Anthony Horowitz - Moriarty

‘It was a brilliant opportunity. We had an agent right inside the gang and although Jonathan never came face to face with Devereux—how much easier it would have made our task if he had!—he did have access to much of Mortlake’s correspondence. Although it placed him in the greatest personal danger, he eavesdropped on conversations, kept an eye on everyone who came and went and made extensive notes on the workings of the gang. I used to meet with him secretly on the third Sunday of every month at the Haymarket, a dance hall on Thirtieth Street. He would report everything that he had learned to me.

‘From him, I gathered that although Clarence Devereux exerted almost total control over the American underworld, it still was not enough. He was turning his attention to England. He had been in communication with a certain Professor James Moriarty, exploring the possibility of what might be termed a transatlantic alliance. Can you imagine it, Inspector Jones? A criminal fraternity whose tentacles would extend all the way from the west coast of California to the heart of Europe! A worldwide confederation. The coming together of two evil geniuses.’

‘You knew of Moriarty?’

‘By name and by reputation, most certainly. Although it is unfortunately true that Scotland Yard is not always co-operative in its dealings with Pinkerton’s, we still have our contacts within the New York police—and for that matter with the Rijkswacht and the Sûreté. We had always been afraid that one day Moriarty might head west but it now appeared that the exact opposite had occurred.

‘Scotchy Lavelle, Leland Mortlake and Edgar Mortlake had all set themselves up in London by the start of the New Year. Jonathan had gone with them and, a few weeks later, he sent us a telegraph to the effect that Clarence Devereux had also joined them. It was exactly what we had been waiting for. There are not so many forty-year-old wealthy Americans in London. His psychological condition, if true, could also help to identify him. At once, the Midnight Watch drew together the passenger lists of every steamship that had made the crossing from America to England in the past month and although it was a huge task—there were hundreds of names—we still thought it possible to narrow them down. Unless Clarence Devereux had somehow found a way to fly, he must be among them and to find him we worked night and day.

‘While this was continuing, we received a second telegraph from Jonathan Pilgrim informing us that he had personally delivered a letter to Moriarty, arranging a meeting between him and Devereux. Yes! Our agent had actually met Moriarty. The two of them talked. But the very next day, before he could tell us exactly what had taken place, tragedy struck: Jonathan must have been discovered by the gang. Perhaps that last telegraph was the undoing of him. At any event, he was brutally killed.’

‘He was tied up and shot. I remember the report.’

‘Yes, Inspector—this was not so much a murder as an execution. It is how New York gangs frequently deal with informers.’

‘Even so, you followed him across the Atlantic.’

‘I still believed it would be easier to find Devereux in London than it was in New York and it also occurred to me that if I could pinpoint this meeting between Devereux and Moriarty, why, it would be two birds with one stone: the arrest of the two greatest criminals on the planet at one fell swoop.

‘So you can imagine my dismay when I disembarked from my vessel, stepping on English soil for the first time, only to see the newspaper headlines… Moriarty believed dead. That was May seventh. My immediate thought was to come here to Meiringen, a village I had never heard of in a country I had never visited. Why? Because of the letter; if Moriarty still had it with him, it might lead me to Devereux. It even occurred to me that Devereux might be here and that his presence might be connected in some way to what had occurred at the Reichenbach Falls. At any event, there was nothing to be gained by kicking my heels in Southampton. I took the first train to Paris and then down to Switzerland and I was attempting to prise some sort of co-operation from the Swiss police—without much success—this morning when you and I met.’

I fell silent. It was too late now to attack my soup, which had cooled in the long telling of my tale. I took instead a sip of wine, which tasted sweet and heavy on my lips. Inspector Jones had listened to my long discourse as if the two of us had been alone in the room. I knew that he had absorbed every detail, that he had missed nothing and would—if called upon—be able to set down almost everything I had said. And yet it was not without effort. I had already marked him as the sort of man who sets the very highest standards for himself but who achieves them only through perseverance and fortitude. It was as if he were at war with himself.

‘Your informant, Jonathan Pilgrim; do you know where he was staying?’

‘He had rooms at a club—the Bostonian. I believe it is in a part of London called Mayfair. If he had one weakness as an agent, it is that he was independently minded. He told us very little and will, I am sure, have left nothing behind.’

‘What of the others? The Mortlake brothers and Lavelle?’

‘As far as I know, they are still in London.’

‘You know them. You know what they look like. Can you not use them to reach Devereux?’

‘They are too careful. If they ever meet, it is in secret and behind locked doors. They communicate only through telegrams and secret codes.’

Jones considered what I had told him. I watched the flames devouring the logs in the fireplace and waited for him to speak. ‘Your story is of the greatest interest,’ he said at length. ‘And I would see no reason not to offer you my assistance. However, it may already be too late.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Now that Moriarty is dead, why should this man, Clarence Devereux, wish to remain in London?’

‘Because it may be an opportunity for him; Devereux was suggesting some sort of partnership. With Moriarty gone, everything can be his alone. He can inherit Moriarty’s entire organisation.’

Jones sniffed at that. ‘We had arrested pretty much the entire gang before Professor Moriarty reached Meiringen,’ he remarked. ‘And Sherlock Holmes himself had left an envelope containing the identities and the addresses of many of his associates. Clarence Devereux may have come to England in search of a business partner but he will have already discovered that his journey was in vain. The same, I fear, may be true for you.’

‘The note that we found in Moriarty’s pocket—you said it would shed some light on the affair.’

‘And so it does.’

‘You have solved it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then tell me, for Heaven’s sake! Moriarty may be finished but Clarence Devereux most certainly is not and if there is anything you or I can do to rid the world of this evil creature, we must not hesitate.’

Jones had finished his soup. He moved his plate aside, clearing a space, then took out the sheet of paper, unfolded it and laid it in front of me. It seemed to me that the restaurant had suddenly become quieter. The candles were throwing dark, nimble shadows across the tables. The animal heads craned towards us as if trying to listen in.

Once again I read the extract with its jumble of capital and small letters.

‘It makes no sense to you?’ Jones enquired.

‘None at all.’

‘Then let me explain.’

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