Michael Kurland: Professor Moriarty Omnibus

"Our Western ways are slow to take hold here," Lieutenant Sefton said, "no matter how hard we try to show them the superiority of our methods."

A very short, very wide man waddled through a door at the far end of the room. He wore a fur-trimmed green robe, under which yellow boots peeked out as he walked. His face was creased in a permanent smile. "Ah, my dear, dear Captain Sefton," he said, with a pronounced British accent, crossing the room with his arms outstretched. "My heart leaps with pleasure that you have been able to return to Constantinople."

"Your Excellency," said Sefton, jumping to his feet and pulling Barnett with him. "It is good to see you again. I am pleased that my government has once more sent me here to watch and learn from the master."

The Captain Pasha waved a pudgy hand of disclaimer at the praise and turned to Barnett. "And you must be the American correspondent, Mr. Benjamin Barnett." He took Barnett's hand and pumped it with the enthusiasm of one who is unaccustomed to the ritual of handshaking and still finds it faintly amusing. "We are honored at your presence here, sir. A representative of the press of your great democracy is always welcome."

"The honor is mine, Your Excellency," Barnett said, keeping to the spirit of the exchange. "It gives me an occasion to acquaint myself with your remarkable city."

"Ah, yes," the Captain Pasha said. "Constantinople, the jewel of cities. You are lucky to have Captain Sefton as your guide. He knows the city as few Europeans do."

"Lieutenant," Lieutenant Sefton said pointedly.

The Captain Pasha turned around, his hands in the air, his fingers waggling in horror. "No!" he said. "It cannot be! A man of your talent and intelligence still only a lieutenant? I will not permit it! Come, I offer you an immediate commission in the naval service of Sultan Abd-ul Hamid. You shall come in as a full commander. Captain next year. In five years you shall be oula, in ten, bala. Guaranteed. My word."

Sefton gave a polite half-bow. "Every man knows the worth of your word, Excellency. I am disconsolate that I cannot accept your offer."

"And why not?" asked the Captain Pasha. He flipped his hand at the outside world. "They do not appreciate you. I do. You will have a career of honor and reward in a navy that values your ability. And remember that Sultan Abd-ul Hamid is an ally of your Queen Victoria. There can be no dishonor in fighting in the cause of an ally. I give you my most solemn word," he said seriously, "that if we ever declare war upon Great Britain I shall release you from your service."

"I shall consider your words, Excellency," Lieutenant Sefton said, "and I thank you for them. Even though I am afraid that it can never be."

"Never be?" the Captain Pasha chuckled. "You should not use such terms. Is it not written that no man's eye can pierce the veil that hides the face of tomorrow?" He turned to Barnett. "My secretary will bring you the documents you need. I shall arrange for you both to have places on board His Supreme Highness's steam yacht Osmanieh, from which to observe the trials. May Allah, in His Infinite wisdom, assure that we meet again soon."

The Captain Pasha left as abruptly as he had entered. A moment later his secretary came in and handed them each a thick gray envelope sealed in red wax bearing the device of the star and crescent. Then a tiny page boy in an ornate red-and-gold uniform escorted them through the maze of hallways to the outside world.

-

Lieutenant Sefton glanced up at the sun, then checked its position against his pocket watch. "It is still early," he said, "although we do seem to have missed our lunch hour. Would you like to see the Covered Bazaar? It's quite fascinating, really. We can have a bite to eat on the way, if you like." He headed off down a cobblestone street, tapping a marching beat on the stones with the ferrule of his stick.

"Was the Captain Pasha serious?" Barnett asked, falling into step beside him.

"About what?"

"Taking you on as a captain in the Turkish navy?"

"Oh, yes," Sefton assured him. "It's quite commonly done, actually. One way for a second-rate service to upgrade their officer corps. The Royal Navy always has more officers than it needs. Some chaps have done quite well in the service of foreign governments."

"Are you going to take him up on it?"

"My dear man," Sefton said, raising one eyebrow quizzically. "After all, I haven't gone quite that native."

Lieutenant Sefton led the way through a complex of narrow, twisting streets and alleyways. Barnett followed, looking this way and that at the exotically unfamiliar city he was passing through. He concentrated on observing the details of costume and architecture and taking an occasional note in the small black notebook he always kept in the inner pocket of his jacket. He would be expected to file several reports on "local color" so the readers of the New York World could vicariously experience the thrills of wandering through old Stamboul. The reports would take over a month to reach New York by ship's mail, but the World would never pay cable rates for background or filler material.

Barnett asked Lieutenant Sefton to stop for a moment at a small square with a cracked, dry water fountain in the middle. "I want to get the feel of this," he said, going over to inspect the inscription, which told, in a language he could not read, about a battle that had long since been forgotten.

"All very scenic, no doubt," Lieutenant Sefton said, leaning on his stick.

The mellifluous chanting of the Mu'adhdhin sounded from the towering minarets all over Stamboul, calling the Faithful to afternoon prayer, and within a few seconds the streets were virtually empty as the locals went inside to perform the prescribed ritual.

Then, over the chanting, came the sound of many running feet. A tall European turned the corner a block away and headed toward the square at a dead run, coattails flying. A second later a gang of Arabs boiled around the corner behind him, waving a variety of weapons, intent on catching up.

"I say," Lieutenant Sefton said, "an Englishman seems to be in trouble. We'd better come to his aid."

Barnett put his notebook away and took off his jacket. "He might be French," he said.

"Nonsense, man — look at the cut of those trousers!"

Folding his jacket carefully, Barnett put it on the rim of the fountain. Long experience at barroom brawling had taught him that bruises heal, but ripped jackets must be replaced.

Lieutenant Sefton twisted the handle of his stick and slid out an eighteen-inch blade. "The Marquis of Queensberry wouldn't approve," he said, "but those chaps aren't gentlemen."

"I don't suppose you have another of those pigstickers concealed about your person, do you?" Barnett asked, eyeing the approaching mob and the assortment of curved knives they were waving. "If it's to be that sort of a party…" He picked up his jacket again and wrapped it around his arm. The custom governing barroom disputes on the Bowery limited the engagement to fisticuffs and an occasional chair or bottle, but — other places, other habits.

"Here," Sefton said, tossing him the body of the stick. "It's rolled steel under the veneer. Feel free to bash away with it."

"Thanks," Barnett said, hefting the thin steel tube. The tall stranger had almost reached them, and the mob was close behind. Holding the truncated stick like a baseball bat, Barnett advanced to the attack.

TWO— MORIARTY

He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker.

— Sherlock Holmes

He was conspicuously tall, and thin to the point of emaciation. He carried himself with the habitual stoop of one who must traverse doorways constructed for a lesser race, and this stoop, taken with his high, domed forehead and penetrating gaze, gave him the look of some great predatory bird. His mind was quick and incisive, and his actions were ruled by logic. His passions — were his alone, and few of his associates were privy to them.