The Revenge of Moriarty (29 page)

Harry Allen stepped back into the bedroom, reappearing almost immediately with the bottle of turpentine, the palette-knife and rag.

Moriarty, who had been clasping the Borchardt automatic, transferred the weapon to his waistband and took the items from Allen.

‘Just watch, Jean. Watch and learn.'

He walked over to the painting which the Frenchmen had brought with them, and proceeded to saturate the cloth with turpentine. Handing the bottle back to Allen, Moriarty began to rub hard at the lower right hand corner of the
Mona Lisa
. One of the French bodyguards stifled a cry. Grisombre responded with a sharp oath, ‘Moriarty. The Leonardo, you'll destroy …' But a jab in the ribs from Spear's revolver stopped him from going further.

‘You think I do not know what I am doing?'

The Professor had taken the bottle again to add more turpentine to the cloth. The paint was starting to soften under his pressure, and now he assisted it with short hard strokes of the palette-knife. Quite quickly the dark area below the
Mona Lisa's
left arm was being stripped away.

‘There.'

Moriarty stood back. Beneath the paint they could all plainly see a word cut into the poplar panel.
MORIARTY
.

Grisombre stared transfixed, shifting his gaze to the Professor for a second before it was drawn back to the carved name under the great painting which he personally had arranged to be stolen from the Louvre.

‘It can't …' he began.

Moriarty, with great showmanship, turned and pointed dramatically at the despoiled picture.

‘That is the painting you brought from France, Grisombre. The painting that was hanging in the Salon Carré. The one which you replaced with a copy. You see, my friend, I had already taken care of the lady, long before I commissioned you to steal her.' Two steps and he was beside the easel covered with the black cloth. ‘You stole a worthless piece of wood and oil, Grisombre. The true Leonardo is already here.' With a flourish, he whipped back the cloth to reveal Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece.

Grisombre's face was a grey mixture of wonder and fear.

‘I will admit that my charade has been a little dramatic,' Moriarty chuckled. ‘But I think it well demonstrates my powers and proves my point. Surely, you will agree that it is I who should lead any alliance of our people in the continent of Europe.'

Slowly, Grisombre rose, walking like a man recovering from a grave illness, moving first to the real
Mona Lisa
and then to the one he had brought from Paris. The two bodyguards remained seated, covered by the revolvers. William Jacobs had come closer also, standing next to Grisombre.

‘What will you do now?' asked the Frenchman.

‘You betrayed me, my friend. With the others, you ousted me from leadership of a society which has a potential for plunder unknown since the days of Attila the Hun. What do you think I shall do?'

‘I'll not stand and let you kill me like a dog,' shouted Grisombre, reaching up with his right hand, grasping the easel which held the fake
Mona Lisa
and, in one motion, whirling it round him, spinning in a full circle, scattering and skittling Moriarty's men who were taken off-balance by the sudden move, speed and enormous force with which the Frenchman swung the wooden frame. At the full circle of his turn, Grisombre let go of the easel, shouted to his bodyguards, and lunged for the door, dragging it open as Moriarty shouted –

‘Grisombre, you fool, stop. I am not here to harm you. Grisombre.'

But he was gone, running helter-skelter down the corridor.

One of the bodyguards tried to follow, but William Jacobs, recovering quickly from the blow which had sent him to the floor, barred his way, the revolver cocked and pointed an inch from the man's head.

‘Bertram. William,' snapped the Professor. ‘Get after him. No shooting. As little violence as you need. Bring him back. If not here, then to Bermondsey.'

He had the Borchardt out, levelling it at the pair of Frenchmen, as the Jacobs brothers, tucking their revolvers away, went tearing from the room in pursuit.

Spear went over to the door and kicked it closed, while Harry Allen began to clean up. The cases were repacked with haste, all traces removed from the rooms, the pictures stowed away, while Moriarty returned to his Morningdale disguise.

Within twenty minutes they had collected the luggage from the Frenchmen's rooms, and Spear, with Harry Allen in attendance, had left the hotel with Grisombre's bodyguards. A little later, Moriarty went down and paid all the bills. By this time Harkness had been summoned to drive the Professor away, leaving no trace except for the invisible presence of the lurkers around the hotel. They were still there when the police arrived.

Grisombre reached the bottom of the staircase and slowed his pace to a walk: patting his hair, smoothing his clothes in order to saunter through the foyer without attracting attention. He could, perhaps, reach some kind of cover in the large railway station. Possibly hide until the next Dover train was due to leave, then board it at the last moment. In the forefront of his mind, logic told him not to trust Moriarty. If he was in the Professor's place he would have no mercy on one who had betrayed him in an hour of need. Why should the Professor be any different?

As he reached the hotel doors, he glanced back to see the two burly figures running down the staircase. They were not bothering with niceties, not slowing down or trying to create an impression of normality. They came across the foyer towards him like hounds bearing down on a fox.

With panic jangling through him, Grisombre pushed through the doors and into the cool evening air outside. Uncertain, he ran across the forecourt which separated the hotel and station from Victoria Street, then, throwing all caution aside, plunged in among the traffic to reach the far pavement.

The street was a babbling, noisy bright river of human confusion. On the pavements people moved about their business, some sauntering, enjoying the hubbub, others with set faces, moving quickly towards late appointments, dinners spoiling, assignations which would not wait and might change the course of personal histories, trains to be caught, messages to be delivered, hours to be taken up in an outward show of activity, wives watching clocks, employers to be satisfied, consciences to be appeased. There were chattering pairs, soulful strolling lovers, silent married couples, pleading beggars, rogues and cheats, drunks and temperance men, shouting newsboys and bedazzled visitors.

In the road itself, the traffic passed slowly under the bright illumination of the gas standards: the winking lamps of the hansoms, the fully lit parade of omnibuses, each painted in its particular vivid colour – the open top decks giving passengers vantage views – moving advertisements glaring out their messages in whites and reds, green and yellows –
Sanitas Disinfectant
–
non-poisonous and fragrant; Tomato Soup 57 Heinz varieties Baked Beans
, the long modesty boards under the top guard rails pleading for you to use
Okley's Knife Polish, Fry's Cocoa, Pears' Soap
.

Grisombre tried to hail a passing hansom, but the driver shouted back – ‘Goin' for me supper, guv'nor' – so he turned, intending to weave back through the crowded pavements and, perhaps, retreat up some side street. He glimpsed the station and hotel, now far away across the road, and knew that Moriarty's men were somewhere amidst the traffic between.

He was about to move when one of the green
Favourite
omnibuses slowed, its horses coming dangerously near to the curb. The curving open steps up to the top deck seemed to issue an invitation as bold as its modesty board advertisement for
Ogden's ‘Guinea Gold' Cigarettes
. As he leaped up onto the step, the conductor shouted, ‘Where to, mate?' and Grisombre could only stammer, ‘Wherever you're going.'

‘All the way, mate? Right you are. Hornsey Rise, a tanner.'

Grisombre had no real idea of English money, and little enough of it in his pocket, so he pressed a florin into the man's hand, grabbing some change and his ticket as he pulled himself up the stairs, hardly heeding the conductor's, ‘Watch your step. Hold tight.'

On the open top deck the bus appeared to be swaying, and he was forced to clutch at the backs of the seats as he made his way up the narrow aisle, towards the front where a double, on the right, was empty. As he made the short, and seemingly precarious, journey, he could hear a commotion below him, on the platform: the sound of one particular voice drifting up. Moriarty's men were undoubtedly on the vehicle.

They would wait below. That was all they had to do: stand on the platform with the conductor, or take seats inside. Eventually Grisombre had to come down, and when he did, they would be there to greet him.

The omnibus was moving a little faster now, the driver edging his horses out into the main stream of traffic so that they were almost brushing wheels with the hansoms, carts, drays and buses moving in the opposite direction, back towards the station. Two buses passed, not more than a couple of feet from him, the drivers, below, shouting greetings or jeers to one another.

Grisombre looked forward. Coming towards them was another bus, a yellow
Camden
with the top deck half full, the occupants muffled and buttoned against the chill of the night air, chatting and pointing, laughing, one couple oblivious to everything except each other.

The buses were drawing almost level now. He could not hesitate for long. The seats at the rear were empty, and as they came abreast, Grisombre stood up, grasped the guard rail and vaulted full over the foot or so between the vehicles, landing half across the
Camden's
top rail, his feet on one of the seats, conscious of a shriek from a woman passenger near him, and a growl of protest from her companion.

Sliding into the seat, he glanced back. One of his pursuers had seen him and was leaping from the
Favourite's
platform, running hard, dodging and ducking through the jumble of traffic towards the bus upon which he had landed.

‘Come on then, I'll have none of them larks on my bus.' The conductor was poking his head up from the stairs, only a few feet away. ‘Orf, my lad, you should know better at your age. You'll do yourself a mischief. We had a lad last week nearly killed himself playing this hare and hounds lark. It's getting a craze. Come on orf before I call a copper.'

Moriarty's man was behind the conductor, on the stairs, saying something to him. The conductor registered surprise, then deference, and began to move down so that the big fellow could come up the steps.

Grisombre looked around wildly. Another green – the
Haverstock-Hill
– omnibus was almost alongside, the top deck empty, but the gap between the buses wide, almost three feet.

The man on the stairs was coming up. Grisombre turned towards the gap separating the two buses moving in opposite directions. He could see the other's modesty board commending the efficacy of
Grape Nuts
. He grabbed the guard rail, placing one foot on it to give himself the necessary spring, and launched himself in the direction of the other bus.

He knew it was no good as he jumped, for the two buses seemed to separate, swinging away from each other as he leaped, grabbing forward with clawing hands.

His fingers clutched momentarily at the rail of the
Haverstock-Hill
, then slipped. He scrabbled at the advertisement – the N of
Nuts
against his nose and eyes for a fraction before he fell between the shafts of a hansom driving up between the buses. There were shouts, a clatter, other noises. Then darkness.

Crow got back to King Street a shade before eleven o'clock to find Sylvia, her face set in a hard line not unlike the visages of the gargoyles they had noted on the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, during their honeymoon.

‘Angus, they have been here for you. From Scotland Yard.' Her inflections were much as you would expect from a gargoyle.

‘Really, my dear,' Crow's mind spinning, stretching for the right answers to the questions as yet unasked.

‘They said that you were not on duty tonight. Can you explain this?'

‘No,' Crow said firmly. ‘There are some things concerned with the job that I do not have to explain. I certainly would not weary you with a recital of all the odd things a detective is called upon to do in order to earn his wages.'

‘Really.' That she did not altogether believe him was patently obvious.

‘And what did they want from the Police Office, my dear?'

‘They asked that you should go as directly as possible to the Grosvenor Hotel – something about a Mr Morningdale.'

Crow was already reaching for his hat which he had set down but a second ago. ‘Jarvis Morningdale?'

‘It would appear so.'

‘At last.' One hand on the street door.

‘He was there, earlier, it seems. Also there has been some kind of affray in Victoria Street nearby. In any case, your presence is required with some urgency.'

‘Do not wait up for me, Sylvia. This may take some time.'

On the corner, he bumped into Harriet returning from her evening out. Crow raised his hat to the girl, his heart bouncing and stomach turning over at her smile, which was as warm as the one she had given him but an hour earlier when they had parted.

Crow's step was light as he almost danced along the sparkling pavement, turning this way and that in search of a hansom to take him to the Grosvenor. The world, it seemed to him, smiled broadly. In Harriet, Crow fancied he had at last found the answer to all his secret thoughts and hidden longings. Why, she was a mere slip of a girl, yet she made him feel like a young lad again, a dizzy young lad all sentiment and roses. The soot of the city, even, smelled to him like the rich heather of his youth. Her touch sent him into frenzies, and to have her near, in his arms, plunging in mutual congress, was as near heaven as he felt he would ever come.