The Empress of India (16 page)

Moran sat silent for a few minutes, musing into his oversized cup of
kaffee mit schlag,
and then slapped his hand on the table. “I’ll be damned if I can figure out how anyone knows of our going after the statuette, except the maharaja, and I can’t believe he’d try to stop us. What would be the point?”

“I agree,” Moriarty told him. “I think there’s something deeper afoot here.”

“What?”

“That remains to be seen. Notice, they—whoever they are—seem to be concentrating on eliminating me, rather than you, which would not be the case if they were trying to prevent us from attaining the statuette. But just what they hope to accomplish, or who is behind them, I have no idea at the moment.”

“I’d say they were trying to accomplish your death,” Moran commented.

Moriarty nodded. “Yes, but what are they trying to accomplish
by
my death? What goal is it toward which my continued existence is an impediment?”

Moran shook his head. “It’s a puzzle to me,” he said. “But I think we’d best do our own eliminating right quick. I suggest we dispose of
those who are following us before they get really annoying. And besides, they might get lucky.” He made a twisting motion with his hand. “A dark alley, a knife in the ribs, and who’s to be the wiser? Eh?”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said.

“No better way of discouraging the opposition,” Moran said. He slapped Moriarty on the back. “Don’t get yourself killed, Professor. At least not until after I get my hands on the maharaja’s golden houri.”

“It gives me a warm feeling to know that you care,” Moriarty said dryly.

“I was jesting, Professor. Certainly I was,” Moran said, leaning back and smiling his best smile. “Why, I wouldn’t see anything happen to you for all the cigars in Egypt. My word I wouldn’t.”

“I am reassured,” Moriarty said. “I can continue on now with a new spring in my step.” He drank up the last of his coffee. “And I think it would be wise to spring in a new direction,” he said, rising from his chair and throwing some coins on the table. “Come, my friend, let us do something at least halfway clever to eliminate this nuisance.”

“Good!” Moran said, jumping to his feet. “ ‘Any action is preferable to standing still’ has long been my motto. Where to, Professor?”

“Trieste,” Moriarty told him.

Moran stopped in mid-stride. “Trieste?”

“Trieste is the smuggling center of the northern Mediterranean. We are going to hire a fast boat to smuggle us to Port Said. It will have the added advantage of cutting two or three days off our journey.”

“But our bags are checked through to, where? Varna.”

Moriarty switched his walking stick from his left hand to his right, and struck it sharply against a lamp stand. “We have our overnight bags. The rest we must abandon.”

Moran sighed. “My favorite weapon is in my large trunk,” he said. “A Mannlicher-Schoenauer eight-millimeter that I had especially customized by Von Goertl of Innsbruck.”

“When this is over, we’ll have the Wagon-Lit people return our luggage,” Moriarty told him. “You’ll see your rifle again.” He stopped at the corner and stepped quickly over to the building. Taking a small piece of French chalk from his pocket, he made a series of simple geometric figures on the granite wall, none larger than two inches square, some connected to the others, some standing alone. When he was done, he stepped back and examined his handiwork, which resembled nothing so much as the meaningless scribblings of a ten-year-old.

“What have you done there?” Moran asked. “Left a message for the mummer,” Moriarty explained, “telling him where to find us.”

“In Trieste?”

“No, at the train station at ten o’clock tonight.”

“Ah!”

“In the meantime, we must make some effort to evade anyone who might be watching our movements.” He pocketed the chalk and set off down the street again.

Matching the professor’s stride, Colonel Moran took a large clasp knife from a sheath hidden inside the waistband of his trousers and concealed it up his sleeve with a swift, practiced motion. “Sounds right to me, Professor,” he said. “You just point ’em out to me, and I’ll do the evading right enough.”

Moriarty looked at his companion as though seeing him for the first time. “All very good,” he said, “but keep that folding scimitar up your sleeve unless you need it for self-defense. I had a less drastic idea in mind for our, ah, foes. Excessive violence might be counterproductive.”

“I am of the belief that there is nothing excessive about killing someone who is trying to kill you,” said Colonel Moran. “And it’s a damn good idea to do it first. The stakes are a little too high and the game is a little too final to be overly sporting about it.”

“The term ‘sportsman’ is not one I would think of applying to you,” Moriarty told him. “You, as I remember, are of the belief that there’s
nothing wrong with killing someone on the slightest provocation, or, for that matter, for a reasonable fee.”

“True,” Moran said, unabashed. “I’m not squeamish about killing. Shouldn’t be a soldier if you’re going to be squeamish about killing—or about dying, for that matter. Her Majesty seems to be quite willing to sacrifice us when it’s in her interest. Following her royal lead, I am quite willing to sacrifice others when it’s in my interest. It’s the way of the world. Always has been, always will be. Those who don’t understand that are probably not going to remain in this world for their full three score and ten. As for sportsmanship—running about on a field of mud kicking at a pig’s bladder, and yelling ‘Well played!’ or ‘Good sport!’ when a teammate breaks his rib or someone else’s leg, has always seemed to me to be pointless, useless, tiring, and painful.”

“There are other sports,” Moriarty said.

“There are other objections,” Moran replied.

“At any rate, sportsmanship was not my objective,” Moriarty said dryly. “Let’s try to do what’s necessary without drawing any unnecessary attention to ourselves, and let’s not accidently extinguish any innocent passersby. The idea is to elude our foes, not to eliminate them. Our adversary has a limitless number of henchmen, as thugs and toughs are for hire in any major metropolis and most of the lesser ones. On the other hand, they are not highly motivated, as evidenced by their success rate so far.”

“I can see that, Professor, but they only have to succeed once to, as it were, take the prize.”

“Quite,” Moriarty said. “And thus—Trieste.” He paused in mid-stride, causing Colonel Moran to do a quick two-step to avoid running into him. “That,” he said, pointing across the street with his cane, “is an interesting shop, over there.”

Moran looked where Moriarty was pointing. “The luggage store or the apothecary?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Moriarty told him. “Let’s cross the street and see.”

The two of them crossed the road, nimbly avoiding a cluster of four-wheelers and an omnibus drawn by two horses of enormous size. A policeman standing in the middle of the road at the corner and attempting to direct traffic glared at them, but made no effort to leave his post.

“I know,” said Colonel Sebastian Moran as they reached the sidewalk. “We’ll go first to the apothecaries and have them concoct a potion—perhaps a mixture of the juices from the pod of the
Papaver somniferum
and the nut of the
Nux vomica
in the ratio of three to two—then we can dash over to the luggage store to buy a nice black leather case to keep it in.”

“It’s a seed,” Moriarty said.

“Pardon?”

“
Nux vomica
is not a nut, it’s a seed,” Moriarty told him.

“Nut—seed; tell me why you just endangered our lives in dashing across the street.” He stopped walking and took the professor’s arm. “If you’re trying to establish a reputation for erratic behavior, I’m willing to swear to it without you’re actually performing the same.”

Moriarty swung around to face him. “Keep talking,” he said, taking his pince-nez glasses off and thrusting them into his vest pocket. “And wave your arms about a bit, so that it will appear to an observer that we’re having an argument.”

“I’m perfectly willing to have an argument with you anytime you find it convenient,” Moran exclaimed, shaking his fist in Moriarty’s face. “What do you mean, an observer?”

“There is someone following us,” Moriarty told him, brandishing his walking stick. “Not the man from the train, but, we must assume, one of his agents. Don’t look around just yet.”

“This is getting tiresome,” Moran observed, blocking Moriarty’s swing with his own stick. “What does he look like, when I do look?”

“Short, stocky, bearded, dressed in black, wearing a sort of floppy cap, carrying a rolled-up newspaper,” Moriarty said. “The shape of his
mustache, the size of his heavy boots, designed for stomping one’s opponent, and the fact that his rolled-up newspaper appears to be concealing a heavy object, presumably a length of lead pipe, mark him as one of Vienna’s criminal classes.”

“What shall we do?” Moran asked, jabbing Moriarty in the chest with his forefinger, a ferocious scowl on his face. “We can’t stand here poking at each other for the rest of the day. I could knock you down, I suppose, and then be so overcome with remorse that I help you to your feet and we go off arm-in-arm for a consoling beverage.”

“I suggest that you take a step or two backward, shake your fist at me once more, and then angrily exit into—I think the apothecary would be best. I shall wave my walking stick furiously at you and then march off down the street, well rid of you. If I’m right, our follower will follow me. Give him a one-block lead, and then come after. I’ll march on for ten or fifteen blocks, and then turn into some convenient alleyway; he will come in after me, and you will close the exit.”

Moran crouched in a street fighter’s crouch and glared at the professor. “Why don’t I just cosh him?”

“Because I want him able to talk. I want to find out who sent him.”

“He probably doesn’t even know,” Moran said, jabbing at Moriarty’s face with his left a couple of times.

Moriarty easily evaded the jabs. “Perhaps so,” he admitted, “but it’s worth a try.”

“Very well,” Moran agreed. He took two steps backward, lowered his arms, and breathed heavily for a second. Then he shook his right fist in Moriarty’s face. “Look around nervously when you approach the alleyway,” he told Moriarty in an undertone. “You’ll draw him in faster. ‘The bleating of the lamb excites the tiger,’ as we say.”

Moriarty dropped his stick to his side and glared convincingly at Moran. “Hunting tigers for sport,” he said. “Seems like a waste.”

“Of tigers or men?” Moran asked. “We only went after the man-eaters. The maharaja wouldn’t let us touch any others. Funny thing is,
the man-eaters were usually the ones that were too old or too injured to catch their regular game. Men are easy prey, for a tiger.” With that, Moran wheeled and stalked off to the apothecary, turned to glare at Moriarty for a second, and then flung the door open and entered.

Moriarty shook his walking stick at the retreating Moran, then paused to gather himself, straighten his clothing, and affix his pince-nez glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose. He then started off down the street with the rapid, heedless stride of a thoroughly irritated man.

On the right-hand side of Moriarty’s pince-nez, at the very edge, Moriarty’s artificer Old Potts had affixed a small mirrored rectangle so that Moriarty could have a glimpse of what was happening behind him without turning his head. As Moriarty strode forward he peered into the little mirror with a practiced eye, and observed his follower trotting across the street and taking up a position about half a block behind.

Moriarty kept up the rapid pace for a dozen blocks, peering into his minuscule mirror occasionally to make sure that his follower was still following. The first few blocks were mainly large residential buildings with storefronts lining the ground floor. But then the storefronts petered out, and the buildings looked more as though they were used for light manufacturing. A sign on the second floor of one building read:
“Felix Hermann—Schokolade Erschaffungen.”
On the next block was
“Schmendl Schuhfabrik.”

Moriarty paused and consulted a blank piece of paper which he produced from an inner pocket, looking around as though he were trying to locate a specific building or address. The man behind him paused also, and leaned against a lamppost, breathing deeply.
No stamina,
Moriarty thought.
There should be mandatory exercise for the criminal classes
. He looked cautiously around for Colonel Moran, and finally spotted him walking unconcernedly along about a block down on the other side of the street. This seemed as good a place as any to end this clandestine parade; the streets were practically deserted and the ground-floor windows
were mostly shuttered—a sign of what sort of neighborhood this became after dark.

Moriarty forged ahead more slowly now, peering at signs and numbers as though looking for a specific address, until he found a narrow walkway between two buildings. He peered in timidly, checked his blank piece of paper, and looked about suspiciously as though fearful that this was some sort of trap. His pursuer darted between two horse carts at the curb, causing the rear horse to shy nervously and back up a couple of steps with a clatter of hooves. Moriarty affected not to notice. There was an iron-bound door at the end of the passageway, and no windows at the ground level on either side. Perfect. After a few more moments of feigned hesitation, he started bravely down the walkway.