silence. He moved along the corridor and soon came upon two doors: one straight ahead of him and the other to his right, which was twice the size of the first. Gingerly pulling the large door ajar, he discovered that it led to to a lift. A metal cage was in readiness to propel the occupant downwards to who knew where. Reckless as he might have been to come this far, he certainly was not going to risk taking a ride in a lift, especially in Moriarty’s domain.
He tried the other door, which led to another short passage — almost an anteroom—and a further door. As soon as he began to open this, he heard voices. He stopped and peered through the crack that he had created. He gazed down upon a magnificent high chamber, wonderfully furnished and illuminated by electricity. As far as he could determine, the door was situated on a minstrel gallery above the chamber. The gallery ran round the four walls, made up of shelves which housed a vast quantity of books. Down below, two men were in quiet conversation. Crouching low, Holmes slipped through the door and lay on the floor, edging forward enough to survey the scene below him.
From his vantage point, Holmes had an excellent view of the room and its occupants. He recognised one of the men straight away. It was Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s second in command. Holmes observed the other man closely. He was a tall fellow, with finely chiselled, sardonic features and a hard cruel mouth and a mop of dark unruly hair. He had about him an air of power and authority. It was clear to Sherlock Holmes that this was Professor James Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime. He was in his presence at last. A thrill of excitement rippled through his body. Here was his dark
Moriarty leaned in a nonchalant fashion on the edge of the mantelpiece while Moran paced up and down in front of him.
“I’m not at all happy about Holmes’ appearance tonight,” Moran was saying.
“Neither am I,” replied the Professor, in silky tones. “But I will take steps to prevent his further involvement in my plans. We must utilise Watson again, and if that fails. I shall simply have to rid myself of this nuisance once and for all.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to do that straight away?”
“Possibly, but my mind is filled with the Elephant’s Egg operation at present, and I’d rather not be distracted by having to devise a suitable finale for Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Moran nodded. He knew better than to attempt to persuade his master otherwise.
“Everything is in place at the Indian end,” continued Moriarty, as though he were speaking his thoughts aloud. “Our man is ready to take the place of the Maharaja’s envoy on the sea voyage. It is a substitution which has been worked out with the greatest precision. Reed is overseeing this. So when the ship docks in England, not only will the envoy be a fake but the ruby also. No one will dare to examine it that closely. It would be most impolite to scrutinise such a gift. No one will realise that it is merely a very convincing piece of red glass. It will be presented to the Queen in a special ceremony at Windsor Castle, after which it will be lodged in the vaults there, with all the other trinkets she has acquired during her reign. It is unlikely that it will be seen again — or at least for some time. Meanwhile, we shall have the pleasure of profiting from this most bountiful of eggs.” Moriarty allowed himself a brief smile.
“That’s if Graves is prepared to co-operate.”
“He will, Moran, he will. We have wasted too much time on these reluctant jewellers. He’ll do as I ask... even if I have to use force.”
As though on cue, a door opened and Scoular entered, accompanied by a groggy-looking Patrick Graves. Scoular shepherded the jeweller to the sofa by the fire.
“Our man is coming round,” he declared.
Moriarty grinned. “Good. Moran, be so kind as to give our visitor a reviving brandy.”
Moran did as he was ordered. Graves took the brandy glass and greedily downed the drink in one gulp, which brought on a coughing fit. The other three men waited patiently like statues until he had finished.
“Mr Graves,” said Moriarty, approaching the sofa, “I have something for you, an offer that can make you a substantial amount of money or one that could result in you losing at least one of your limbs.”
Graves, who was already pale, blanched at the harshness of these words.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked at length, in a halting fashion, his voice no more than a dry whisper.
“Indeed you do.”
Graves grinned slyly. “Then I’d rather take the money option.”
Moriarty chuckled in a theatrical manner while his two companions gazed on Graves with stony stares. “A man after my own heart.”
“Another brandy, perhaps?” Graves held out his glass like a beggar.
“Give our friend another snifter, Moran, and Scoular, you see he gets a good night’s rest. We can discuss details in the morning. I don’t think we have any need to worry. I’m sure Mr Graves will be as co-operative as we wish.”
“Certainly will, gentlemen,” agreed Graves, before taking another gulp of brandy from his refreshed glass.
Sherlock Holmes, positioned high above this drama, concluded that he had learned as much as he needed for the time being, and that it would be prudent to make his escape. With infinite care he retraced his steps back through the two doors and along the panelled passage and up the wooden staircase. Below the trap-door, he paused and strained his ears for any noise, any sound of movement. He could hear none. He pushed up the trap- door sufficiently for him to survey the warehouse. It appeared as empty and deserted as when he had left it. His heart pounding with pleasure, he scrambled through.
As soon as he was on his feet, he felt an arm grasp him around the neck. A gruff voice snarled in his ear, “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Holmes swivelled his head to catch a glimpse of his assailant. It was the coach-driver, back from his travels. With great speed and dexterity, Holmes grabbed the man’s arms and, placing all his weight on his good leg, he heaved him over his shoulder. It was a practised Baritsu move. The man rose as though he were a rag-doll, and landed with an unhealthy thud on his back some three feet away from the detective. He gave a cry of pain, and before he was able to lift himself from the ground, Holmes straddled his body and administered a powerful right hook to his chin. The driver’s head fell backwards, his eyes tight shut and his mouth agape. Holmes could not help but smile with pleasure at his own strength and ability. He then carried out a search of the man’s clothing until he found what he was looking for: the keys to the warehouse door.
Within five minutes, Sherlock Holmes, limping badly now, was three streets away from Moriarty’s warehouse. After half an hour, he was in a cab on his way back to Baker Street.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
I listened with increasing horror to Holmes’ narrative. Iknew that he cared little for the danger in which he placed himself by continuing with his plan to outsmart Moriarty and to bring him and his organisation down, but Iwondered how much he realised that, in doing so, he was placing me and my wife in great danger also.
My fears must have been mirrored in my glum expression, for Holmes leaned over and patted me on the shoulder.
“Have no fear,” he said, with a steely glint in his eye. “Moriarty will not win; you have my word on that.”
It was meant as a comforting gesture, but it did not comfort. Iknew at first hand the power and extent of Moriarty’s vast organisation — how far his tendrils extended over this great city. There was no dark corner or crevice to which his agents did not have access. He was the puppet-master supreme; he controlled many who were at his beck and call at every hour of the day or night. Holmes had no such organisation. Essentially, he was one man—a David challenging this terrible Goliath. No matter how brilliant my friend was, the odds were heavily stacked
