The Great Game (47 page)

             
"Or more likely, not expecting visitors from above, they don't bother," Moriarty said. "Shall we go in?"

             
"Leave two good men on the roof," Ariste instructed his sergeant. "The rest of you, come along!"

             
The small room they entered held a capped water faucet, a coiled canvas fire hose, a large wooden box that investigation showed held a military telescope and tripod, and a stairs leading down. "The room we want is two floors down," Moriarty whispered, "and," he pointed, "in that end of the building."

             
The stairs only went down one flight, terminating in a sort of guard room that was at the moment, thankfully, without guards. They went on, two of Prince Ariste's husky bodyguards taking the lead with Moriarty behind and Holmes at the end of the force marking each turning with a bit of chalk so they could find their way back out without getting lost. The light from one shielded candle now provided their only illumination, as it would draw less attention than a lensed lantern should anyone happen to see it as it passed by.

             
"Do you suppose we're in the living quarters?" Watson whispered to Moriarty, looking at the row of doors they were passing as they skulked down the corridor.

             
"If so it's probably the servants'," Moriarty replied. "This is the top floor, where servants go to sleep when they have completed their daily tasks."

             
A tight little staircase showed up around the next corner, too narrow for two people to pass each other without complex gymnastics. Cautiously, the troop headed downstairs.

             
"This should be the floor," Moriarty said when they'd gone down and around, twisting twice, to the next landing. "Now the room the Barnetts are in should be that way." He pointed toward the wall across the corridor.

             
"This corridor seems to go the wrong way," the prince said. "But it's too dark to see the end.
Or, for that matter, the other end."

             
"Perhaps we should send a man down each way while we wait here, and see if either of them turns in the right direction," Holmes suggested.

             
"Perhaps," Moriarty agreed.

             
There was a sudden sharp cracking sound from off to the left. The candle bearer blew out the candle, as he had been told to if he heard any unexplained sounds. They stood silent in the dark, listening.

             
"It may have been the wind," someone suggested softly. "No," Moriarty whispered. "Quiet!"

             
The mummer pulled at Moriarty's jacket. "I'll find out," he whispered in the professor's ear when Moriarty bent over. Then he was gone, silently moving down the corridor.

             
A rustling and thumping noise came from the left, how far away was impossible to tell.
Then voices, men's voices and perhaps a woman, distant and muffled, as through thick walls.

             
"Well?" the prince demanded. "Do we avoid them or attack them?"

             
"Wait for the mummer," Moriarty told him softly.

             
A minute later the mummer was back. "It's them," he whispered to the professor. "They're moving the Barnetts to a dungeon in the cellar where they can't be got at. They're doing it in the middle of the night so the spy, whoever he is, won't know about it. That's all I heard."

             
"Good man," Moriarty said. "How many are there?"

             
"At least three, maybe more.
They
was
screwing hand shackles onto the Barnetts when I retreated."

             
"Let's get them!" the prince said, excitement showing in his voice.

             
One of the prince's bodyguards turned and bowed slightly. "Your Highness will please stay behind us if there's an altercation," he said.

             
Ariste patted the hulking giant on the back. "Thank you, Ernst, but if there's to be a fight, I'll be in the thick of it."

             
"Let's go," Moriarty said, "but quietly. No lights! Leave three men here to guard our retreat."

             
Moriarty in the lead, the group went as rapidly as they could toward the source of the sounds, feeling their way along the wall. After turning a corner and reaching the end of a new corridor, they saw the flicker of light coming from a turn ahead of them. Moriarty, visible now as a shadow in the flickering light, raised his hand and the group stopped.

             
"All at once."
Moriarty whispered. "Use your sandbags.
As little noise as possible.
Ready?"

             
They all nodded, which couldn't be seen in the dark, but Moriarty assumed their assent. Of course they were ready.

             
"Let us go!"

             
They rounded the corner at a run.
Moriarty in front, flanked by the prince's two bodyguards.
The others were bunched up behind, as close as the narrow corridor would allow. Ahead of them, at the end of the corridor, perhaps twenty feet away, five of the count's henchmen were trying to bundle Barnett and Cecily into a stairwell leading down into the depths of the castle.

             
"You are all under arrest!" Moriarty thundered. "Resistance is futile! Unhand those people and surrender!"

             
The men mouthed expletives unheard in polite company, and one of them made a dash for the stairwell. He was halfway down the flight of stairs when the prince's bodyguard that was nearest to the action reached the stairwell and launched himself off the landing and into the darkness, landing on the fleeing henchman's shoulders. They went down together in a tangle of arms and legs, and it wasn't clear which had ended up on top.

             
But there was no time to find out. Moriarty and his group had reached the cluster of men around the Barnetts and waded in, swinging their sand-filled hosiery. The villains pulled long truncheons from their belts and held them defensively in front of them, warding off the blows and striking back; except for one who was armed with a military saber, which he brandished wildly in the general direction of Moriarty and his men.

             
Then someone blew out the lantern.

             
"Back!
Back! Don't let go of them!" someone on the other side yelled.
"Back to the room."

             
"Forward carefully!" Prince Ariste called. "Make sure of whom you're hitting before you strike. But push forward!"

             
"Mummer!"
Moriarty called. "Where are you? Have you still got your dark lantern? Now might be a good time to spread a little light about the area."

             
"My thought exactly, professor," the mummer called, and a wide spill of light suddenly appeared on the far side of the action, illuminating the villains from behind and throwing them into sharp relief. The mummer had crawled past the villains and was perched on a window ledge set into the far wall.

             
With the enemy highlighted in Mummer's lantern, they went down swiftly before the onslaught. Moriarty took on the saber slasher, parrying his blade neatly with his cane and jabbing him sharply in the neck. Holmes stepped inside the truncheon range of one of the men and used a precise baritsu move to disarm his
opponent
and pin him face-down on the floor.

             
In moments the fight was over, the enemy either unconscious or subdued. Prince Ariste's bodyguard appeared at the top of the stairs, hauling the senseless body of his target and tossed it down on the floor. Dr. Watson checked the breathing of the unconscious men and pronounced them fit. "They will have headaches," he
declared, "and it will serve them right." He then went to tend to one of the prince's men who had received a slash in his arm from the wild waving of the saber.

             
Moriarty went over to the Barnetts and worked at unscrewing their restraints. He dropped the offending ironmongery on the floor and stepped back. "Mr. And Mrs. Barnett, I presume," he said with a little bow and flourish.

             
"Thank God you came!" Cecily said.

             
"It took you long enough!" Barnett groused, rubbing his wrists.

If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.

—Thomas de Quincey

             
"
Two Englishmen to see you, sir."

             
"Really?"
Moriarty looked up from his paper-strewn desk. "Who might they be?"

             
His valet held out the silver tray.
"Their cards, sir."

             
Moriarty took the pasteboards. "Peter Chennery.
The young man from the embassy.
And—ah!
The duke of Albermar."
Rising thoughtfully, he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and clicked it open. It was a little after ten in the morning. "Show them in, Brom."

             
Seconds later the duke of Albermar burst into the room, with Chennery trotting behind. "I shouldn't be here," the duke said. "I had to see you. What have you discovered? Can you save my son?"

             
Moriarty raised an eyebrow and glanced at Chennery. "Good afternoon, Your Grace," he said.

             
"Never mind that!" the duke said. "And never mind Chennery here, he knows all.
Or as much as I know.
I have not heard from you since you arrived in Vienna. Have you made any progress?"

             
"Sit down, your grace," Moriarty said, lowering himself into his own seat behind the desk.

             
"I'll stand," Albermar said. "I can't stay. I must prepare for a major conference that begins Thursday.
Day after tomorrow.
Diplomatists and heads of state from all over Europe.
Damned important affair.
Very hush-hush.
Premier Joubert of France has arrived by special closed train. The kaiser himself is coming this evening from Germany in complete secrecy; and for the kaiser to do anything in complete secrecy is probably unprecedented. Grand Duke Feodor of Russia has already arrived. He is the personal representative of his brother, the Tsar. All of them, one might say, are slipping into Vienna to attend a most secret conference. I am to represent Her Majesty's government. We are endeavoring to draw up a plan to decide what's to be done with the Ottoman Empire, or what's left of it. The 'Sick Old Man of Europe,' that's what they're calling it. Are we to shore it up or dissect it and divide the spoils of our good deed? That's why I'm in Vienna. But how can I concentrate? I have to know what you've discovered, what you're doing, what the chances are of saving my son!"

             
"The Sick Old Man of Europe ... a secret conference ... fascinating!" Moriarty paused to jot something down on the notepad on his desk, and then turned back to the duke. "Oh, your son's chances are excellent
. '
Paul Donzhof will be out of prison before he comes to trial, one way or another. I have been looking into ways of, ah, whisking him from his lodgings in Heinzhof Prison without official sanction, and have devised three different methods, one of them unique, as far as I know. But I don't think it will come to that. I have also spoken with his attorney, in my guise as Alexandre Sandarel of course, and I believe I can get all the charges against him withdrawn in a very short time.
Which is, perhaps, the best method of all.
"