Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

"That's not good enough, sir!" Barnett said. "Explain yourself!"

Holmes regarded Barnett steadily. "Surely it should not surprise you," he said, "that I am interested in the comings and goings of the minions of Professor James Moriarty. I must admit that I usually do not take quite so close an interest, but this American News Service has me intrigued. What nefarious function it serves in Moriarty's schemes, I confess I cannot fathom. At the moment. But, as you may discover, I am quite persistent."

"And I dislike being spied on," Barnett said. "This really must cease. And you must not annoy Miss Perrine anymore, or I'll report you to the police."

Holmes chuckled. "And you'd be well within your rights to do so," he admitted: "An interesting turnabout. But I am really quite determined to discover the function of this American News Service. At first I thought of coded messages…"

Cecily gasped. "You're the one!" she said.

Barnett turned to her. "What now?"

"The manager of the District Telegraph office spoke to me the other day — Tuesday, I believe — when I brought in the day's traffic. He wished to know whether we were having any more trouble with garbled transmissions. I asked him what he was referring to. He said that a gentleman had come in the evening before, saying that he was from our office, and requested copies of everything that had been handed in that day. He had given the excuse that an American client had complained of garbled messages, and he wanted to check whether the fault lay with the typist in our office or the telegraph. I asked him if it was Mr. Barnett, and he said no, another gentleman. I meant to tell you about it. I thought perhaps it was someone from Reuters checking up on their new competition."

Barnett turned to Holmes. He felt quite calm, but a vein in his neck was throbbing. "I believe that's illegal," he said. "For someone so keen on preventing crime, you seem to indulge in a fair amount of it yourself."

Holmes smiled. "Touch é," he said. "Professor Moriarty picks his henchmen well."

"Just who is this Professor Moriarty?" Cecily demanded.

"An eminent scientist," Barnett told her, his voice hard. "A mathematician and astronomer. I am proud to have him as a friend."

"Professor James Clovis Moriarty," Holmes said, his words coming out precise and clipped, "is a scoundrel, a rogue, and a villain. He is also a genius."

Cecily Perrine crossed her arms and her right foot tapped impatiently on the step. "He must be quite a man indeed," she said, "if he causes you to dress like a tramp and follow innocent working girls all over London."

"I take my hat off to you, young lady," Holmes said, doffing the filthy cap he was wearing. "And I give you my word never to cause you the slightest annoyance again. If you don't mind my asking, how did you catch me up on my dialect? What did I do wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong," she said. "It was quite good. But you see, my father is Professor Henry Perrine, the world-famous phoneticist, the developer of the Perrine Simplified Phonetical Alphabet. He began to teach it to me when I was three. When I was seven I started going around to different neighborhoods and copying down what people said. Father used me in his lectures to prove the accuracy of his system. By the time I was ten I could tell to within two blocks where anyone in London grew up."

"What a useful skill!" Holmes cried. "Would it take me long to learn?"

"It takes no more than a week or two to master the Perrine Alphabet," Cecily said. "After that, it is but a matter of practice. Your ear quickly becomes aware of the different dialectal sounds after you have been taught the technique of how to transcribe them."

"Come, I must have it," Holmes said. "Does your father give lessons?"

"Why not ask him yourself," Cecily asked, "the next time you follow me home?"

Holmes laughed. "I shall go over there right now," he said. "Although I suppose I'd better make myself presentable first."

"My father won't notice the way you're dressed," Cecily told him. "With Father, speech is all. If a talking gorilla came to see him he would know within a block where the gorilla was from, and never notice that it was a gorilla."

"Thank you, Miss Perrine," Holmes said. "Nonetheless, I shall change before intruding myself upon your father. And you may rest assured that I shall not bother you again. However, I do ask you to reassess your relationship with Professor Moriarty. If you — or you, Mister Barnett — ever require my aid, you will find me at 221-B Baker Street. Good afternoon." And, with a slight bow, he pulled his cap back over his head and sauntered off down the street.

Cecily watched Holmes until he rounded the corner, and then turned to Barnett. "Who is this Professor Moriarty?" she asked him again. "Is he really a scoundrel and a rogue and all that?"

"Professor Moriarty saved my life once," Barnett told her. "And, even aside from that, I have more respect for him than for any man I have ever met. I think that Sherlock Holmes, for some reason, has what the French call an idee fixe on the subject of Professor Moriarty."

"Then he is not a villain?"

Barnett shrugged. "Who," he asked, "can look into the heart of any man?"

SIXTEEN — WORD FROM THE TSAR

They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

— William Johnson Cory

Professor Moriarty, wrapped in a blue silk dressing gown with a large red-embroidered dragon of menacing aspect curled over its right shoulder, was stretched out on his bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. The bed curtains were tied off, and the bed was surrounded by chairs and footstools piled high with books. That part of the bed not occupied by Moriarty himself was equally laden.

With an air of annoyance, the professor looked up from the book he was reading as Barnett knocked, then walked in. "Well?" he snapped.

"I've brought today's reports from the agency," Barnett said. "Anything of interest?"

"I don't think so."

"Leave them on the table."

"Okay," Barnett said, laying the two sheets of paper on the table by the window. Then he turned to Moriarty and seemed to hesitate, as though not sure what to say.

"Anything else?" Moriarty demanded.

"No."

"Then why are you standing there? Either say something or get out."

"Is there anything the matter, Professor?" Barnett asked. "Is there any way I can help?"

"You? I wouldn't think so." Moriarty gestured to the pile of books surrounding him. "I have here the assembled knowledge of the Western world, and a bit of the Eastern, and I have found no help. It constantly amazes me how many idiots write books."

"You've been up here for a week," Barnett said. "True. I've been reading. Can you suggest anything more useful for me to do?"

"What about Trepoff?" Barnett asked.

"What about him? It's his move, and I can do nothing until he makes it. Now leave me alone, and don't come back until you have something of interest to tell me."

"All right," Barnett said, shrugging. "Although it still seems to me—"

"Go!" Moriarty shouted. And Barnett left the room. Mrs. H was standing in the corridor by the staircase. "Well?" she asked.

Barnett shook his head. "I can't get him to do anything."

"Stubborn man," Mrs. H said. "Every few months he does this." She seemed to take it as a personal affront. "One time he stayed in that bedroom for upward of six weeks, and me running back and forth from the British Museum with armloads of books for him."

"What sort of books, Mrs. H?" Barnett asked.

She started downstairs and Barnett followed. "No particular sort," she said. "One day from the King's Library, one day from the Grenville Library. He has a special arrangement with the curator to get the books out. But he had to promise to stop writing in the margins."