Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

As much as it might smack of involuntary servitude, working for Professor Moriarty for the next two years promised to be quite interesting. Barnett still didn't have any clear idea of what Moriarty did, or what he would be expected to do for Moriarty, but he had formed the notion that it wasn't quite proper and might be quite exciting. And Barnett, who had just passed his twenty-eighth birthday, was of the opinion that a bit of impropriety and a dash of adventure were the salt and leavening that made the load of life worth eating. Barnett was one of those souls who often felt oppressed by the straitlaced notions of the times he had been born into, and although he would not — at least he was firmly convinced he would not — condone outright immorality, there was something about the touch of impropriety that appealed to him.

When Barnett had finished his omelette and was beginning to wonder what to do next, the hall door opened and a small, almost tiny man wearing a natty fawn-colored suit and yellow spats and carrying a spotless brown bowler tucked under his left arm glided into the room. "Afternoon, afternoon," he said. "Permit me to introduce myself. The name is Tolliver; 'Mummer' Tolliver, they calls me, or just 'the Mummer.' "

"I'm Benjamin Barnett," Barnett said.

" 'Course you are," Tolliver said. "And welcome to our little ménage, I says. The professor, he asked me to show you around, seeing as how you're to be a fellow resident."

"Oh," Barnett said. "You live here, then?"

" 'Course I do. Up in the attic. I've got my little room up there. Closer to the sky, you know." He pulled out one of the chairs and reversed it, then jumped up on it, straddling the seat and leaning his chin on the top bar of the straight back. "First off, I should tell you who else shares this impressive abode with us. There's the professor himself, of course; and Mr. Maws, the butler; and Mrs. H, the housekeeper; and Mrs. Randall, the cook; and Old Potts."

"Old Potts?"

"Right. He has a room in the basement, he has. Spends his days blowing glass and suchlike for the professor's scientifical experiments."

"He's really into this science stuff, then?" Barnett asked.

" 'Course he is. He's a genius, the professor is. A scien-bleeding-tifical genius. He's always writing things and figuring things, you know. And he studies little things that you can only see under a microscope, and great tremendous things like the distance from here to the Moon or the Sun. A couple of years ago, when we was out at his cottage on Crimpton Moor, he had a couple of us measure off five miles professional-like with instruments so he could set up some sort of apparatus and determine the proper distance of the Moon and Mars and some stars what he thought might be closer than the others.

"And then sometimes he gets to talking about his work and the way them other professors don't understand him and laugh at his theories 'cause they're too blind to see what's right under their very noses, and he's going to get the last laugh when someone else smart enough to understand his theories comes along, even if it takes a hundred years. And then he gets into the technical stuff, all about waving lights, even though there isn't any e-ther, and nobody alive has any idea of what he's talking about, but it for certain does make you feel important just to listen to him."

"But he doesn't do that all the time," Barnett said. "I mean, this other business takes up most of his time, and the science is just a hobby. Is that right?"

"I'd say it was the other way 'round," the Mummer said. " 'Course he does spend most of his time on these here activities what make the money and employ the services of the likes of you and me. But this is the hobby. The science stuff and his experiments is really his life. He's told me many a time that if he's ever to be remembered for his time on this earth, it will be for his scientifical theories."

"What about the rest of the household?"

"I'll bite," the Mummer said. "What about it?"

"Mrs. H, the housekeeper, for example. What's her real name?"

"You'd best ask her that."

"I have."

"You're a braver man than me, then. I never have."

"What about Mr. Maws?" Barnett said. "Why is he called 'Mr.'? I've always understood that butlers were called simply by their last name."

"That is correct, so they are. "Except, 'course, below stairs, so to speak. The other servants in a household always call the butler 'Mr.'—at least, to his face."

"But everyone seems to call Mr. Maws 'Mr. Maws.' "

" 'Course they do," the Mummer said. "He was called Mr. Maws by all when he were in the fancy, back around fifteen years ago."

"The fancy?"

"Prizefighting, Mr. Barnett. Gentleman Jimmy Maws went twenty-three rounds to a decision for the bare-knuckle heavyweight championship of England. Unofficial, of course, since it were illegal at the time. That was back in 1872, I believe. Mr. Maws won the championship and six months' penal servitude for engaging in an illegal prizefight contest."

"I'm impressed," Barnett said.

The Mummer jumped from his chair. "Come," he said. "Let me show you about the house."

EIGHT— SHERLOCK HOLMES

He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century.

— John H. Watson, M.D.

The next afternoon at about half past two Mr. Maws showed Sherlock Holmes, a private inquiry agent who lived in Baker Street, into Moriarty's study. Moriarty stood by his desk, his shoulders stooped, his hands behind his back, and glared out at Holmes, his gray eyes piercingly clear under his thick black eyebrows. "I won't say it's a pleasure to see you," Moriarty said, "because that would spoil your day. I will say that I expected you, but not quite so soon. What do you want?"

Holmes dropped into the black leather armchair and crossed his legs. "I don't like to let too many weeks go by without looking in on my old mentor and professor," he said, tapping the sole of his shoe with the spiked ferrule of his stick. "I grow curious as to what sort of deviltry you're up to now, and rather than spend the next few weeks hanging about at your window in a variety of puerile disguises, I thought I'd come in and inquire."

"Counting on my elephantine conceit, you assume that I'll be unable to resist telling you," Moriarty said. "This time, I fancy, I shall resist. But you do your disguises an injustice. They are consummate works of art. When I see you mincing down the street as an unemployed curate or hobbling along as an old bookseller, it's all I can do to stop myself from clapping you on the back and congratulating you on your performance."

"Those disguises are not meant to fool you, Professor. They would fool nine-tenths of humanity, they would pass the scrutiny of any of Scotland Yard's current crop of inspectors, they would befuddle my colleague, Dr. Watson; but they are not meant to fool you. I would have to take much greater care and more profound subtlety to fool you."

"I have no doubt that you could if you put your mind to it," Moriarty said. "I have no doubts about your ability; indeed, I admire it. It's your damned single-minded persistence I object to. I am no Jean Valjean to have you dogging my footsteps for the remainder of my life."

"Come, Professor Moriarty," Holmes said, smiling a satisfied smile, "a man who chooses to live outside the social, moral, and legal confines of our society must not be surprised when that society chooses to keep a close eye on him. You are that man. And I am that eye."

"A touching bit of metaphor," Moriarty said. "I followed you to Odessa."

Moriarty shook his head. "That's good, Holmes," he said, "that's very good. I should have guessed. How did you manage from Stamboul?"

"I saw you board the Russian frigate," Holmes said. "I was actually on the dock near you at the time. I hired a steam launch when you boarded the frigate, and I beat you to Odessa by four hours."