The Great Game (26 page)

             
Vogelmass nodded despite himself.

             
"But you've always thought that your true talent lies in some other field—something artistic.
Music?
No, I don't think so.
Drawing, perhaps."

             
"Painting," Vogelmass said softly.

             
Count Sandarel went on as though he had not heard. "Had you pursued your career as an artist, you would have achieved great recognition. But even within the Imperial Service there are opportunities to which you aspire. There is another job that you feel you are suited for, and that you would like to move up to. It is more suited to your intelligence and your abilities, both of which are under-utilized in your current position. I cannot tell you whether you will get it—that would be fortune-telling—but I can say that you need more preparation, or perhaps a better way to show those in authority that you have made the preparation, in order to have a chance. And if you can do that, there is a good likelihood that you will be rewarded."

             
"Rewarded? But how can
I
—"

             
"That I cannot say.
Something to do with befriending someone unexpected.
Who that may be, I don't know." Count Sandarel sank back in his chair. "I am fatigued. Madame, would you continue?"

             
Madame Verlaine rose and stared unblinkingly across the desk, not at the examiner but at a point over his left shoulder. "Two children," she said.
"Girls.
Angela and Rosalie.
Lovely young creatures.
I believe you married late. Yes. Your wife's name is Marie. A beautiful woman much younger than you, but she loves you deeply.
And you her.
You will have another child."

             
Vogelmass twisted around to look at the wall behind him to see what Madame Verlaine was looking at. There was nothing but green wall where her gaze was fixed.

             
"There is a great service you can do the emperor," Madame Verlaine continued. "What it is I cannot see, but it will be made clear to you."

             
"The emperor!"
Vogelmass instinctively reached up to take his hat off. But then realizing he wasn't wearing a hat, he merely patted his head.

             
Madame Verlaine sat down. "Your aura is light blue," she told Vogelmass. "The pains you are suffering will soon go away."

             
Imperial Inspector Vogelmass was speechless. When one is told that one's abilities are undervalued, that one could have achieved great things as an artist, that one's young wife is deeply in love with one—a question that had been troubling him—and that one will soon have an opportunity to do a great service for the emperor; one would be ungrateful not to accept these assertions for the powerful insights that they so obviously were.

             
And so Count Sandarel and Madame Verlaine left the offices of the Ministry of the Interior with their passes stamped for an indefinite stay, subject to renewal in six months. As they boarded a passing fiacre for the trip back to their hotel Count Sandarel leaned toward Madame Verlaine and murmured in her ear, "A balloon?"

             
"And why not a balloon?" she murmured back.

The superior man is distressed by the limitation of his ability; he is not distressed by the fact that men do not recognize the ability he has.

—Confucius

             
Count Sandarel paced the floor of Madame Verlaine's bedroom, his hands behind his back. "You feel confident?" he asked.

             
"Reasonably," Madame Verlaine told him, looking up from her dressing table. "I work at it whenever I have the chance, to build up my speed."

             
"Good. We'll work at it together when we have private moments," Sandarel told her. "If we need to use it, we won't have time to prepare."

             
"I know." She turned to look at him. "Try me."

             
"All right.
I'm going out into the audience. You're blindfolded. Close your eyes."

             
Madame Verlaine closed her eyes. "I am ready to receive your thoughts," she said.

             
"Everyone please refrain from talking or making any unnecessary noise," Sandarel said. Although he kept his voice soft, it now had the strong timbre of someone addressing a large audience. "You, sir, you have something for me?"

             
"A pocket watch," Madame Verlaine said softly.

             
"May I look at it?"

             
"
A silver pocket watch
."

             
"May I hold it, please?"

             
"
A gold pocket watch
with an inscription."

             
"Something more, sir?
"

             
"
Initials."

             
"Very interesting, very attractive, splendid.
"

             
"
L—C—M."

             
"Madame Verlaine, what am I holding?"

             
She pressed her hand to her forehead dramatically, and spoke with a deep intensity. "Please hold it still. I see something round, but not too large.
Something with great meaning to the owner.
I sense wheels and gears. It is a watch—a pocket watch. The case is gold."

             
"Is that all?"

             
"No, I sense that there are some initials engraved on the case. First
an
L, and then an M. No, wait—something separates them— a C! The initials are L—C—M."

             
"Is that right sir?"

             
Madame Verlaine opened her eyes. "It damn well better be!"

             
Sandarel's valet knocked and entered the room, handing Sandarel a calling card. "I have put him in the sitting room, sir," he said.
A gentleman."

             
"Thank you, Brom." Sandarel read the card and looked up at Madame Verlaine. "Peter Chennery?"

             
She shrugged.

             
"He's from the British embassy. I'll go see what he wants.
"

             
"
I'll follow in a minute," she told him.

             
Sandarel opened the sitting room door and nodded to the sandy-haired young man in striped pants and morning coat within. The gentleman rose and bowed slightly, his mild blue eyes examining the man before him with some interest. "Prof—ah—Count Sandarel?"

             
"You may speak freely here," Sandarel said in English. "All the servants in the suite are my people."

             
"Ah, yes," the man replied. "You are actually Professor James Moriarty?"
1
am.

             
"I am Peter Chennery, first secretary to the ambassador of the British embassy here in Vienna.
"

             
"
So I see by your card."

             
"Yes, well. Er. We've been instructed by Whitehall—by the minister himself actually—rather unusual instructions, I must say— to give you any aid you require. And the memorandum stressed 'any aid,' apparently no matter how unusual or, ah—"

             
Moriarty smiled slightly. "Illegal?" he suggested.

             
"Well it didn't exactly say that, not in so many words, but the suggestion was there," Chennery affirmed. "We were also warned not to give away your
nom emprunt
é
,
or perhaps
nom de guerre
would be a better term, all things considered. The ambassador and I are frightfully curious as to what's going on, but the memorandum said we were not to ask." Chennery paused and looked expectant, and then continued, "So I guess I won't ask. Lord Sandown—he's the ambassador, don't you know, sent me along to see if there's anything we can do for you now."

             
"Yes," Moriarty said, "I believe there is. May I offer you some tea or coffee?"

             
"Thank you. Coffee, I think."

             
Moriarty rang for the maid. "Coffee and some of those small cakes, I think, Eleanor. And ask Madame Verlaine to join us." He turned to Chennery.
"First, and most important, how many people know of the communication in question?"

             
"Just myself and the ambassador.
Oh, and the code clerk, of course."

             
"Very good."
Moriarty nodded approvingly. "Most people would have forgotten the code clerk." He raised a finger. "The first thing I require of you is
,
no one else is to know of this. If anything I ask of you requires assistance from any other person, they are not to know the true reason for the request."

             
Chennery nodded. "Our people are trained to do their jobs without asking questions," he said.
"Although usually
we
know why."

             
"You will eventually," Moriarty assured him. "If this comes off as it should, you will be informed. If it doesn't come off, well, all of Europe will know about it, and you and your ambassador will be very glad that you are not directly involved."

             
"A question, if you don't mind," Chennery said. "Is there not a
real
Count Sandarel?"

             
Moriarty nodded. "There is. I have appropriated his identity as being more useful for the present purpose than my own."

             
There was a light rap at the door, and Madame Verlaine came in. Moriarty introduced her to Chennery and she smiled and crossed the room, extending her hand.

             
The first secretary gazed at her face perhaps a bit longer than was polite, then took her hand and kissed it, lingering over the kiss a shade longer than absolutely necessary, and then bowed. "A real pleasure, Madame," he said.

             
"Ah yes, the hand-kiss," she said. "I've heard how ubiquitous it is here in Vienna."

             
"More than merely a custom," Chennery told her, "it is an art. It conveys subtleties of meaning that are not available in polite conversation."

             
"I'll keep that in mind," Madame Verlaine assured him.

             
With an effort, Chennery turned his attention back to Moriarty. "And where is the real Count Sandarel?"

             
"In South America, I understand."

             
"He won't come back at
an—
ah—embarrassing moment?"