this put me in an ill-humour. I know I was only an employee, but I’d put a great deal into the enterprise. I’d been on Moriarty’s rolls longer than I served with the bloody Bangalore Pioneers. I’d killed more people for him than for the Queen. The Firm meant more to me than f-king Eton! Since Sir Augustus turfed me out of the family pile, I’d messed temporarily all over the show. That brothel in Conduit Street was the nearest thing I’d had to a home. I didn’t care to think that was all over and ashes.
Moriarty betrayed no trace of feeling. He asked after his wasps, but that was all…
Seeing my concern, he set out his position.
‘When I return to London, Moran, I shall start again. From nothing. Free and clear. Unimpeded by fallible subordinates. Without clutter. This time, I shall follow strict mathematical formulae. I have involved myself in matters superfluous to the equation. This is an opportunity to wipe the blackboard clean. Within a year, I shall be able to concentrate. All possible threats to me will be eliminated. The work will continue, in a purer sphere. Then I shall get real results.’
57
Scholars have long noted that Watson and Doyle set out contradictory versions of Watson’s introduction to Moriarty in ‘The Final Problem’ and