Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

Although it was clear that Moriarty had reached some conclusion, he did not share it with me. That night I dreamed of beautiful women in dishabille marching on Parliament and demanding the right to paint. The prime minister and Beatrice were singing a duet from Pirates of Penzance to a packed House of Commons, who were about to join in on the chorus, when the chimes on my alarm clock woke me up the next morning.

The Paradol Club was housed in a large building at the corner of Montague and Charles Streets. The brass plaque on the front door was very small and discreet, and the ground floor windows were all barred. Moriarty and I walked around the block twice, Moriarty peering at windows and poking at the pavement and the buildings with his walking stick. There appeared to be two additional entrances; a small, barred door on Charles Street, and an alleyway leading to a rear entry. After the second circuit we mounted the front steps and entered the club.

Considering what we had been told of the Paradol Club, the entrance area was disappointingly mundane. To the right was a cloakroom and porter's room; to the left was the manager's office, with a desk by the door. Past the desk was the door to the front reading room, with a rack holding current newspapers and magazines visible inside. A little birdlike man sitting behind the desk leaned forward and cocked his head to the side as we entered. "Gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to the Paradol Club. Of which of our members are you the guests?"

"Are you the club manager?"

"I am the assistant manager, Torkson by name."

Moriarty nodded. "I am Professor Moriarty," he said. "I am here to investigate the death of one of your members. This is my associate, Mr. Barnett."

Torkson reared back as though he had been stung. "Which one?" he asked.

"How many have there been?" Moriarty asked.

"Three in the past three months," Torkson said. "Old General Quincy, Hapsman the barrister, and Lord Tams."

"It is the death of Vincent Tams that occupies us at the moment," Moriarty said. "Has his room been cleaned out yet, and if not may we see it?"

"Who sent you?" Torkson asked.

"Lord Tams," Moriarty said.

Torkson looked startled. "The Lord Tams that is," explained Moriarty, "has asked me to enquire into the death of the Lord Tams that was."

"Ah!" said Torkson. "That would be Mr. Everett. Well then, I guess it will be all right." Pulling a large ring of keys from a desk drawer, he led the way upstairs. "Lord Tams kept a room here permanently," he said. "Our hostesses were very fond of him, as he was always a perfect gentleman and very generous," he added, pausing on the first floor landing and glancing back at us. Moriarty and I just stared back at him, as though the idea of "hostesses" at a gentleman's club were perfectly normal. Reassured, he took us up to the second floor, and down the hall to Vincent Tams's room. Again I was struck by the very normality of my surroundings. One would expect a club defined by its members' addiction to vice, as others are by their members' military backgrounds or fondness for cricket, to have risqué wall hangings or scantily clad maidens dashing from room to room. But from the dark wood furniture to the paintings of hunting scenes on the wall, it all looked respectable, mundane, and very British.

When we reached the door to Vincent Tams's room the assistant manager paused and turned to us. "Do you suppose the new Lord Tams will wish to keep the room?" he asked.

"He is hoping to get married in the near future," I said.

"Ah!" said Torkson. "Then he will almost certainly wish to keep the room." He unlocked the door and turned to go.

"One moment," Moriarty said. "Is the waiter who found his lordship's body available?"

"Williamson," the assistant manager said. "I believe he is working today."

"Will you please send him up here?"

Torkson nodded and scurried off back downstairs. The room was actually a three-room suite. Moriarty and I entered a sitting room, to the left was the bedroom, and to the right a small dining room. The sitting room was fixed with a writing desk, a couch, and an easy chair. A large bookcase took up one wall. Moriarty whipped out a magnifying glass and tape measure and began a methodical examination of the walls and floor.

"What can I do, Professor?" I asked.

He thought for a second. "Examine the books," he said.

"For what?" I asked.

"Anything that isn't book," he told me.

I went to the bookcase and took down some of the volumes at random. Except for some popular novels and a six-volume work on the Napoleonic Wars, they were all books that could not be displayed in mixed company. Most were what are called "French" novels, and the rest were full of erotic drawings displaying couples coupling, many in positions that I had never dreamed of, and some in positions that I believe are impossible to attain. I began going through them methodically, right to left, top to bottom, for anything that might have been inserted between the pages, but found nothing.

There was a knock at the door and I turned to see a thick-set man in the uniform of a waiter standing in the doorway. "You wished to see me, sir?" he asked, addressing the air somewhere between Moriarty and myself.

"Williamson?" Moriarty asked.

"That's right, sir."

"You found Lord Tams's body the morning he died?"

"I did, and quite a shock it was too." Williamson stepped into the room and closed the door. "Tell me," Moriarty said.

"Well, sir, I brought the tray up at a quarter to eight, as instructed, and entered the sitting room."

"You had a key?"

"Yes, sir. I got the key from the porter on the way up. My instructions were to set breakfast up in the dining room, and then to knock on the bedroom door at eight o'clock sharp. Which same I did. Only there was no answer."

"One breakfast or two?" Moriarty asked.

"Only one."

"Was that usual?"

"Oh yes, sir. If a hostess spent the night with his lordship, she left when he sat down to breakfast."

"I see," said Moriarty. "And when there was no answer?"

"I waited a moment and then knocked again. Getting no response, I ventured to open the door."

"And?"

"There was his lordship, lying face-up on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His hands were raised in the air over his head, as though he were afraid someone were going to hit him. His face were beet-red. He were dead."

"Were the bedclothes covering him?"

"No, sir. He were lying atop of them."

"What did you do?"

"I chucked."

"You—?"

"I throwed up. All over my dickey, too."

"Very understandable. And then?"

"And then I went downstairs and told Mr. Caltro, the manager. And he fetched Dr. Papoli, and I went to the pantry to change my dickey."

Moriarty pulled a shilling out of his pocket and tossed it to the waiter. "Thank you, Williamson," he said. "You've been quite helpful."

"Thank you, sir," Williamson said, pocketing the coin and leaving the room.

A short, dapper man with a spade beard that looked as if it belonged on a larger face knocked on the open door, took two steps into the room, and bowed. The tail of his black frock coat bobbed up as he bent over, giving the impression that one was observing a large, black fowl. "Professor Moriarty?" he asked.

Moriarty swivelled to face the intruder. "That is I."

"Ah! Torkson told me you were here. I am Dr. Papoli. Can I be of any service to you?"

"Perhaps. What can you tell me of Lord Tams's death?"

Dr. Papoli shrugged. "When I was called he had been dead for several hours. Rigor was pronounced. His face was flushed, which suggested to me the apoplexy; but I was overruled by the superior knowledge of your British doctors. If you would know more, you had best ask them."