Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“He does sound more than human, Holmes. Surely you exaggerate.”

“Watson, you know I neither guess nor do I make much of little. I am sincere when I tell you that Porlock’s gifts are extraordinary.”

“How long have you known him? And how did you meet him?”

“That, of course, is difficult to say. He communicated with me first by letter and an occasional coded message. The Birlstone case was the first. After that, he intervened in two more, giving me enough to go on to stop Moriarty—to his great annoyance, I might add.”

Holmes stood up, checked the open window, and continued.

“Indeed, perhaps the answer to your second question as to how I came to know him should be reversed. It was rather the other way around—he found me. It was when I first suspected Moriarty’s existence and began to see the outline of his diabolical schemes. Here Porlock’s ambivalences came to the fore, and he began warning me of those plots that he wished to foil or at least postpone. In one secret conversation, he made it clear to me that he thought Moriarty had gone too far and his judgement had become impaired. He also saw quite soon that I was as formidable as my adversary. I think then that he began to hedge his bets, so to speak, giving me only the most meagre of clues that were necessary to stop the genial professor, nothing ever more than that. So far, he has managed well. If Moriarty learns of his messages to me, however, his revenge will be swift and unforgiving.”

“It sounds to me, my dear Holmes, that he sees himself as Moriarty’s successor.”

“Yes, indubitably, and possibly as successor to Sherlock Holmes as well. Who, after all, is the evil professor without the great detective? It all needs constant scrutiny, Watson. I suspect that Moriarty is up to no good, and that there will be a message from Porlock before dawn. Through our windows, no doubt.”

I said nothing for a moment, trying to digest what Holmes had said, particularly his last statement. But I could not resist another question.

“But Holmes, what keeps them together? From your earlier descriptions of Moriarty I can construct only a rather ascetic, intelligent man, gone astray, even mad, because of his desire for power over his fellows.”

“If we wish to understand what brought them together and what keeps them at one in their depredations, then paradoxically it is that their desires differ. This allows them to cooperate and revel each in the other’s success. More and more Moriarty is interested in naked power. In the last year he has established a new cell in his organisation, one for acts of terror and espionage. Does he still add to his art collection, one of the best in the world? Of course! But he enjoys even more now the assassination of a prime minister in the Balkans, the kidnapping of the children of a rich sheik, the mysterious fire that destroys a steamship, or profits from a famine in India, anything to which he can contribute even a modicum of his chaotic machinations. None of this has any interest for Porlock.”

I looked at my watch. It was just past midnight. Holmes lay on the couch, his eyes closed. I left him and retired to my room. I had hoped for sleep, but none came. As I lay in the dark, Holmes’s disquisition on Moriarty and Porlock ran through my mind. What impressed me was Holmes’s tranquility as he spoke of such frightening things; and my respect for my friend’s quiet bravery only grew as I contemplated the wanton destruction that his adversaries might carry out without his intervention.

I must have gone into a half sleep, a restless doze, when I heard what seemed to be the flapping of wings. I looked at my half-open window and saw a pigeon attempting to enter. I opened the window a few more inches, and the bird flew in. I called Holmes, who came immediately.

“Good, Watson, the bird comes from Porlock, with no doubt an important message contained in the cartouche on its leg.”

Holmes grasped the bird gently, removed the cylinder, opened it and read: Dear Holmes: I am sure now that he knows that I am in touch with you. It is only a matter of time before he repays me for my treachery. He is hard on my heels and will soon be on yours as well. I leave with you a message that I know contains his newest schemes. It was sent to Moran only and not to me as has been the case in the past; hence my concern. Moran carelessly left it on his desk and I was able to copy it before he returned. I have not been able to decipher it. I hope you can. It is the strangest of Moriarty’s coded messages, perhaps the most difficult. I heard him giggle to himself as he dubbed it the Moriarty Enigma.I know neither the time nor the place of the crimes he intends. I know only that they have the greatest significance for the future of Great Britain. In any case I leave London for the Continent where I shall wait until you put the good professor in the jail that he deserves. I shall be at the usual place for the next few days should you need to get in touch.The professor is the cleverest of men and I wish you quick success. I do not know whether we will ever meet again, and I wish you the best in your lonely struggle. Do not forget to send Cher Ami flying back to me.PorlockP.S. I have my son (the young boy you saw at the Museum) with me, which makes everything more difficult but unavoidable.

Holmes stared at the letter.

“Difficult, Watson, in fact most difficult,” he said somberly.

I looked at the message and read:Moran: cipher BDConcert Moribundus et finalis: May 2, 1901Concert Master: Ivor NovelloCovent GardenSalut: Blind Tom plays Sousa; Chaminade valse grande brillante; Black Tom plays Elgar’s enigma infra; old curiosity hotel Little Nelles; poppin bobbin; Savant idiot. Yradier mon cher ami; d’amour.

“Pure nonsense, Holmes. Porlock is pulling your leg,” I said impatiently.

“I’m afraid not, old fellow, or rather nonsense on the surface, but below it a meaning. We must crack it.”

Holmes went to his desk, mumbling to himself. I stood at his elbow hoping to help him, but both the message and its meaning were lost on me.

“Moriarty at his best, Watson. This code is known in the trade as a polyvalent semantic cipher. Its very nature makes it impossible to decode with precision, it being a series of associations made by the maker. It is originally the creation of the Italian mathematician Cardano, a scientist well known for his puzzles. Here it is in the form of a garbled musical program. Now either Moriarty has included the cipher within the message, or Moran has the dictionary, so to speak, that dissolves the enigma. For us, we are confronted with the problem of Moriarty’s choices. Without the key, we are forced to move toward the optimal solution without any certainty. In our case, the only certainty is the date of 2 May, that is, tomorrow. And of course the presence of Ivor Novello. Which means that at best we have twenty-four hours to dissolve the puzzle and act accordingly. Wait, Watson. Let me see . . .” He stared intently at the coded message.

“Here we are, old boy. Buried in the references to salon music and musicians (here Moriarty shows his limitations) are some obvious clues: Sousa suggests the military and the last three letters of his name—usa—surely refer to the United States. Target one. Ah, note here, Watson, the g b initial letters of grande valse, i.e., Grande Bretagne. Target two. And finally, infra, the last three letters referring to France. Target three.”

“Good Lord, Holmes, I am impressed. But which targets, and when and where?”

“Let us see, Watson. If memory serves, Blind Tom is the name of an idiot savant musician of the southern state of North Carolina, divinely gifted by nature musically, but unable to perform the simplest mental operations beyond the piano; but who is Black Tom? And what of military importance is there in the Carolinas? Here we have a choice between two toms: one black, one blind. Which is significant? Note the choice between Elgar and Chaminade. Finally, we have the choice of old curiosity shop and Little Nelles. And a dead poppin. Papen! Franz von Papen, the rogue spy, ready to do anything for money, especially the large sums available in Washington. I was fooled by the notice in The Times a week ago that he was in Paris for negotiations with the French government, but up to no good behind the scenes. Little Knells, refers to a small hotel in Paris on Rue de Nesles near the Pont Neuf. I have stayed there on occasion. It is so designed that one can disappear within its rooms of false partitions, hidden doorways and every conceivable tromp l’oeil painting. It is run by a blind Italian Jew by the name of Piperno, who has done more to save the persecuted of Europe than anyone else I know, but whose so-called blindness does not fool me. It is there that Porlock is hiding, and it is there that we shall rendezvous with him in the hope that Moriarty has not yet done him in. It is certain that he knows more than he has told us.”