Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

Lenore had the wide-eyed look of a poor little girl at the pastry counter. "I don't know what to say," she said.

"Say nothing until it happens," Moriarty said. "And I'll be back next week to pick out a painting for myself."

"Whichever you want, it's yours," Lenore said.

"We'll let Vincent's brother pay for it," Moriarty said. "It's only fitting." He took her hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you," he said. "You've been a great help."

We exited to the street, leaving behind a pleased Miss Lestrelle. "Moriarty," I said, putting my collar up against the light drizzle that had begun while we were inside, "you shouldn't do that."

"What?"

"You know perfectly well what. Raising that girl's hopes like that. I got a good look at her paintings and they were nothing but blobs of color splattered on the canvas. Why, from close up you almost couldn't tell what the pictures represented."

Moriarty laughed. "Barnett," he said, "you are a fixed point of light in an otherwise hazy world. Just trust me that Van Delding will not consider himself ill-used to look at those canvases. The world of art has progressed in the last few decades, along with practically everything else. And we are going to have to accustom ourselves to even more rapid changes in the future."

"I hope you're wrong," I told him. "Few of the changes that I've observed over the last quarter-century have been for the better."

"Change is the natural condition of life," Moriarty said. "Stones do not change of themselves." He hailed a passing hansom cab and gave our address to the driver. "Well, Barnett," he said as we started off, "what do you think?"

"I think I've missed my lunch," I said.

"True," he admitted. "I get rather single-minded when I'm concentrating on a problem." He knocked on the roof and shouted to the driver to change our destination to the Savoy.

"I don't see as we're any further along with discovering how Lord Tams met his death," I told him. "We've learned a lot about the character and habits of the deceased earl, but it doesn't seem to have gotten us any closer to the way he died."

Moriarty glanced at me. "Scientists must train themselves to use rational deductive processes in solving whatever problems come their way, whether they involve distant galaxies or sordid crimes in Belgravia," he said. "And the deductive process begins with the collection of data. Only after we have all the facts can we separate the dross from the gold."

"Of course, Moriarty," I said. "And what of this case? You must have some facts that are relevant to the problem at hand on which to set those rational processes to work. Lord Vincent Tams may have been a sexual glutton, but I fail to see how a knowledge of his grosser appetites of the flesh will advance our knowledge of how he died."

"Grosser appetites of the flesh?" Moriarty said. "Very good, Barnett; you outdo yourself. If you reflect on what we have learned these past few hours, you will realize that our time has not entirely been wasted."

"I am not aware that we have learned anything of value," I said.

Moriarty considered for a moment. "We have learned that the defunct earl spoke of Shelley," he said, "and that by itself should tell us all. But we have learned more: We have learned that artistic talent can flower in the most unlikely places."

"Flower!" I said. "Pah!"

Moriarty looked at me. "Who, for example, would suspect that such fine writing talent could emerge from a quondam reporter for the New York World?"

"Pah!" I repeated.

-

I had some errands that occupied me after lunch, and Moriarty was out when I returned to Russell Square. I dined alone, and was catching up on filing some accumulated newspaper clippings when the door to the study was flung open and a tall man with a scraggly beard, a dark, well-patched overcoat, and a blue cap strode in. Convinced that I was being accosted by a dangerous anarchist, I rose, trying to remember where I had put my revolver.

"Ah, Barnett," the anarchist said in the most familiar voice I know, "I hope there is some dinner left. I have been forced to drink more than I should of a variety of vile liquors, and I didn't trust the food."

"Moriarty!" I exclaimed. "I will ring for Mrs. Randall to prepare something at once. Where have you been?"

"Patience," Moriarty said, taking off his long gabardine overcoat. He pulled off the beard and reached into his mouth to remove two gutta-percha pads from his cheeks. Then a few quick swipes over his face with a damp sponge, and he was once again recognizable. "Food first, and perhaps a cup of coffee. Then I'll tell you of my adventures."

I rang and told the girl to have Mrs. Randall prepare a tray for the professor, and she returned with it inside of five minutes. Moriarty ate rapidly, seemingly unaware of what he was eating, his eyes fixed on the far wall. I had seen these symptoms before. He was working out some problem, and I knew better than to interrupt. If it was a difficult one he might spend hours, or even days, with a pencil and notepad in front of him, drinking countless cups of coffee and consuming endless cigars, or quantities of the rough-cut Virginia tobacco he favored in one of his briar pipes, and staring off into space before he again became conscious of his surroundings.

But this time the problem had worked itself out by the time he finished the last of the roast, and he poured himself a small glass of cognac and waved the bottle in my direction. "This was laid in the cask twenty years before we met," he said, "and it has aged well. Let me pour you a dram!"

"Not tonight, Moriarty," I said. "Tell me what you have discovered!"

"Ah!" he said. "There was a fact in the new earl of Whitton's statement to us that begged for examination, and I have spent the afternoon and evening examining it."

"What fact?" I asked.

"How many clubs are you a member of, my friend?"

I thought for a second. "Let's see… the Century, the American Service Club, Whites, the Bellona; that's it at present."

"And you have, no doubt, an intimate knowledge of two or three others through guest membership, or visiting friends and the like?"

"I suppose so."

"And of these half-dozen clubs you are well-acquainted with, how many have club doctors?"

"I'm sure they all have physician members," I said.

"Your reasoning is impeccable," Moriarty said. "But how many of them have doctors on staff?"

"Why, none," I said. "Why would a club keep a doctor on staff?"

"My question exactly," Moriarty said. "But Dr. Papoli was described by both Lord Tams and Inspector Lestrade as the club doctor, which implies a professional relationship between the doctor and the club. And a further question: if, for some reason, the directors of a club decided to hire a doctor, would they pick one who, as Lord Tams told us, lacks a British medical degree?"

"Certainly not!" I said.

"Quite so. And so I went to that area of the East End that is teaming with Balkan immigrants and I let it be known that I was in search of a doctor. I hinted at mysterious needs, but I was very vague, since I didn't know just what the needs in question were."

"But Moriarty," I said, "You don't speak the language."

"There are five or six possible languages," Moriarty said. "Whenever someone spoke to me in anything other than English, I told him I was from Ugarte, and didn't understand his dialect."

"Where is Ugarte?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Moriarty said. "I would be very surprised if there is any such place."

"What did you find out?" I asked.

"That Dr. Papoli is looked upon with almost superstitious dread by his countrymen, and that he has recently hired several assistants with strong backs and dubious reputations."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That a visit to the Paradol Club is in order for tomorrow. But for now I will enjoy my cognac, and then get a good night's sleep."