Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

A line of red-coated soldiers marched into the limelight from the left, the direction of the Hornblower, and the Lord East treasure. Leading them, astride three spirited chargers, were a colonel, a brigadier, and Lord East. It was, as it had been contrived to be, an inspiring sight.

As the reporters fell silent at Lord East's approach, Moriarty leaned over to Barnett and whispered, "Ready?"

"Yes," Barnett replied, feeling his heart beat faster.

Moriarty nodded. "We have one thing to thank that mysterious murderer for," he commented.

"We do? What's that?"

"Were it not for him, Sherlock Holmes would even now be sitting behind us disguised as an itinerant colorman, breathing down our necks."

"He did have three Scotland Yard men following you about," Barnett reminded Moriarty.

"Yes, but we were able to divert them with little trouble. Holmes would have been much more difficult to get rid of. Even now he must be spending whatever time he can spare in wondering where I've got to. It is these small things that make life worth living."

"You are a vindictive man, Professor," Barnett said.

"Nonsense!" Moriarty whispered. "I would gladly be willing to relinquish the childish pleasure I get in thwarting him if he would give up following me about and spying on me. I think East is about to speak."

"Welcome!" Lord East bellowed to the assemblage on the grandstand, maneuvering his horse in close to the railing. "I apologize for getting you all up at such a ridiculous hour to witness the loading, but we want to have a clear run to London during the daylight hours. I'm sure you can understand." As he spoke, his horse began walking around in a small circle. His lordship, trying to ignore this, gradually twisted around in his saddle until he was speaking over the animal's rump. Then, in a sudden fit of anger, he put his spurs to the animal to make it obey the reins. The horse responded by kicking up sharply with its hind feet, causing his lordship to lose his stirrups and almost fly head over rump to the earth below. He caught himself, barely, by grabbing onto the saddle with both hands, pulled himself up, and savagely yanked the horse around to face the group. "Military mount," he said in an annoyed undertone that carried across the field. "Always give the best of everything to the military!"

The soldiers had now formed a double line leading from somewhere to the left of the limelit area to the loading platform. The shifting of the Lord East Collection from the battleship to the railway train was about to commence. "It should take a bit over two hours to transfer the entire collection into the ten goods wagons," Lord East explained, having regained control of his mouth. "But you must understand that this is, metaphorically speaking, only the tip of a vast iceberg. Hundreds and hundreds of man-hours have already gone into the preparations. Wafting the collection ashore and loading it onto the baggage carts which will bring it here was a process which began yesterday evening and was not completed until but a short time ago."

" 'E don't want us to think it was easy," someone behind Barnett muttered.

"Where is the official photographer?" Lord East fretted. "I wanted the whole process captured on glass plates. History is being made here!"

The first baggage cart appeared, pushed between the twin rows of soldiers and onto the loading platform by an octet of workmen who, judging by their appearance and dress, must have been brought back from India by Lord East. It held twelve large statues of different ancient gods and goddesses of various Indian religions, deities that would have been very surprised to have ended up on the same small cart. The workmen rapidly and efficiently prised the statuary off the cart and into the goods wagon, tying the pieces into place with a complex of ropes and scaffolding.

There was a pause in the loading now, and a certain amount of backtracking, while the official photographer bustled up and set up his apparatus to the side of the grandstand. Lord East and his entourage assumed a variety of poses that were supposed to suggest the earlier stages of the operation before continuing with the job.

The next cart held what looked like a load of bricks. Lord East's audience broke into a subdued chattering at the sight of it, as the reporters tried to guess the history and purpose of the load. Some of the suggestions as to the uses to which the bricks could be put were rather imaginative. "Sun-baked bricks," Lord East explained, "forming a lovely frieze that went around the wall of a four-thousand-year-old temple. Quite beautiful. A pair of hunters accosting a lion, I believe. The bricks were all numbered with Chinese chalk when we took it apart, but many of the numbers seem to have rubbed off during the journey. Or perhaps during the five years in storage. I hope we can reassemble it, nonetheless; it really was quite striking."

Barnett's brief but essential part in Professor Moriarty's master plan for the acquisition of the Lord East Collection was to be enacted as the third treasure chest was being loaded. What he was to do was clear, and not overly difficult, given the known habits of his brother reporters. Why he was to do it was another matter. Moriarty was not communicative with his plans. It was enough for one to execute his part; one was not called upon to understand what he was doing, or why. Barnett gave a mental shrug as he prepared to move.

The third wagon was loaded now, and sealed; the fourth was about to be rolled into its place before the platform. Lord East rode over to the loading platform to supervise as his most precious cargo was installed in its place.

Barnett unostentatiously moved up one row in the grandstand and over toward the middle. His colleague Inglestone was sitting a few seats over from where Barnett now found himself, doing his best to ignore Barnett's existence. He must be still smarting from having to pay the bill the night before, Barnett decided. He would serve well as Barnett's unwitting ally.

Barnett slid over along the bench and slapped Inglestone on the back. "How are you, friend?" he asked solicitously. "Sleep well?"

"As well as could be expected, old man," Inglestone said frostily. "You owe me fourteen bob."

"Do I?" Barnett leaned back, his elbows on the seat behind. He pitched his voice just loud enough so that the reporters in the seats surrounding could overhear. "Well then, I'll tell you what: I'll give you a chance to get even."

"How's that?" Inglestone asked, sounding annoyed. "It wasn't a question of a wager, old man; this was cold, hard cash."

"Ah, yes," Barnett said. "But there's wagers and there's wagers." He indicated the first treasure chest, now being loaded into the wagon. "I'll bet you five quid on the nose that there's nothing in that there box."

Inglestone turned to stare at him. "What do you mean?" he asked. "The treasure chest?"

"You've got it," Barnett said. "Five quid says that the so-called treasure chest is empty."

"What are you saying, Barnett?" the columnist for the Evening Standard demanded, his mustache twitching.

The first chest was now in place in the goods wagon, and the second was being brought up. "I say they're empty," Barnett said.

"That's ridiculous!" the Morning Intelligencer-Whig declared. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"Have you seen inside any of those chests?" Barnett demanded. "I'm saying there's a reason. I say they're empty!"

Heinrich von Hertzog, British correspondent for the Berliner Tagenblatt, nodded his head sagely. "It could be," he said. "It makes sense."

Barnett was glad to hear that, because the one thing that had worried him was that his accusation made no sense whatsoever, as far as he could tell. "Of course it does," he agreed.