Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

Holmes looked at his watch. It was the middle of the night.

“Come, Watson, if we leave now we shall just make the train to Southampton in time for the ship to Calais. Pack as little as possible for both of us. In the meantime, I shall send a message to Lestrade to warn him of possible trouble in London, and to Inspector Muldoon in New York to warn him that America is about to be attacked by international miscreants, though more than that we cannot say.”

The trip to Paris was uneventful. Holmes maintained a silence the whole way.

“Soon, Watson,” he said quietly as we climbed into our cab, “we shall know if Moriarty has removed Porlock from this world as he fully intends to do.”

“And the boy?”

“A mystery, Watson. Perhaps he is the son of Porlock, who appears to use him as a scout. You remember seeing him in the Museum. Perhaps Porlock has also fed the boy all that he knows and has prepared to use him in some way against Moriarty. A cruel misuse of the boy, obviously.”

The trip seemed to energise Holmes, and when we arrived at the hotel, he jumped down quickly and rushed in.

My knowledge of Paris was limited, but I knew that we were somewhere on the Left Bank near the Pont Neuf on a street called Rue Bonaparte. The Hotel de Nesles lay at the end of a narrow alley just off the main street. One might easily have missed it, tucked away as it was in its own corner.

Holmes motioned to me to enter quickly. In speaking to the proprietor, he had learned that Porlock and his son were staying there but were leaving the following morning.

“Now, Watson, watch your step, old man, for you are in for a few surprises.”

Holmes walked ahead of me and I soon lost him. I tried to retrace my steps but could not. I had lost my way and seemed to have stumbled into a dark closet. Its door closed in on me.

“This way, Watson. Sorry, dear fellow, but you will get the feel of it rather quickly. Take this key. You may put it in any lock and you will be given a simple way out the back door, where you will find yourself on the street behind the hotel. You can only re-enter by walking round to Rue Bonaparte.”

“Amazing, Holmes. What a strange place . . .”

“The owner, Watson, was formerly the owner of the largest amusement park in France. It was one of the earliest halls of mirrors. This is his last creation: moveable partitions, tromp l’oeil effects, dozens of distorting mirrors, wall paper that goes over doors and windows and changes every few hours. Quite clever.”

As Holmes spoke, the wall in front of us moved suddenly, and, as if by magic, there was Porlock sitting comfortably in a chair near what appeared to be a window, the boy next to him.

Porlock handed Holmes a note. “To you from Moriarty,” he said. Holmes opened it and read: My Dear Holmes: You have done well with my message. At least with the unimportant parts. Porlock will fill you in with the details. There is very little that you can do. I shall ask you to meet me upon my return, if you survive the next hour or so. I hope you do, for there is much that is unfinished between us.Moriarty

“Where has he gone?” Holmes asked.

Porlock looked at his watch. “Moriarty has arrived in the United States. He has met secretly with Herr Reinhardt, who will take him to Black Tom.”

“And who is Black Tom?” I inquired.

“Black Tom is a place, not a person. It consists of a narrow pier that juts out into the ocean near Jersey City. It was, until a few minutes ago, the largest munitions storage site in the world.”

As Holmes and I stood there, I was assailed suddenly by the smell of smoke. Dark billowing clouds poured into the corridor. Signor Piperno, his clothes on fire, appeared and screamed at us to leave immediately. A fire had started in the kitchen and the front half of the hotel was in flames.

Porlock and the boy returned to their room, but Holmes pointed to a closer exit and we found ourselves outside, blackened by the smoke but unhurt. We watched helplessly as the hotel, the flimsiest edifice of dry wood and paper, burned away in minutes.

The Paris Fire Department contained the flames but could do nothing to save the hotel. In its burning rubble, they found the charred remains of Porlock, but the boy was gone. There was no sign of Piperno or other guests.

Holmes suggested that we speak to the head of the French Sûreté before returning to London. It was in speaking to Monsieur. Beauchard that we learned that a gigantic explosion had taken place in Jersey City, not far from New York, where the largest number of explosives had been stored for shipment to Britain. The place was known locally as Black Tom. It was notable, also, said Beauchard that the explosion in America coincided exactly with the destruction of the Hotel Demesnes, and an attempt to kill the well-known composer Sir Edward Elgar.

Holmes thanked Inspector Beauchard, and we left.

“Moriarty wins this round, hands down,” he said ruefully. “Porlock, Holmes, Watson, and the boy . . . Elgar, and finally Black Tom.”

I could see the anger and frustration that he felt pass across his face.

“Come along, old boy, we have a lot to do to stop him. It will be difficult, Watson; we have lost Porlock, no mean ally. Let us return to London and lick our wounds. One day, I shall force Moriarty into the light of day, where he will surely perish. There’s a cab,” he said as he waved his arm. “Let us return soon to this beautiful city.”

A DEATH IN VENICE

HOLMES HAD AWAKENED EARLY THAT MORNING IN an uncharacteristically jovial mood. It was a few minutes before six when I heard him bustling about just as the first dull silver light of the London dawn began to come through my window. He hummed an old Scottish tune, which he punctuated with mutterings to himself and an occasional quiet chuckle.

It was a raw grey December day outside, and as I peered sleepily through the curtains, I saw that a mixture of snow and icy rain had already clogged the London streets. Despite the great temptation to linger on a morning such as this, I jumped out of bed, curious as to why Holmes appeared to be so unusually cheerful.

We breakfasted at seven. The conversation was lively, mainly about political events of the past week. When he had finished his tea, he took immediately to his violin while I went over to my desk and immersed myself in some business matters that I had neglected for too long a time.

Holmes addressed me as he began to bow. His spirits were high, he explained, because the violin had gone well the day before, and, with my acquiescence of course, he wished to continue to devote again the fresh hours of the morning to intense practise. I told him that I had no objection whatsoever, and that I would be most happy with this, particularly since my work was entirely routine.

He began with some difficult exercises, then moved to a series of pieces by Paganini, which he played over and over again for the next several hours, slowly at first, then at a more rapid tempo. There was a rare joy in his playing, and, as I sat at my desk, I was delighted at the enthusiasm with which he attacked the instrument.

Towards the end of his practise, however, I noticed a gradual change in his expression. His face darkened and his playing took on that peculiar mournful tone so familiar to me, one that I immediately associated with his frequent bouts of melancholia. He now played portions of the slow movement of the Mendelssohn E-minor concerto. His tone and expression were so beautiful, however, that I looked up from my work to listen. Halfway through he stopped, quietly placed the violin in its case, closed the cover, and moved to his chair, where he sat in his meditative pose, his eyes closed, his hands extended in front of his face, the tips of his fingers touching, the thumbs pulling gently at his tightly pursed lips.