Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

"I'll assist you the first few times you conduct such interviews, until you get over your tentative feelings and the gentlemen at the CID get accustomed to your presence."

"I would appreciate such assistance," Cecily said.

"It will be my pleasure," Barnett told her. "I, also, am fascinated by mysterious murders."

"A fascination that I trust the rest of your countrymen share," Cecily said. "With both of us working on it, the stories are going to have to be carried by over three-quarters of our total subscription to pay for our time."

"We'll have over ninety percent," Barnett assured her. "This story has the one element that a purely American murder can never have: nobility. Two out of three of the victims were possessed of noble blood. You'll have to remember to play that up."

"Yes, indeed," Cecily agreed sweetly. "I shall research the lineage of Mr. Stanhope, the deceased barrister. Perhaps somewhere this side of the Domesday Book we can find the taint of noble blood running, in ever so diluted quantities, through his veins also."

"Not a bad idea," Barnett told her enthusiastically. "Put someone on that."

"Dear me," Cecily said. "I thought I was being humorous."

"Americans take British nobility very seriously," Barnett told her, "being deprived, as they are, of one of their own."

"It is of their own doing," Cecily said. "Had they remained loyal British subjects a hundred years ago, they could have their own nobility living among them now, and be as lucky as the Irish in that regard."

Their conversation was interrupted by a small person in a loudly checked suit with a spotless gray bowler tucked firmly under his left arm, who trotted between the desks in the outer office and rapped importantly on the inner office door.

Barnett pulled the door open. "Well," he exclaimed, "if it isn't the Mummer!"

" 'Course it is," the little man replied. "Who says it ain't?"

"Mummer" Tolliver was a fellow resident of 64 Russell Square, occupying a low-ceilinged room under the eaves and serving the professor as a general factotum and midget-of-all-work.

"Hello, Mummer," Cecily said. "My, you're looking natty today."

"Afternoon, Miss Perrine," the Mummer said, holding his bowler stiffly in front of his chest and giving his head two precise nods in her direction. "You're a rare vision of dainty loveliness yourself, Miss Perrine. S'welp me if you ain't!"

"Why, thank you, Mummer," Cecily said.

"I have a communication for Mr. Barnett from the professor," Mummer said. " into his hand,' the professor told me."

"Why, then, here is my hand," Barnett said, extending his hand.

Tolliver examined the appendage carefully. "Seems to be," he admitted, pulling a buff envelope from a hidden recess between two buttons of his checked jacket and passing it over to Barnett. "There. Now my duty is discharged, and I must be trotting along. Afternoon, Miss Perrine. Afternoon, all." Adjusting his bowler carefully on his slicked-down black hair, he did a neat shuffle-off to the front door and exited.

"What a charming little man," Cecily said.

"He is that," Barnett agreed, as the world's shortest confidence man and pickpocket disappeared around the door.

Barnett slit open the envelope and removed the sheet of foolscap within. Railways, the note said in Moriarty's precise hand, with particular emphasis on the London and South-Western. M.

"A task for us," Barnett said, slipping the note into his pocket. "Assign someone to research the London and South-Western Railway line. Bill it to the special account."

"What sort of research?" Cecily asked, looking curiously at him.

Barnett shrugged. "General," he said. "Whatever they're up to these days. I don't know. Tell them it's for a comparison of British and American railroads."

"Fine," Cecily said. "What is it for?"

"I don't know," Barnett said. "The ways of Professor Moriarty are mysterious. As you know, he is a consultant. Perhaps he has a commission from the railway, or perhaps from a rival railway. He is very close-mouthed."

"Hummm," Cecily said.

"Well," said Barnett, "let us go along to Scotland Yard and see whom we can speak to about these murders."

FIVE — SCOTLAND YARD

Mere theory is not encouraged at the Yard.

— Arthur H. Beavan

The hansom cab passed under the arch and rattled along the ancient, well-worn paving stones of Scotland Yard. Swerving to miss a flock of off-duty constables heading across the road for a "quick 'un" at the Clarence before they went home for the night, it pulled to a stop in front of the dirty yellow brick building that housed the Metropolitan Police office.

"Here we are," Barnett said, helping Cecily Perrine down from the cab and tossing a coin up to the cabby. "The Criminal Investigation Department is in the building to the left here."

The constable guarding the narrow entrance to the CID nodded at Barnett's question. "That would be Inspector Lestrade." He checked a little pegboard on the wall by his side. "As it happens, the inspector is in at the moment. Room 109. You must wait here until I can get a uniformed officer to escort you upstairs."

"Why, Constable!" Cecily smiled sweetly. "We do not look dangerous, do we?"

" 'Taint me, miss," the constable said. "It's the regulations. Ever since that bombing in the Yard three years ago by them anarchists, when all them policemen and civilians were blown about, with three of them dying, some constable stands here day and night, in this unheated doorway, and sees that all visitors are properly escorted upstairs. Them as are in authority were supposed to put a booth here for the constable's use, but it's been three years now and they ain't done it. Now as there's talk of a new building, I suppose they won't ever."

"I thought the bombing was outside," Barnett said.

"Yes, sir," the constable agreed. "Around to the right, there. By the public house. You can still see the damage to the bricks."

"But there's no constable on duty over there," Cecily said. "No, miss."

"Then somebody could still chuck a dynamite bomb right where the last one was."

"Yes, miss."

"I don't understand."

"No, miss. Ah, here is someone now. Constable Hawkins, will you please escort these two people up to Room 109. Inspector Lestrade."

Room 109 was small, with one tiny soot-covered window, extremely cluttered, and, when they entered, apparently devoid of human life. Constable Hawkins, a small, taciturn man whose uniform looked as though it had been constructed for someone squatter and considerably more massive, obviously felt that he should not leave them alone in the room. So he stood fidgeting silently and uncomfortably, resisting all attempts to be drawn into conversation and turning very red in the face when Cecily spoke to him.

It was about ten minutes before Inspector Lestrade returned to the room, scurrying along the corridor with a sheaf of documents in a leather folder under his arm. "Ha! I know you," he said to Barnett, shaking his hand firmly. "Barnett's your name."

"You have a good memory, Inspector," Barnett said. "It's been almost two years since we met in that house on Little George Street."

"A den of anarchists it was, too," Lestrade said. "You gentlemen were lucky to get out of there alive." He looked around, rather puzzled. "There was someone here when I left."

"No one here when we arrived, Inspector," Constable Hawkins assured Lestrade, standing at full brace like a little figure from a box of tin soldiers.

"Thank you, Hawkins," Lestrade said. "You can go." He turned back to Barnett. "And who is your charming companion?"

"Miss Cecily Perrine, may I present Detective Inspector Giles Lestrade of the CID. Inspector Lestrade, Miss Perrine is a valued associate of mine at the American News Service."