Moriarty Returns a Letter (6 page)

The inspector paused now. He wasn’t at all sure the widow was even listening to him.

But now she looked up.

“Inspector,” she said, “if I understand you and the sergeant correctly, my husband, under the cover name Moriarty, signed a contract to purchase the cargo on board a ship, with the alleged intent—for purposes of his cover story—of sailing with it to the United States for sale.”

“Yes.”

“And the bill of lading now shows that the owner of that cargo is someone named Moriarty—again, consistent with the cover story of your operation.”

“Yes.”

“And that cargo of whiskey is worth fifty thousand pounds.”

“Yes,” said the inspector. “That was the wholesale price of it.” He began to worry what she might be getting at.

“Was it contraband?” she asked now. “That is, was it illegal goods that the Yard just happened to have seized earlier in some other operation and just happened to have on hand for this one?”

“No,” said the inspector quickly, and now he really wondered where she was going with these questions. “Scotland Yard does not traffic in stolen goods. Not in my division. The cargo was bought and paid for by the Yard, for use in this specific operation.”

“So I presume that now that the operation is over, the whiskey will need to be sold so that the funds can be restored to the coffers of whatever governmental authority administers them, but it will probably be at a loss, unless the Yard plans on going into the whiskey-retailing business, is that not so?”

“Yes,” said the inspector, nodding grimly. “The Yard is not a whiskey retailer. The expense of the operation will be noted in the record. As will the fact that the main target escaped. My superiors will not regard this as a success, and I will be held accountable. But that is not my first concern at the moment, nor should it be yours.”

The woman smiled and nodded, almost condescendingly. Then she said:

“What I propose, Inspector, is this: I shall take possession of that cargo as my husband’s widow—as Mrs. Moriarty. You shall sign an affidavit to that effect, in case anyone of an official capacity should ever inquire. I shall sail with the cargo to New York City, as my husband’s cover story said that he would do, I as his widow, with the inherited cargo, in his place. On arrival, I will sell the cargo at the best retail price I am able to get, and I will return to you—to Scotland Yard—the full wholesale purchase price that was paid. But all the profit above that I shall keep. I and my unborn child.”

The inspector stared at her.

“Inspector,” she continued, “by doing this, you will restore to the Yard all the funds that it has expended. Furthermore—and more importantly, I suspect—this will make it possible for you to maintain my husband’s cover story even after his death, thereby diverting attention from other operatives you have in the field, who are working undercover in similar activities. You do have others in operation, I presume?”

“Yes,” said the inspector. “But I was going to pull them all out. I was going to shut them all down. And given what happened to your husband—”

“That is your choice, of course. Given the price my husband already paid, I thought perhaps you might want to see what could be salvaged of your operations. That you might want to have the gullible criminal element in London continue to believe that there is a consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes who is thwarting the best-laid plans of even a criminal genius such as my husband—the late Moriarty. And if you’re concerned about the outcome described in that magazine—what was the story called? ‘The Final Problem,’ was it? Well, I would just point out that when someone in fiction plunges into a waterfall, however fearsome, and their body is never recovered, fictionally or otherwise—well, anything is possible in the future, is it not? Perhaps if you were to make a polite request of the author—”

The inspector stood. He was trying desperately to think of a solid objection to her plan.

“My dear woman,” he blurted in desperation, “do you actually know anything about whiskey?”

“I know that my husband began drinking something called Macallans’s since he arrived here and he liked it. I myself neither drink, nor smoke, nor gamble at cards or horses. I do not participate in any of the recreational pursuits that men engage in, except for one that I do enjoy, and that one was and is reserved for my husband. But I am good at numbers, Inspector, and you can rely on me to make good use of that cargo.”

“Mrs.… Mrs. Moriarty,” said the inspector, pleadingly, “if you do indeed take on that name, I shall not be able to protect you from whatever Redgil does in the future.”

The widow stood.

“I shall be in New York City, Inspector. Do you know anything of the Irish in New York City?”

“A little. I know what your husband told me. It was partly on that experience that we hired him.”

The widow smiled.

“I am Irish myself,” she said. “New York City Irish, as are all my family there, of course. And if Mr. Redgil should wish to come to Hell’s Kitchen to reclaim his cargo, he is very much welcome to try.”

The widow moved toward the door now—but then she stopped and turned very deliberately back to the inspector.

“The letter that this Mr. Redgil wrote to you—may I have it please?”

“Really, no. I’m afraid not. We must keep it for our records.”

The widow Moriarty nodded. “As you wish,” she said. “I was just thinking that perhaps someday it might be returned to him. But please be so good as to sign this additional document and add it into the place where you keep your official records.”

She handed the inspector a one-page, typewritten document. He read through it quickly, and then looked up at her.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You are deliberately keeping the name Moriarty so that you can depart with the cargo. So why do you also want a document stating that your husband was not Moriarty and was in fact working for Scotland Yard?”

“Because I don’t want our child or the future children of our child growing up without knowing who their father really was.”

“You can tell them that yourself.”

“I do intend to. But the future is uncertain. I want it documented here at Scotland Yard—so that the Yard will remember the price that was paid in pursuit of this fiend named Redgil, and so that if anyone should ever ask in the future, the proof will exist.”

The inspector didn’t want to sign such a thing, and he tried to think of a way to dissuade her.

“Aren’t you worried,” he said, “what might happen if the document should ever fall into the wrong hands—if Redgil should ever learn of your identity … and find you?”

“I trust you completely not to let it fall into the wrong hands,” said the woman. And then, quietly, she added: “And perhaps it is Mr. Redgil who should worry if our paths should ever cross.”

The inspector sighed. “Well, let’s try not to let that happen,” he said. He scrawled his signature on the document, and he called the sergeant back to the office.

“Turner will take care of it,” said the inspector, and he handed the signed piece of paper to the sergeant.

“Thank you, Inspector,” said the woman. “Good day. I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”

And then she exited the office.

Turner was about to exit the office as well, with the documents in hand, but the inspector stopped him.

“Where are you going with that?”

“To the archives for filing,” said the sergeant.

“Not bloody likely,” said the inspector. “Didn’t I say that I want no record of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then?”

The sergeant thought about it, but he didn’t know what to say. He was merely following procedure—and what the woman had requested.

“Make sure first that the widow has left the premises,” said the inspector. “Then take that document out back and toss it in the incinerator. The letter, too.”

“As you wish,” said the sergeant. He tried not to let his expression show what he thought of the matter. He exited the office.

The inspector breathed a sigh of relief and sat back behind his desk. This had not gone well. But at least it was over.

Outside the closed door of the inspector’s office, Sergeant Turner paused for a moment and considered whether he should knock and openly revisit the issue with the inspector.

There was a protocol about such things. The letter should go in the filing cabinet that the Yard had already set up for such correspondence. And the signed document should go in the records department, to be saved for the archives or until hell froze over, whichever came first.

Somehow, it just didn’t seem quite right to burn either of them.

The sergeant walked out into the corridor. He paused and stretched a kink out of his neck, as if that might make the issue go away. But it didn’t.

And then, instead of walking down the stairs to the incinerator—he went up the stairs to the archives.

4

LONDON, 1944

The American army captain on Marylebone High Street walked in full uniform, and with a limp that was so obvious that he no longer tried to conceal it.

In October of 1944, this hitch in his gait told the locals all they needed to know about him, and he was greeted with smiles and “g’morning, guv” by everyone he passed.

It had not been quite so when he first arrived in England several months earlier. After four years of holding off the Nazis on their own, after enduring the bombs and the deprivation, and the deaths of civilians and soldiers alike, there were some who viewed the Americans as arriving a bit too late to the party.

But not so now, not after the invasion had begun at Normandy. Everyone knew the price that was being paid, and everyone knew where the American army captain had been to sustain his wound.

And he was older than most, close to fifty, even allowing for the aging from war—which meant he had not been drafted, he had volunteered, and clearly some of the Londoners he met on the street understood that.

He had never before been to this city himself. But he knew his parents had spent some time here, before he was born. And today—the last day before he would be sent home with his wound—he had an errand on their behalf.

He entered the lobby of the Marylebone Grand Hotel and a young woman at the reception desk greeted him.

Just as he started to tell her his name, an air-raid siren went off. He stopped speaking, and they both just froze in place for a moment, as the siren went through one repetition, and then another. They looked at each other. He was too battle hardened to run at the mere sound of an alarm. And, he realized, so was she.

She made no move to head for a shelter, and so he didn’t, either.

The siren stopped. They both listened for a moment, for the guttural, chugging sounds of a V-2 engine overhead.

They didn’t hear one.

The young woman breathed a sigh of relief, and then smiled.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t catch that. What did you say your name is?”

“My name is Moriarty.”

“Yes, thank you. I’m very sorry for the interruption. I don’t like these buzz bombs one bit, do you?”

“No.”

“I hope you don’t get them in America. Now let me see if we have who you’re looking for: Redbull, Redfern, Redgrave—oops, backing up, it would be before that, wouldn’t it—Redgil, Redgil. Ah, here we are; it— No, sorry, false alarm, that one’s Redfil. So, so—let me see.…”

Now she looked up apologetically.

“I’m very sorry. There doesn’t seem to be a Redgil here.”

“I see.”

“You’re sure you have the name right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m very sorry that we don’t have one. Is it possible that he’s a guest at another hotel in the area?”

“Possible. I just assumed he’d be at this one because he owns it.”

“Oh? Oh dear no, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The owner of the hotel is not named Redgil. His name is Redfern. He’s the original founder, you know.”

“Yes, I know. An elderly gentleman, isn’t he? Birthmark on his right cheek?”

“Well, yes, that does rather describe him. Late seventies, I would say, but quite spry. Still likes to get out in the afternoon for a pint, whether the Jerries are dropping things on us or no. May I ask why you need to see him?”

“I promised my mother years ago that I would pay her regards to him—if our paths should ever cross.”

“Close friends, are they?”

“Not exactly.”

“Perhaps you should check with her regarding the name?”

“She passed some years ago. But it doesn’t surprise me that the name might have changed. Where does Mr. Redfern take his afternoon pints?”

“It’s the pub just two doors down. In fact, if you’re lucky, you might find him there now.”

The American captain thanked the young woman, stepped back into the street, and began walking toward the pub.

It was the only one visible on the street. There had been two more before the war began, in the next block—but most of that block was rubble now.

As matter-of-fact as the Londoners tried to be about it, he could still see it occasionally in their eyes—a brief shadow would be cast over the street, a cloud would pass under the sun, a flock of birds would startle up from a tree, and the Londoner would not turn to look, would refuse to do, would not give in to that extinct. Bloody hell, you couldn’t hear the rockets until it was too late anyway, and if by some miracle you looked up and saw the fleeting blur, the disturbance in the air, it would mean that you were already dead. Or you weren’t. There was nothing you could do about it either way.

Still, occasionally, on some subtle movement or sound, or even an imagined one, the eyes would look up.

The captain reached the pub and went inside.

Two gentlemen, perhaps as much as sixty years of age, were standing at the bar with their pints. A married couple of about that same age were in a booth with fish-and-chips. None of these were old enough to be the man he was looking for.

A middle-aged woman behind the bar came over as soon as the captain approached.

“What’ll it be, luv?”

“Just a pint of ale,” he said, out of courtesy. “I’m looking for someone. The gentleman who owns the hotel down the street?”