Kim Newman - Professor Moriarty The Hound of the D'Urbervilles

Just remember, when that sycophant Watson credits him with the fall of the Firm, the Great Detective had to be told about us. Our real arch-enemy was ‘Fred Porlock’.

XI

While Moriarty was in Baker Street, I arranged murder attempts. The bloodhound needed pepper on his tail, so near misses were to be contrived. As I’ve said before, it’s too easy to misjudge and put a warning shot in someone’s fool head.

The Professor returned to HQ and gave a report of his meeting with the Thin Man. He was especially full of himself.

‘His nerves are shot, Moran. He hides behind curtains. He knows about the Von Herder, and is terrified to show a silhouette at the window. He takes precautions when out and about, changing directions like a compulsive, suspecting any who might approach. Yet he leaves his doors unlocked. His lodgings are open to any who might wander in. In his present state, failing to assassinate him will be a challenge. We’ll have to shield him from harm he might do himself. I intended to present my card and confront him in his hallway. But I was un-greeted and unopposed. I climbed the stairs to his flat but held back at the doormat. Surely, the extraordinary lack of security was a lure for an ingenious trap…? But, no, he offers open invitation. I found the Great Detective shrinking in his study, surrounded by scribbled notes. He has an untidy mind, reflected in his surroundings. There is no logic to the clutter. His interests are higgledy-piggledy. He is not an impressive specimen.

Startled at my presence on his threshold, he reached into his pocket as if caught doing something unmanly by a schoolmaster.

‘“You have less frontal development than I should have expected,” I said. “It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing gown.”

‘He wasn’t even dressed for the day. At eleven-thirty in the morning. His hair a rats’ nest, he was in pyjamas under that vile grey gown. He took out a revolver and put it on the table.

‘“You evidently don’t know me,” I said.

‘“On the contrary,” he answered, “I think it is fairly evident that I do. Pray take a chair. I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to say.”

‘“All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,” I said.

‘“Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,” he replied.

‘“You stand fast?”

‘“Absolutely.”

‘I took out my memorandum book, which startled him into making a grab for the gun. He almost shot himself, Moran. Or shit himself. One or the other — or both. That such a creature should esteem himself capable of destroying me! I allowed him the comfort of the weapon. I enumerated dates upon which he had meddled in our affairs, emphasising occasions when he thought his part unknown to me. You should have seen his eyes. He has a drug addict’s eyes. He uses cocaine, and lies to his doctor about the dosage. Thirty-seven per cent solution, I should say. I told him he must drop the case.

“After Monday,” he said.

“‘I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair,” I told him. “It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you that it really would.”

‘“Danger is part of my trade,’ he remarked, sweat on his brow.

‘It was not danger I offered him, I said, but inevitable destruction. Having flattered him with weasel words about his intellect, I crushed him. He must stand clear or be trodden underfoot. I hinted, Moran, at matters I knew would run through his brain — even if he chooses to keep them private from his closest confidantes. I let him know he did not yet perceive the extent of the forces he was meddling with. For the sake of what he took to be a smart retort, he had come out and told me when the axe would fall. We are to expect raids on Monday. That is when Scotland Yard will swoop, will attempt to net our entire organisation. They will knock before dawn, as usual, kickin doors, roust felons from beds, and slap the darbies [56] Darbies: handcuffs. on us. This honest, unimaginative soul has not the wit to keep back vital intelligence. If I were to tell a man I would murder him on Monday, it would be a ruse. I’d strike on Sunday, before he was prepared, or Tuesday, while he congratulated himself on besting me. The Thin Man is so confident in his victory, he cannot help but celebrate the win before the race is finished.

‘I did not tell him about Dr Mabuse, but talked up the “duel between us” in such a way as to let him glimpse the possibility he was acting in another’s interests. I could see him pick up the clues I scattered like spittle on the carpet. He thinks slowly, Moran. He forges chains of reason, link by link. It is a simple matter to nudge, to steer his course. I know his every move, his every thought. I saw a realisation dawn that there was a Great Unknown in the game… that this shadow man might not be an abstract servant of justice, but a subtle criminal. I let him see that the smashing of Moriarty would create a vacuum, inviting in a successor who would credit him, the servant of justice, with clearing the way for a lasting empire of crime. I gave him the scent, Moran. The merest whiff. I named no names, though “Fred Porlock” hung in the air. He has had report of the Kallinikos. He has file-cards on major European criminals. Little notes to himself. On yours, he has scrawled “the second most dangerous man in London”. Under “Dr Mabuse”, he has written a question mark. My visit has underlined that question mark.

‘“You hope to place me in the dock,” I said. “I tell you that I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you.”

‘“You have paid me several compliments, Mr Moriarty,” said he…

‘“Professor Moriarty,” I corrected him.

‘“Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality, I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept the latter.”

‘There is no reason with such a man, Moran. “I can promise you the one, but not the other,” I said calmly, and left him to his funk. A morning’s work. I trust you have done as well.’

Moriarty’s smug air of having effected a major coup rubbed me the wrong way. All he’d done was exchange schoolboy ‘yah boo to you’ taunts with the Thin Man in his den. In contrast to his gloating, I merely gave a statement of what had been arranged for the afternoon’s entertainment.

The rule of three applied. This afternoon, our man would survive convincingly serious encounters with a runaway van, falling masonry and Bruiser Downes. The bandages were off and the wounds healed, but Downes was broken — his reputation would never recover from the Tite Street rout. If the Bruiser were taken in on an assault charge, it would be no loss. These trifling gestures should chivvy along the detective. Moriarty said he’d scurry for his doctor like a maiden aunt with the sniffles. Just to put a cherry on top, Benny Blazes was due to set light to the Thin Man’s digs that evening. Those damned index cards, the Persian slippers full of shag and the dusty back-editions of the Police Gazette — I’m sure the Great Detective said he subscribed for the articles and ignored the illustrations — had the makings of a fine old bonfire, though our reliable arsonist was under orders not to do too much damage.