kind who toiled ceaselessly reading at the long tables of the museum.
“A rather strange bird, that Porlock,” said I when I saw Holmes’s eyes open.
“Far stranger than you might think if you knew him as I do, and my knowledge of him is quite fragmentary. He was about to tell me something of the greatest importance when a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, walked into the room. Porlock bolted like a rabbit. He clearly thought that he was in grave danger. The boy did not follow him but walked out into the hall. That is when I returned to you. Porlock is probably quite correct in that he feels endangered—most assuredly by Moriarty himself. Like all the vile characters around Moriarty, he is a victim as well as the beneficiary of the great master of crime. Born into a dirt-poor family in Liverpool fifty years ago, he ran from home at the age of eight, and survived in the street until he was by great luck picked up by a wealthy Scotsman who took him home and saw to his education. These contrasting experiences—the gutter and the castle— immediately set up in his mind an ambivalence that has penetrated and vitiated every move he makes.
“You seem to know quite a bit about him.”
“Not as much as I would like. Look at it this way, old boy. A youngster, no more than a child really, is forced into crime to survive, his body encrusted with coal dust and the dirt of our most neglected city. He is taken in by a wealthy man, who gives him a new life. Then at the university his mathematical talents are immediately recognized by Professor Moriarty and a new life begins for the young student. He becomes Moriarty’s assistant, then the custodian of Moriarty’s wealth, unaware until later of its criminal origins. Later, he is surprised but not displeased at Moriarty’s revelations, and throws his lot in totally with the great genius. At present his is the brain through which Moriarty’s ideas are consummated.”
“Really, Holmes, I can’t believe that Moriarty has given over so much to such a nondescript character,” said I.
“Nonsense, my dear fellow, do not be deceived. I have entered a room more than once and have not recognized Porlock until he informed me of who he was. That rather inconsequential figure that you saw today is only one of several roles he has created for himself. He is like a slightly battered book that fills the dusty space on the shelf, a pair of old slippers forgotten in the corner of a closet, an old lampshade waiting to be discarded. He is there but unnoticed, especially to the untrained eye. He is Dupin’s purloined letter, in plain view but hidden by the obvious. His greatest pleasure is to appear at the scene of one of his crimes and to go unnoticed. You would be surprised, as I have been, to see the old scholar in the frayed blue coat appear as a bon vivant, a gourmet, a womaniser, a notorious gambler, an aristocrat of great wealth and culture, a patron of the arts, and one of London’s most generous philanthropists; the list is endless. Whatever the problem, he is loyal to the members of the gang, who look to him to save them from the law. I will leave to another time his skill with Lestrade and Hopkins, so extraordinary it is that neither of them are aware of his existence.”
Holmes smiled as he uttered the last few words, and lit his pipe.
“He does sound more than human, Holmes. Surely you exaggerate.”
“Watson, you know I neither guess nor do I make much of little. I am sincere when I tell you that Porlock’s gifts are extraordinary.”
“How long have you known him? And how did you meet him?”
“That, of course, is difficult to say. He communicated with me first by letter and an occasional coded message. The Birlstone case was the first. After that, he intervened in two more, giving me enough to go on to stop Moriarty—to his great annoyance, I might add.”
Holmes stood up, checked the open window, and continued.
“Indeed, perhaps the answer to your second question as to how I came to know him should be reversed. It was rather the other way around—he found me. It was when I first suspected Moriarty’s existence and began to see the outline of his diabolical schemes. Here Porlock’s ambivalences came to the fore, and he began warning me of those plots that he wished to foil or at least postpone. In one secret conversation, he made it clear to me that he thought Moriarty had gone too far and his judgement had become impaired. He also saw quite soon that I was as formidable as my adversary. I think then that he began to hedge his bets, so to speak, giving me only the most meagre of clues that were necessary to stop the genial professor, nothing ever more than that. So far, he has managed well. If Moriarty learns of his messages to me, however, his revenge will be swift and unforgiving.”
“It sounds to me, my dear Holmes, that he sees himself as Moriarty’s successor.”
“Yes, indubitably, and possibly as successor to Sherlock Holmes as well. Who, after all, is the evil professor without the great detective? It all needs constant scrutiny, Watson. I suspect that Moriarty is up to no good, and that there will be a message from Porlock before dawn. Through our windows, no doubt.”
I said nothing for a moment, trying to digest what Holmes had said, particularly his last statement. But I could not resist another question.
“But Holmes, what keeps them together? From your earlier descriptions of Moriarty I can construct only a rather ascetic, intelligent man, gone astray, even mad, because of his desire for power over his fellows.”
“If we wish to understand what brought them together and what keeps them at one in their depredations, then paradoxically it is that their desires differ. This allows them to cooperate and revel each in the other’s success. More and more Moriarty is interested in naked power. In the last year he has established a new cell in his organisation, one for acts of terror and espionage. Does he still add to his art collection, one of the best in the world? Of course! But he enjoys even more now the assassination of a prime minister in the Balkans, the kidnapping of the children of a rich sheik, the mysterious fire that destroys a steamship, or profits from a famine in India, anything to which he can contribute even a modicum of his chaotic machinations. None of this has any interest for Porlock.”
I looked at my watch. It was just past midnight. Holmes lay on the couch, his eyes closed. I left him and retired to my room. I had hoped for sleep, but none came. As I lay in the dark, Holmes’s disquisition on Moriarty and Porlock ran through my mind. What impressed me was Holmes’s tranquility as he spoke of such frightening things; and my respect for my friend’s quiet bravery only grew as I contemplated the wanton destruction that his adversaries might carry out without his intervention.
I must have gone into a half sleep, a restless doze, when I heard what seemed to be the flapping of wings. I looked at my half-open window and saw a pigeon attempting to enter. I opened the window a few more inches, and the bird flew in. I called Holmes, who came immediately.
“Good, Watson, the bird comes from Porlock, with no doubt an important message contained in the cartouche on its leg.”
Holmes grasped the bird gently, removed the cylinder, opened it and read:
Holmes stared at the letter.
“Difficult, Watson, in fact most difficult,” he said somberly.
I looked at the message and read:Moran: cipher BDConcert Moribundus et finalis: May 2, 1901Concert Master: Ivor NovelloCovent GardenSalut: Blind Tom plays Sousa; Chaminade valse grande brillante; Black Tom plays Elgar’s enigma infra; old curiosity hotel Little Nelles; poppin bobbin; Savant idiot. Yradier mon cher ami; d’amour.
“Pure nonsense, Holmes. Porlock is pulling your leg,” I said impatiently.
“I’m afraid not, old fellow, or rather nonsense on the surface, but below it a meaning. We must crack it.”
Holmes went to his desk, mumbling to himself. I stood at his elbow hoping to help him, but both the message and its meaning were lost on me.
