The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (8 page)

             
"Named?" Moriarty interrupted.

             
Zyverbine flipped the page and looked up, his pale blue eyes now expressionless. "Paul DeFauve," he said. "Your mother's brother. Teaches music and tunes pianos. Now living in Bath."

             
Moriarty laughed, which seemed to displease Zyverbine. "That is not accurate?" he demanded.

             
"Quite accurate," Moriarty admitted. "You have impressed me with your ability to cull the public record and make files. Now, could we get on with this?"

             
Zyverbine closed the file and replaced it in the drawer. "I am not altogether sure that you are the man for this job," he said.

             
Moriarty shrugged. "That is your affair. You paid my passage to come out here and listen. I came out here. I am prepared to listen. I am neither impressed with nor intimidated by your stage setting, but neither am I offended by it. I suppose it serves some purpose in dealing with the children that usually face you across this desk."

             
"Stage setting?" Zyverbine put his hands on the desk, the slender white fingers pressed into the polished wood. "What are you talking of?"

             
"This room," Moriarty said, waving his hand about. "The artful gloom. The vast empty space. Leaving me here alone. The noises overhead. The sawed-off legs of this chair to make me lower than you. It is all stage setting. Reading me the file to intimidate me with your wealth of sterile facts. I'm sorry, but I'm not impressed. If you have a job for me, tell me what it is, and let's get on with it."

             
Zyverbine moved his foot, and the door in the far wall popped open. "Bring another chair," he directed the brown-suited man who appeared in the doorway. "You're right," he told Moriarty. "We of the Okhrana spend much of our time trying to intimidate everyone we deal with, including one another. It is all ridiculousness, is it not?"

             
Moriarty sat himself in the new chair, which was of normal height. He fixed his gaze on Zyverbine and remained silent until they were once again alone in the room. Then he said, "What do you want me to do?"

             
"Bear with me for another moment," Zyverbine replied, lacing his fingers together under his chin. "I have a few questions for you. We have, as you say, paid your way here for this interview. Surely we have the right to ask a few questions."

             
A scraping sound came from the balcony. Moriarty did not look up. "Proceed," he said.

             
Zyverbine nodded. "What do you know of explosives?" he asked.

             
Moriarty considered. "Of the chemistry," he said, "I know what is known. Of the history, I know very little. Of the utilization, I have a complete knowledge in some specialized areas."

             
"Such as?"

             
"I can blow open a safe without harming its contents," Moriarty said. "But I could not, without further research, destroy a building or a bridge. I am more familiar with the use of nitroglycerine than nitrocellulose or picric acid."

             
"What do you know of submersible boats?"

             
"I presume you mean warships, rather than diving bells or similar apparatus?"

             
"That is correct."

             
"The Turks are testing one."

             
"Yes."

             
"It is of American design.
"

             
"
Yes."

             
"I know little further."

             
"Are you familiar with the scientific principles of operation?
"

             
"
Certainly."

             
"Ah!"

             
"Zyverbine!"
a harsh voice called from the balcony above Moriarty.
"Sprosy yevo ob anarkhistakh!"

             
"What do you know of politics?" Zyverbine asked, without looking up or acknowledging the voice.

             
"As little as possible," Moriarty said. "The subject does not interest me."

             
"Do you not feel that any one form of government is superior to another?"

             
"I have never seen it demonstrated to be so," Moriarty said.

             
"Do you believe that sovereigns rule by the will of God or the sufferance of the people?" Zyverbine asked.

             
Moriarty thought about this for a moment. "We are of different religions," he said finally.

             
"I am not asking about the fine points of dogma," Zyverbine replied. "Whether you are Orthodox, Roman, or a Protester is of no importance for the subject of this conversation."

             
"I am an atheist," Moriarty said.

             
This remark was greeted by an extended silence from Zyverbine
and the unseen one above.

             
"Ateyst!"
the unseen one said finally,
"Bezbozhnik!"
Zyverbine looked up. He and the unseen one had a brief, intense
conversation. Then there was the sound of a door slamming on the
balcony.

             
Zyverbine transferred his gaze to Moriarty. "That is not in my file," he said.

             
"That is not my concern."

             
"A man is about to enter this room," Zyverbine said, leaning forward. "Stand up when he comes in. Bow when I introduce you." Moriarty shrugged. "As you say."

             
"I wish I had phrased that question differently," Zyverbine said, "although I commend your honesty. You understand it does not make one whit of difference to me whether you believe in one god or twelve. You would seem to be the best man to handle this job, and your private beliefs are not my concern. But the Grand Duke is certain to feel differently."

             
"A grand duke," Moriarty said. "Of the royal line?"

             
"Yes. Of course. You will respect his incognito."

             
"Naturally. And I can appreciate his concern for religion. One who claims to rule by the will of God must dislike even the thought of atheists."

-

             
The man who entered the room was fully as tall as Moriarty but with massive shoulders and a barrel chest beneath his severely cut gray sack coat. His hair was gray, but his square-cut beard was pitch black and his eyes were light blue.

             
Zyverbine jumped to his feet. "Professor Moriarty, may I present Count Brekinsky," he said.

             
Moriarty stood and gave a bow that managed not to look too much like a parody. "Your Grace," he said.

             
"Yes, yes," Brekinsky said. "Sit down. Professor Moriarty, I am a blunt man. I have a question for you."

             
Moriarty remained standing. "Ask," he said.

             
"Why do you do what you do?"

             
"For money."

             
The man calling himself Count Brekinsky held out his left hand toward Zyverbine. "The file!"

             
Zyverbine pulled Moriarty's file from the drawer and handed it across the desk.

             
Brekinsky studied it. "Our information is that you control the greatest criminal organization in Great Britain.
"

             
"
Not so," Moriarty said.

             
Brekinsky looked up from the file and fixed Moriarty with his gaze. "Our information is wrong?"

             
"There is no such organization," Moriarty said. "I have some men in my employ. The number varies, never more than ten or fifteen. Occasionally the acts they perform in the course of their duties are contrary to the laws of the land. The other, ah, criminals that your informant would have me controlling merely consult me from time to time. If my advice is useful, they pay me for it. I in no way control their actions or give them orders. That is not my concern."

             
"But they pay you for this advice?" Count Brekinsky asked.

             
Moriarty nodded. "That is my concern," he acknowledged. "I sometimes describe myself as the world's first consulting criminal." There was a hint of a smile on his face.

             
"You think of yourself as a criminal?" Brekinsky asked. "Does not this bother you?"

             
Moriarty shrugged. "Labels," he said, "do not bother me. The fact that I am, on occasion, in conflict with the laws of my country does bother me, but it is the laws that must give way. I live by my own ethical and moral code, which I do not break."

             
"You have a right to live beyond the law?" Zyverbine asked. "If I do not get caught."

             
"And yet you consider yourself—trustworthy?" Brekinsky asked.

             
"When I give my word," Moriarty said, "it is never broken."

             
Brekinsky tapped the file. "Our records indicate that you are trustworthy," he said, clearly doubtful.

             
"One does not have to believe in the God of Abraham and Moses to keep his word," Moriarty said.

             
"Ah," Brekinsky said, grabbing at the phrase. "Then you do believe in some sort of deity?"

             
"I am willing to admit of the concept that there is a guiding force in the universe," Moriarty said, choosing his words carefully.

             
"I will interpret that as a belief in God," Brekinsky said. "I could not return to Moscow and tell the Tsar, my brother, that we have employed someone in this matter who does not believe in God."

             
"He is acceptable?" Zyverbine asked.

             
"Yes," Brekinsky said. "He is acceptable. I pray God he is acceptable! You may tell him.
"

             
"
Very well, your Grace."

             
Brekinsky stuck out his hand, and Moriarty took it. "You are shaking the hand of a Romanoff," Brekinsky said. "We have long memories for good and evil." He turned and left the room.

             
Moriarty sat down. "Well?" he said to Zyverbine.

             
"Russia and Great Britain have been to war three times this century," Zyverbine said, "but each time it has been a minor conflict, of marginal concern to the real interests of either country."