staircase that had probably been one of the features of the house before it had been cloven.
We heard the yelling when we reached the first landing. It came thinly through the walls, but there was no doubt that it would be a quality performance if we were in the room from which it emanated. Two voices: one shrill and the other low and growling like an angry dog. There was a staccato quality to the sounds, as though the actors were taking short breaks for air, or to dredge up new and fresh invectives before recommencing their mutual verbal abuse.
“What do you suppose-” I began, when the remainder of my supposition was cut off by two sharp cracks and a scream. Then silence.
“Gunshots!” Moriarty exclaimed, running up the stairs ahead of us. We followed close on his heels.
Bromire’s door was closed, and Moriarty knocked, waited for a second, and when he got no response slammed his foot powerfully against the lock. At the third kick the door burst open and we rushed into the room.
The scene that greeted us was like a tableau from the Grand Guignol: to our right a slim young man in his shirt sleeves, collar askew, hair scrambled, eyes wild, panting violently from fear and panic. His face and neck seemed to be covered with small scratches. He was holding a small revolver limply in his right hand, which was mottled with a curious blue stain. To our left, an overturned table, papers, photographic plates, envelopes and writing materials scattered about the floor. And, behind it, the crumpled body of a small, immaculately-dressed man lying in an ever-widening pool of his own blood.
The young man started away from us in a panic but stopped as a look of recognition crossed his face. “Mr. Wilde,” he exclaimed. “Is it you? Ah, I see that it is. I’m glad that you’ve come. But how did you-” he broke off and stared down at the body. “But never mind. It’s too late-too late!”
“Reynard!” Wilde said. “What are you doing here?”
“The same as you, I fancy,” the young man said. “Trying to come to terms with a blackmailer.”
“Unsuccessfully, I gather,” Moriarty said.
“He came at me and-” Reynard shook his head. “But who are you?”
“My name is Professor Moriarty. I’ve come to assist Mr. Wilde in resolving this, ah, matter.”
“What on earth happened here?” Wilde asked.
“Let us come inside and close the door,” Moriarty suggested. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the building-or at least on this floor-now, or someone would assuredly have appeared in the hall. But people should be coming home from their day’s work any time now, and we don’t want to attract unnecessary attention.”
We entered the flat and closed the door behind us as best we could. Most of the door was still in place, but the lock had burst out from the last kick. “What other rooms are there?” Moriarty asked.
“There’s a bed room and a lav, and a sort of kitchen-the sort that isn’t much good for actually cooking,” Reynard said.
Moriarty nodded. “Now,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you going to call the police?” Reynard asked, keeping has voice steady.
“Should we?” Moriarty responded.
“Needless to say, I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” said Reynard. “He was a vile blackmailer, and he’s better off dead, don’t you think?”
“There is a law against killing people,” Wilde commented. “Even blackmailers and wealthy maiden aunts.”
We turned to look at Wilde, who shrugged. “It just came out that way,” he explained. “When I begin a sentence it often wanders off in unexpected directions. That, I fancy, is my genius.”
“In this case,” I said, “if there was any way-surely Moriarty, there must be some way…”
“I think I should thank you, Reynard,” Wilde said, “and then perhaps we should all get out of here and let the police make what they will of this. Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Only you gentlemen,” Reynard answered.
Moriarty shook his head slowly “I think perhaps we had better call the police after all,” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. “You? Of all people, you?”
“It’s one thing to cover up for a man who has just rid the world of a blackmailer,” Moriarty said deliberately. “It’s quite another to help his accomplice escape justice.”
“What?” Wilde exclaimed. “But why do you think-?”
“I’m sure of it,” Moriarty said. “Look at his hand.”
“His hand?”
“That blue stain. It’s from the developing solution. Mr. Reynard has been developing the plates. He is not a victim. He is an accomplice. It took two people to do this-to carry you downstairs and set you up for the scene, if nothing else.”
“Well, I’ll-” Wilde began. “Reynard, why would you…?”
Reynard raised the pistol and held it rock-steady in his hand, pointing at Moriarty. He pulled back the hammer. “All right, Professor Whatever-Your-Name-Is. Think you’re smart, do you? Well I’m-”
That was as far as he got. One shot from Moriarty’s Webley, fired from in the coat pocket, tore into his chest, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Wilde said, “I’ll be-I don’t know what I’ll be.”
“Unfortunate, but perhaps it’s better this way. You’d never have been free of him if he got away,” Moriarty told Wilde. “Search the flat for photographic plates, while I arrange the bodies to make it look like mutual destruction. Then we’d best cautiously leave the scene.”
“He was not a gentleman,” Wilde said decisively. “One can tell by the cravat. A true gentleman has an unerring taste in cravats.”
“And we’d best take the camera, too,” Moriarty said.
And so we left. None of us, to my knowledge, ever spoke of the incident again.
