The Great Game (27 page)

             
"He had the lack of foresight to predict the death of the current president of Peru. He is being held by the Peruvian authorities while they ascertain that he is not involved with any group planning to make that event come about."

             
"He always had a tendency to be a bit brash," Madame Verlaine commented. "Sometimes it furthers one's career; sometimes it gets one thrown in prison for a year or two."

             
"And you can do these, ah, fantastic things that are claimed of Alexandre Sandarel?" Chennery asked Moriarty.
"Reading minds, predicting events, and the like?"

             
Moriarty smiled slightly. "I taught him," he said. "He was a not-very-successful stage magician working under the name of the Great Goldstone when he came to me for advice on another matter. In the process of solving that, I also suggested this new career and taught him some techniques he could use. The methods of stage magicians have always intrigued me as being useful in controlling people's behavior in specific ways."

             
"You mean like Mesmerism and hypnotism? I always thought they were bunk."

             
"They aren't pure bunkum, although some of their practitioners are masters of bunkum, but that's not what I'm referring to. I had in mind methods using visual misdirection, misleading statements, and deliberate misperceptions."

             
"I'm not sure what you mean."

             
Moriarty thought for a second and said, "I'll give you a brief and unimpressive demonstration." He took a silver coin from his pocket. "Now I'm going to place this in one hand," he said, "and
leave
the other empty." He turned away from Chennery for a second and then turned back with both hands made into fists and held in front of him. "Now, whichever hand you pick," he said, "I will have the coin. Remember—you may select freely either hand, and yet I will still have the coin."

             
"I'm to pick one hand?" Chennery asked.

             
"That's the idea," Moriarty said, patiently holding his fists in front of him.

             
"All right."
He stared at the two fists. "I'll take this—no this one!" He pointed to Moriarty's right hand. "You're sure?
"

             
"
I suppose I am."

             
"No supposing allowed," Moriarty said, raising his right hand slightly. "This is the hand you have freely selected?" Chennery nodded. "Yes, it is."

             
"And yet you could have chosen the other hand. This hand"— he opened the chosen right hand—"contains nothing. As I told you," Moriarty opened his left hand, "I still have the coin."

             
Chennery considered for a moment. "I see," he said finally. "But, after all, it was a fifty-fifty proposition."

             
"Yes," Moriarty admitted. "But I had to win, whichever hand you chose."

             
"Oh," Chennery said. "Some sort of slight-of-hand, was it?"

             
"Not at all, I merely took advantage of the fact that, although I presume you listened closely to what I said, you didn't know in advance what represented 'winning' this particular game."

             
"What do you mean?"

             
"What I told you was that, whichever hand you chose, I would have the coin. It sounds positive, but actually it's a rather ambiguous statement. Had you picked my left hand, the one actually containing the coin, I might have said, 'See how my magical abilities forced you to pick the hand which had the coin,' and you would have thought that was the way the trick was supposed to go."

             
"Oh," Chennery said, but he didn't look convinced.

             
"A wonder explained is a wonder no more," Moriarty said.
"Back to the matter at hand.
Madame Verlaine is my associate, and any instructions from her are to be treated as though they came directly from me. That's one of the reasons I wanted you to meet her. If any other messages arrive purporting to come from me or Madame Verlaine, you are to ignore them unless the messenger recites the phrase—well now," he turned to Madame Verlaine, "what phrase should we use as our password?"

             
Madame Verlaine shrugged her slender shoulders.

             
"Can you suggest something?" Moriarty asked Chennery.
"Something that will stick in your mind?"

             
Chennery paused and stared out the window.
" 'The
moving finger writes'?" he suggested.

             
"Ah, yes," Moriarty said.
" 'And
having writ, moves on.'
Very good.
Easy to remember and not apt to come out by accident."

             
"I hope it is not prophetic," Madame Verlaine said, and continued the quote:
" 'Nor
all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.' "

             
"There is truth in Omar," Moriarty commented, "but not always a cheerful truth."

             
The maid entered with a large tray bearing a coffee pot, pastries, and the necessary china and silver and set it on the sideboard. "Thank you, Eleanor," Madame Verlaine told her. "We'll serve ourselves."

             
Peter Chennery sat in one of the high-back chairs with a cup of coffee and a plate of pastry on the table to his left and regarded the two sitting across from him. Professor Moriarty he had heard about, but the stories were conflicting. He had looked the professor up in the embassy's small reference library and discovered that James Moriarty, Sc.D., FRAS, had lectured in mathematics at the Victoria University of Manchester in the 1870s and was the author of several monographs on astronomical subjects that were highly regarded by the few who could understand them. He was also, by some at Scotland Yard, believed to be a master criminal who was responsible for every major unsolved crime since the Great Bank Robbery of 1866. On the other hand there was the fact that, according to a confidential report he had foiled a plot to assassinate Queen Victoria some years before, and when asked what reward he would like had replied, "
to
be left alone," or words to that effect.

             
Of Madame Madeleine Verlaine he had discovered nothing except the strong possibility that that was not her real name. Not sharing the Viennese preference for chubby women, he found her exceedingly beautiful.

             
Of the usual gossip that followed even the most secret assignments there was none, except a word from the courier that this particular note, which he handed to the ambassador himself, was to be taken exceedingly seriously and kept exceedingly secret. The courier's warning was reinforced when the communication was found to be in the diplomatic service's most secure code; one to be reserved for matters of national importance. It was a puzzle, but one thing was sure: the ambassador had turned it over to him to handle, and if the handle slipped from his grasp, he would be spending the remainder of his time in the Foreign Service stamping passport applications in the closest approach to Hell that the foreign minister could devise.

             
"What I require at the moment," Moriarty told him, "is a house or apartment with some particular qualifications."

             
Chennery took out a small, leather-covered pocket notebook.

             
"No notes!" Moriarty said firmly. "If you have trouble remembering the list, I'll teach you a mnemonic system that works well and is not difficult to learn."

             
Chennery put the notebook away. "Sorry," he said. "I think I can remember what I need to remember. What sort of house or flat?"

             
"Good. First, it should be occupied by someone you trust completely, but who is not known to be connected to the embassy.
"

             
"
Why not an empty house?"

             
"Because if a house or apartment is known to be empty, it might create undue interest if someone is seen entering it.
"

             
"
Ah!"

             
"If the tenant is known to be a woman," Madame Verlaine offered, "it might cause talk if men were seen to be entering it.
"

             
"
A point," Moriarty admitted.

             
"Have your guests dress like servants," Chennery offered. "Servants are, after all, merely servants, and tend to be invisible except to other servants."

             
"Excellent," Moriarty said. "Even so, if it is an apartment, it should be in a building without a doorman or concierge. Located somewhere within a half-hour carriage ride from let's say, the Burgplatz. Also it would be convenient if it had more than one entrance, possibly on different streets."

             
Chennery nodded. "It probably will have to be a flat of some sort if you want it in the city," he said. "Is there anything else?"

             
"Yes. Have it well stocked with food."

             
"Yes. I see.
Of course."
Chennery nodded.

             
"I think that's all for now. Deliver the keys, and of course the address, to me here tomorrow. Please inform the tenant of the apartment that some complete strangers are liable to show up at any time, and make sure that he or she understands that he is not to say anything to anyone about this."

             
"Tomorrow?
Yes, I guess we can do it by tomorrow."

             
Brom, the valet, knocked and entered. "Excuse me, Count Sandarel, but Mr. Tolliver would like to speak with you."

             
"Tolliver?"

             
"He is in the breakfast room, sir."

             
Moriarty stood.
"Very good.
I'll be back in a minute, Mr. Chennery, please
enjoy
your coffee."

             
Chennery put his coffee cup down and stood up. "Actually, I'd best be leaving if I'm to locate an appropriate flat for you."

             
"That's so. I expect to hear from you tomorrow. You are doing well."

             
Madame Verlaine accompanied Chennery to the front door.
" 'You
are doing well,' " she said to him. "That is high praise from the professor."

             
"Is it?" Chennery asked. "Will I see you again?"

             
"No doubt," she told him. "But keep your mind on your work—for now."

             
Moriarty went into the breakfast room, to find Mummer Tolliver sitting on a chair and two cushions and eating pastry. Moriarty took a chair across the table from him and considered for a minute while the mummer ate. "Barnett and his wife are here in Vienna," he ventured finally.

             
"Near enough as makes no difference," the mummer affirmed.

             
"They're in some sort of trouble."