The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (62 page)

             
A stocky man in a well-worn bowler hat who was lounging by the Russell Square corner came over to stare down appreciatively at the colorful chalkings. "Quite nice, that," he said. "Quite nice, indeed. Here you are!" And he tossed a twopenny bit into the artist's cap.

             
"Thank 'ee, gov'nor; thank 'ee indeed. Very good of your wor-

             
ship to say so," the artist said, sitting back on his heels. He tossed his chalks back in the cap and stared down at his work. "Is the professor in or out?" he demanded in an undertone.

             
"What?" The man started backward in surprise, seeming to almost choke for a second.

             
"Don't be so obvious, my man," the artist said. "Keep looking down at the pavement and answer my question, if you can."

             
"I don't know what you're talking about," the stocky man said indignantly.

             
"Don't be ridiculous," the artist said. "You are a CID detective named Gordon. I am Sherlock Holmes."

             
"Well, I'll be a—" Detective Gordon said, staring down at the grimy artist.

             
"Quite! Now, is the professor in or out?"

             
"He went out in his carriage about an hour ago. Macy and Stevens followed behind."

             
"First time out today?"

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"And last night?"

             
"In at four in the afternoon, and not out again until an hour ago.
"

             
"
I expected no less.
"

             
"
How's that, sir?"

             
Holmes stood up and stretched, stamping some of the stiffness out of his legs. "The body of Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff, the Minister of Colonial Affairs for her majesty's government, was found this morning," he told the detective. "He was murdered in his study at some time between two and four in the morning, as closely as the autopsy surgeon can tell. It would be too much to expect that Moriarty was abroad and without an alibi to cover the time. And this time, damn him, the police are his alibi."

             
"Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff?" Detective Gordon asked. "Why, sir, that is incredible!"

             
"I agree," Holmes said dryly.

             
"Why, Sir Geoffrey was under a twenty-four-hour guard. He claimed to have received death threats from some oriental secret society."

             
"That is correct," said Holmes. "At least his residence was under guard. Sir Geoffrey reserved the right to move about unwatched and unguarded outside his house. Which was, perhaps, foolish. He exercised that right last night, coming home no less than two hours before his death. Nevertheless, it was at home and not outside that he was killed. At the time of his death there were four constables outside the house and two CID plainclothesmen inside the house. And still he was found lying across his desk with his throat cut."

             
Gordon shook his head. "I had that duty myself a fortnight ago," he said. "Spent the night in his front hall for almost two weeks. And to tell you the truth, sir, I never took them death threats seriously. None of us did. Inspector Gregson just had us there because of Sir Geoffrey's position, you know."

             
"I know."

             
"Done in by an oriental secret society. What do you know?"

             
"It wasn't any oriental secret society," Holmes snapped. "It was the same hand that killed Lord Walbine, and Venn, and Darby, and Stanhope. It was an occidental hand. And, unless I miss my guess, whoever supplied the hand, it was Professor James Moriarty who supplied the brain."

             
"I can't speak to that, sir," Gordon said, "but I can speak to his location. The professor was in his house all night, and didn't go back out until an hour ago."

             
"That is when you saw him go out, at any rate," Holmes remarked. "Moriarty is a downy bird, and if he didn't want you to see him going out, why then he would go out without your seeing him."

             
"Begging your pardon, sir," Detective Gordon said with the apologetic air of one who has interrupted his superiors once too often with information they didn't wish to hear. "It ain't just that we didn't see him go out. We actually, so to speak, saw him at home."

             
"You
saw
him at home?"

             
"Yessir. At least, until about one in the morning when the interior lights was turned off in the house."

             
"I see," Holmes said. "That's good to know.
"

             
"
Clears him of suspicion, does it, sir?"

             
"On the contrary," Holmes said. "It makes me more suspicious than ever. Far more suspicious. Exactly what do you mean when you say you
saw
him?"

             
"We did, sir. Just that. At his window."

             
"I see. Which window was that?"

             
"Ground floor, Mr. Holmes. Facing Russell Square. To the right of the door."

             
"The study window?"

             
"If you say so, Mr. Holmes. Never having been inside the house,

             
I couldn't rightly say. What we could see from outside looked like it might be a study."

             
"What, exactly, did you see? His shadow on the blinds?"

             
"No, sir. The blinds were drawn aside. We could see right into the room."

             
"Strange," Holmes said. "And tell me, just what did you observe in the room?"

             
"We saw the professor. He was sitting behind a desk, or some such. I wouldn't swear it was desk because of the angle, you know.
"

             
"
And what was he doing?"

             
"He seemed to be looking at something. We couldn't see what."

             
"Looking at something? Something on his desk?"

             
"Not exactly, Mr. Holmes. Something off to one side. There was a part of the room that was not visible from the window, and he was looking over in that direction. Something on the wall, perhaps. Or something in the air."

             
"In the air?"

             
"Well, you know, sir. Held up by somebody.
"

             
"
There was someone else in there with him?
"

             
"
Not that we could see, sir. Mr. Barnett came into the room several times, but he didn't stay."

             
"But there might have been someone else?
"

             
"
Yes, sir."

             
"And Professor Moriarty was looking at something that might have been on the wall or been held up by this possible person whom you could not see. He was staring at this object, whatever it was, the whole time?"

             
"Well, it may not have been the same thing the whole time," Detective Gordon said. "He would shift his gaze from time to time, as though he were looking at one thing, you know, and then at another."

             
Holmes stuffed his chalk-filled cap into one of the side pockets of his bulky jacket. "There is something unnatural-sounding in your description," he said. "I wish I had been present to see for myself."

             
"How do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

             
"I'm not sure. Moriarty was sitting at his desk, looking at first on thing and then another.
"

             
"
That's right.
"

             
"
For a long time?"

             
"From nine in the evening until about one or so."

             
"He didn't leave the study at all in this time?"

             
"I wouldn't swear to that, sir. But if he did, then it weren't for more than a few minutes. Say ten at most."

             
"What a strange image," Holmes said. "Moriarty was in his study with the drapes open, sitting behind his desk and looking at something on the wall or in the air in front of him. And he did this for four hours."

             
"When you put it that way, Mr. Holmes, it does sound strange. But at the time it looked perfectly natural."

             
"I am sure it did," Holmes said.

             
"Well," Detective Gordon said, "here he comes now, so if you have any questions, you can ask him yourself."

             
Holmes dropped to his knees instantly as Moriarty's carriage came into sight down Montague Place. "I prefer to watch without being watched," he told Gordon, pulling the chalk-filled cap out of his pocket and starting on another picture.

             
Detective Gordon drifted away to lounge on the museum steps, and Holmes began an enthusiastic rendition of St. Paul's Cathedral in pink chalk as Moriarty's four-wheeler passed in front of the British Museum and pulled to a stop at 64 Russell Square. A hansom cab loaded down by two large men in black bowlers who were doing their best to look invisible pulled off into Montague Street right before Moriarty's carriage stopped.

             
The carriage door opened, and the hulking figure of the professor emerged, his black greatcoat buttoned up to the neck. Holmes stared at the familiar figure. It was Moriarty, all right; there was no mistaking the massive forehead under that top hat, the slightly bulging eyes, the beak of a nose. But there was something wrong; something Holmes couldn't put a name to. Moriarty moved up the steps to his front door with a rapid walk, taking curiously short steps. The door opened as he reached it, and he disappeared inside.

             
What was wrong? Holmes went over in his mind what he had just seen. Something—

             
Holmes fell backward to a sitting position on the pavement and threw the piece of chalk in the air. "Perfect!" he yelled. "Oh, perfect!" He burst out laughing.

             
Detective Gordon came up behind Holmes, trying to look casual. "What is it, Mr. Holmes?" he asked out of the side of his mouth, staring earnestly down at the pink dome of St. Paul's.

             
"You saw it, didn't you?" Holmes gasped. "You saw Moriarty go into the house."

             
"I did," Gordon said, sounding puzzled.