Anthony Horowitz - Moriarty

‘You waiting for someone?’ he asked. His voice was husky, almost that of a man.

‘I might be,’ I replied.

‘Nice tulip. Not something you would see every day, mister, I would say.’

‘A red tulip,’ I agreed. ‘Does it signify something to you?’

‘It might do. It might not.’

He fell silent.

‘What is your name?’ I asked.

‘Do I need a name?’ He winked at me, mischievously. ‘I wouldn’t say I do, mister. What good is a name when one is ’ardly going to be hac-quainted. But I’ll tell you what. If you want to call me something, you can call me Perry.’

Inspector Jones was still pretending to read his newspaper but I knew that he was attending to every word that was spoken. He had lowered the page a little so that he could peek over the top but at the same time his face was blank, showing no interest at all.

‘Well, Perry,’ I said, ‘there was someone I was waiting to meet but I can say without doubt that it’s not you.’

‘Of course not, mister, my job is to bring you to ’im but first we ’ave to ascertain that you is who you say you is. You got the tulip, sure enough. But do you ’ave a certain letter that was sent to you by my master?’

I did indeed have the torn page with the coded message. It was Jones who had suggested that I might be asked to present it and so I had brought it with me. I drew it out and placed it on the table.

The boy barely glanced at it. ‘Are you the professor?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ I said, keeping my voice low.

‘Professor Moriarty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not drowned in the Reeking-back Falls?’

‘Why do you ask these foolish questions?’ This was surely how the real Moriarty would speak. ‘It was your master who arranged this meeting. If you persist in wasting my time, I can assure you, you will suffer the consequences.’

But the boy was not to be intimidated. ‘Then tell me how many ravens flew out of the Tower of London?’

‘What?’

‘The ravens. The tower. How many?’

It was the one eventuality we had most feared. Turning over the plan on our long train journey, Jones and I had discussed the likelihood of there being a recognition signal. Two criminals of the magnitude of Clarence Devereux and Professor James Moriarty would not deliver themselves into each other’s hands without the certainty that they were safe. And here was the final precaution—a riddle taking the form of an exchange of words which must have been agreed in a separate communication.

I waved the question aside. ‘Enough of these stupid games,’ I said. ‘I have travelled a long way to meet with Clarence Devereux. You know who I’m talking about. Don’t pretend! I see it in your eyes.’

‘You’re mistaken, mister. I’ve never heard that name.’

‘Then why are you here? You know me. You know of the letter. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.’

The boy was suddenly anxious to be on his way. I saw him glance at the door and a moment later he pulled away from the table, getting to his feet. But before he could move, I grabbed hold of his arm, pinning him down.

‘Tell me where I can find him,’ I said. I was keeping my voice low, aware of the other diners all around me, sipping their coffees and their wine, ordering their food, chatting animatedly as they began their lunch. Athelney Jones was still sitting at his table, close to me and yet completely separate. Nobody in the room had noticed us. At that moment, as we played out our little drama, we were quite alone.

‘There’s no need to get nasty, mister.’ Perry’s voice was also low but it was ugly, filled with threat.

‘I will not let you leave until you tell me what I want to know.’

‘You’re ’urting me!’ Tears sprang to his eyes as if to remind me that he was, after all, only a child. But then, even as I hesitated, he twisted in my grasp and suddenly I felt something pressing against my neck. How he had managed to produce it with just one hand is beyond me but I could feel it cutting through my skin even though he was barely exerting any pressure at all. Looking down, I saw the weapon that he had withdrawn from somewhere inside his jacket. It was a horrible thing—a black-handled surgeon’s knife with a blade that must have measured at least five inches. He was holding it very carefully so that only he and I could see it although surely the gentleman at the next table might have caught sight of it had he not, inexplicably, returned to his French newspaper.

‘Let me go,’ the boy hissed, ‘or by God, I’ll cut your throat clean through, ’ere and now, and put all these nice people off their dinners, no mistake. I’ve seen the blood shoot seven feet up when I done it before. Come gushing out, it does. Not the sort of thing you want to ’appen in a posh ’ouse like this.’ He pressed with his hand and I felt a trickle of blood run down the side of my neck.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ I whispered. ‘I am Moriarty…’

‘No more fun and games, mister. You been done by them ravens. I’m going to count to three…’

‘There’s no need for this!’

‘One—’

‘I’m telling you—’

‘Two…’

He didn’t reach three. I let him go. He was a devil-child and he had made it quite clear that he would happily commit murder, even in this public place. Meanwhile, Jones had done nothing, although he must have seen what was happening. Would he have stood by and let the boy murder me in plain sight to achieve his aim? The boy hurried away, weaving through the crowd. I snatched up a napkin and held it against my neck. When I looked up again, Jones was on his feet, moving away.

‘Is everything all right, monsieur?’ A waiter had appeared, conjuring himself up from nowhere, and hovered over me, his face filled with alarm.

I took away the napkin and saw a smear of bright red blood on the linen. ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘A small accident.’

I hurried to the door but by the time I reached the street it was too late. Both Inspector Jones and the boy who called himself Perry had gone.

I didn’t see Jones until the following day when he came hurrying into my hotel, full of the same nervous energy that I had witnessed when he was deciphering the message taken from the dead man’s pocket. I had just breakfasted when he arrived and sat down opposite me.

‘This is where you’re staying, Chase?’ He looked around him at the shabby wallpaper and the few tables positioned close to one another on the well-trodden carpet. I had been kept awake half the night by a man with a racking cough who, for some reason, had been given the room next to mine. I had expected him to join me in the breakfast room but so far he had not shown himself. Apart from this one mysterious guest, I was alone at Hexam’s and frankly I was not surprised. It wasn’t the sort of accommodation that Baedeker or Murray would have recommended, unless it was to avoid. Accordingly, we had the breakfast room to ourselves. ‘Well, I suppose it will do well enough. Not quite the Clarendon but things are proceeding apace and with luck, it may only be a matter of weeks before you are on your way back to New York.’ He rested his stick against the table and suddenly he was more solicitous. ‘You were not hurt, I trust. I saw the boy produce the knife and didn’t know what to do.’

‘You could have stopped him.’

‘And given us both away? From the look of him, he wasn’t the sort to yield under pressure. If I had arrested him, it would have achieved nothing.’

I ran a finger along the mark that Perry had left on my neck. ‘It was a close-run thing,’ I said. ‘He could have cut my throat.’

‘Forgive me, my friend. I had to make a judgement. I had no time to think.’