Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Moriarty at his best, Watson. This code is known in the trade as a polyvalent semantic cipher. Its very nature makes it impossible to decode with precision, it being a series of associations made by the maker. It is originally the creation of the Italian mathematician Cardano, a scientist well known for his puzzles. Here it is in the form of a garbled musical program. Now either Moriarty has included the cipher within the message, or Moran has the dictionary, so to speak, that dissolves the enigma. For us, we are confronted with the problem of Moriarty’s choices. Without the key, we are forced to move toward the optimal solution without any certainty. In our case, the only certainty is the date of 2 May, that is, tomorrow. And of course the presence of Ivor Novello. Which means that at best we have twenty-four hours to dissolve the puzzle and act accordingly. Wait, Watson. Let me see . . .” He stared intently at the coded message.

“Here we are, old boy. Buried in the references to salon music and musicians (here Moriarty shows his limitations) are some obvious clues: Sousa suggests the military and the last three letters of his name—usa—surely refer to the United States. Target one. Ah, note here, Watson, the g b initial letters of grande valse, i.e., Grande Bretagne. Target two. And finally, infra, the last three letters referring to France. Target three.”

“Good Lord, Holmes, I am impressed. But which targets, and when and where?”

“Let us see, Watson. If memory serves, Blind Tom is the name of an idiot savant musician of the southern state of North Carolina, divinely gifted by nature musically, but unable to perform the simplest mental operations beyond the piano; but who is Black Tom? And what of military importance is there in the Carolinas? Here we have a choice between two toms: one black, one blind. Which is significant? Note the choice between Elgar and Chaminade. Finally, we have the choice of old curiosity shop and Little Nelles. And a dead poppin. Papen! Franz von Papen, the rogue spy, ready to do anything for money, especially the large sums available in Washington. I was fooled by the notice in The Times a week ago that he was in Paris for negotiations with the French government, but up to no good behind the scenes. Little Knells, refers to a small hotel in Paris on Rue de Nesles near the Pont Neuf. I have stayed there on occasion. It is so designed that one can disappear within its rooms of false partitions, hidden doorways and every conceivable tromp l’oeil painting. It is run by a blind Italian Jew by the name of Piperno, who has done more to save the persecuted of Europe than anyone else I know, but whose so-called blindness does not fool me. It is there that Porlock is hiding, and it is there that we shall rendezvous with him in the hope that Moriarty has not yet done him in. It is certain that he knows more than he has told us.”

Holmes looked at his watch. It was the middle of the night.

“Come, Watson, if we leave now we shall just make the train to Southampton in time for the ship to Calais. Pack as little as possible for both of us. In the meantime, I shall send a message to Lestrade to warn him of possible trouble in London, and to Inspector Muldoon in New York to warn him that America is about to be attacked by international miscreants, though more than that we cannot say.”

The trip to Paris was uneventful. Holmes maintained a silence the whole way.

“Soon, Watson,” he said quietly as we climbed into our cab, “we shall know if Moriarty has removed Porlock from this world as he fully intends to do.”

“And the boy?”

“A mystery, Watson. Perhaps he is the son of Porlock, who appears to use him as a scout. You remember seeing him in the Museum. Perhaps Porlock has also fed the boy all that he knows and has prepared to use him in some way against Moriarty. A cruel misuse of the boy, obviously.”

The trip seemed to energise Holmes, and when we arrived at the hotel, he jumped down quickly and rushed in.

My knowledge of Paris was limited, but I knew that we were somewhere on the Left Bank near the Pont Neuf on a street called Rue Bonaparte. The Hotel de Nesles lay at the end of a narrow alley just off the main street. One might easily have missed it, tucked away as it was in its own corner.

Holmes motioned to me to enter quickly. In speaking to the proprietor, he had learned that Porlock and his son were staying there but were leaving the following morning.

“Now, Watson, watch your step, old man, for you are in for a few surprises.”

Holmes walked ahead of me and I soon lost him. I tried to retrace my steps but could not. I had lost my way and seemed to have stumbled into a dark closet. Its door closed in on me.

“This way, Watson. Sorry, dear fellow, but you will get the feel of it rather quickly. Take this key. You may put it in any lock and you will be given a simple way out the back door, where you will find yourself on the street behind the hotel. You can only re-enter by walking round to Rue Bonaparte.”

“Amazing, Holmes. What a strange place . . .”

“The owner, Watson, was formerly the owner of the largest amusement park in France. It was one of the earliest halls of mirrors. This is his last creation: moveable partitions, tromp l’oeil effects, dozens of distorting mirrors, wall paper that goes over doors and windows and changes every few hours. Quite clever.”

As Holmes spoke, the wall in front of us moved suddenly, and, as if by magic, there was Porlock sitting comfortably in a chair near what appeared to be a window, the boy next to him.

Porlock handed Holmes a note. “To you from Moriarty,” he said. Holmes opened it and read:My Dear Holmes:You have done well with my message. At least with the unimportant parts. Porlock will fill you in with the details. There is very little that you can do. I shall ask you to meet me upon my return, if you survive the next hour or so. I hope you do, for there is much that is unfinished between us.Moriarty

“Where has he gone?” Holmes asked.

Porlock looked at his watch. “Moriarty has arrived in the United States. He has met secretly with Herr Reinhardt, who will take him to Black Tom.”

“And who is Black Tom?” I inquired.

“Black Tom is a place, not a person. It consists of a narrow pier that juts out into the ocean near Jersey City. It was, until a few minutes ago, the largest munitions storage site in the world.”

As Holmes and I stood there, I was assailed suddenly by the smell of smoke. Dark billowing clouds poured into the corridor. Signor Piperno, his clothes on fire, appeared and screamed at us to leave immediately. A fire had started in the kitchen and the front half of the hotel was in flames.

Porlock and the boy returned to their room, but Holmes pointed to a closer exit and we found ourselves outside, blackened by the smoke but unhurt. We watched helplessly as the hotel, the flimsiest edifice of dry wood and paper, burned away in minutes.

The Paris Fire Department contained the flames but could do nothing to save the hotel. In its burning rubble, they found the charred remains of Porlock, but the boy was gone. There was no sign of Piperno or other guests.

Holmes suggested that we speak to the head of the French Surete before returning to London. It was in speaking to Monsieur. Beauchard that we learned that a gigantic explosion had taken place in Jersey City, not far from New York, where the largest number of explosives had been stored for shipment to Britain. The place was known locally as Black Tom. It was notable, also, said Beauchard that the explosion in America coincided exactly with the destruction of the Hotel Demesnes, and an attempt to kill the well-known composer Sir Edward Elgar.

Holmes thanked Inspector Beauchard, and we left.

“Moriarty wins this round, hands down,” he said ruefully. “Porlock, Holmes, Watson, and the boy . . . Elgar, and finally Black Tom.”

I could see the anger and frustration that he felt pass across his face.

“Come along, old boy, we have a lot to do to stop him. It will be difficult, Watson; we have lost Porlock, no mean ally. Let us return to London and lick our wounds. One day, I shall force Moriarty into the light of day, where he will surely perish. There’s a cab,” he said as he waved his arm. “Let us return soon to this beautiful city.”

A DEATH IN VENICE

HOLMES HAD AWAKENED EARLY THAT MORNING IN an uncharacteristically jovial mood. It was a few minutes before six when I heard him bustling about just as the first dull silver light of the London dawn began to come through my window. He hummed an old Scottish tune, which he punctuated with mutterings to himself and an occasional quiet chuckle.

It was a raw grey December day outside, and as I peered sleepily through the curtains, I saw that a mixture