Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

Moriarty took a large handkerchief from an inner pocket and fastidiously wiped his hands. "Before I left London," he said, "someone tried to kill me. Then again, when I arrived here in Constantinople, as you know, an attempt was made."

Barnett nodded. "I thought you didn't know why you were attacked," he said.

"I did not at the time," Moriarty said. "But when I arrived in Odessa I discovered that the Russian principal I had come to see wished to hire me to apprehend a dangerous man who is fanatically devoted to the Russian cause."

"The Russians want to hire you to catch someone devoted to their own cause?" Barnett asked.

"I will explain at some future time — if ever," Moriarty said. "For the moment, accept the fact."

"Go on," Barnett said.

"The Russian agent was aware that an attempt had been made to solicit my aid before I left London," Moriarty said. "It clearly was he who tried to kill me, both in London and here."

"Okay," Barnett said.

"Therefore, he followed me here. He did not follow me to Odessa, since I was taken aboard an Imperial steam-frigate for the trip there and back. Therefore, he was in Constantinople when the submersible exploded. Therefore, he was in Constantinople when Lieutenant Sefton was murdered and you were blamed.

"You have seen him?" Barnett asked.

"I have no idea who he is or what he looks like. It may not have been the subject himself, but one of his henchmen. I am assured that he has henchmen."

"But why would this mysterious man have done this thing to me?" Barnett demanded.

"Ah, but you see, he did not do this to you," Moriarty said. "He did this to the Ottoman Empire, the traditional enemy of Russia for these past hundred years. You merely happened along at the opportune moment."

"To be charged with murder."

"Yes."

"You mean that, with no preparation, on the spur of the mo-ment, he was able to arrange for the destruction of the Garrett-Harris submersible and the theft of the plans?"

"Why not? I could have done the same." Moriarty refolded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. "I must assume that Lieutenant Sefton somehow became aware of this agent's activities, and that is why Sefton was killed. I assure you that the casual murder of one man means no more to our Russian friend than the swatting of a fly.

"The sections of the plans were thrust into your pocket to give the authorities a convenient scapegoat, so they would look no further for the culprit. And this was successful. I imagine he took those plans he thought would be useful and left you only with those he didn't need." Moriarty smacked his hands together. "All this executed, as you say, on the spur of the moment. The man is capable, courageous, and cunning. Truly a fit antagonist."

"I'm convinced," Barnett said. "So how do you plan to get me out of here, and what do you want from me in return?"

"I plan to arrange for your escape," Moriarty said, "and quickly, before the authorities tire of attempting to obtain from you information which you do not possess. For on that day you will die."

Barnett shuddered. "Cheerful," he said.

"What I want from you," Moriarty told him, "is two years of your life. I would like to employ you. I shall endeavor to remove you from this place, and in return you will work for me for two years."

"Why?"

"You are good at your profession, and I have use for you."

"And after the two years?"

"After that, your destiny is once again your own."

"I accept!"

"Good!" Moriarty stood up and looked around the cell. "Bear up and be patient! You shall not be here much longer." He shook hands with Barnett and then strode out of the cell.

The stocky warder slammed the door behind him, and Barnett heard the heavy bolt sliding into place.

SIX— NARY A MONK

Gawd knows, an' 'E won't split on a pal.

— Kipling

It was scant minutes after dawn, and the sun was still pushing its way up out of the Black Sea as the Mu'adhdhin was preparing to call the faithful to Friday morning prayer. Five brown-clad monks came down the Street of Venyami the Good and presented themselves at the East Gate of the ancient Prison of Mustafa II. "We have come to shrive such of the prisoners as are of the Christian faith," the spokesman for the monks told the gate guard in heavily Greek-accented Turkish. "It is Shrove Friday."

The guard smiled, a wide smile that showed both his teeth. "I would be glad to be of assistance," he said, giving a palms-up shrug, "but I have not the authority."

One of the monks produced a thick parchment, folded and creased many times, and handed it to the spokesman, who passed it through the bars to the guard. "Within here is the authority," he said.

The guard unfolded the parchment, holding it open with both hands, and examined the cursive writing within, first with one eye and then with the other. "I'll have to show this to the Captain of the Guard," he decided finally. "I cannot make heads nor tails from it."

"But certainly," the talkative monk agreed. The guard thrust the parchment out through the bars. "Come back at eight," he said. "The captain makes his rounds at eight."

"Too bad," the monk said, shaking his head slowly. "Too bad?"

"We cannot wait. Tradition demands that we begin now, so we shall have to go to another prison."

"Too bad, indeed," the guard agreed, smiling his tooth-exhibiting smile.

"We shall have to pay to someone else the traditional gatekeeper's fee." The monk took a small ornate purse from his robes and shook it so the coins within jingled.

"The gatekeeper's fee?"

"The traditional gatekeeper's fee," the monk agreed. "Legend has it that Simon, our patron saint, knocked three times and was not admitted, and then he paid the gatekeeper and he was admitted. This was the gatekeeper's fee."

"How much is this fee — this traditional gatekeeper's fee?"

"Two gold medjidié."

"Two?"

"That is so."

"Gold medjidié?"

"Yes."

"Hold on! Wait right here. Perhaps I can… The captain might be… You just wait right here. I won't be long. Don't go away." The guard closed the wooden door behind the ancient iron bars and disappeared within.

The talkative monk turned to his four silent, brown-cowled friends. "Ah," he said, "the power of the almighty medjidié." Three of them nodded under their deep cowls, the fourth remained still and silent.

It was no more than a minute before the guard returned, bringing with him a short, surly man with a wide, bristling mustache who was busily buttoning the last few buttons on his gold-striped dark blue trousers. "Now, now," the short man said, adjusting his wide gold sash, "who are you people? What's the story I hear? Where is this document? Where are these supposed gold medjidié? You're not trying to bribe an officer in the performance of his duty, now, are you?"

"You are the Official of the prison?" the monk asked, respectfully.

"I am the Captain of the Guard," the captain said.

"We are monks of the Simonite order," the monk told him. "We celebrate a sixteen-hundred-year-old ceremony: the Shriving of the Prisoners. Every year on Shrove Friday we go to a different prison and shrive those prisoners who are Christian, or those of other faiths who wish to be shriven. We ask three times to be admitted, and then pay the traditional gatekeeper's fee. We enter and shrive the pris-oners. Then we pay the Official of the Prison one of the gold medjidié for each prisoner we have shriven. Please, who is the Official of the Prison?"

The Captain of the Guard stroked his mustache. "I am," he announced finally. "You say you have an authority?"

The monk handed the parchment to the captain, who spread it open and studied it. "This is an authority to visit prisons in the service of your religious practice?" the captain asked.