Professor Moriarty Omnibus

The Paradol Paradox

It is a damp, chilly Saturday, the sixteenth of April, 1887, as I sit before the small coal fire in the front room of Professor James Moriarty's Russell Square home making these notes; setting down while they are still fresh in my memory the queer and astounding events surrounding the problem with which Professor Moriarty and I found ourselves involved over the past few days. The case itself, a matter of some delicacy involving some of the highest-born and most important personages in the realm, had, as Moriarty put it, "a few points that were not entirely devoid of interest to the higher faculties." Moriarty's ability to shed light on what the rest of us find dark and mysterious will come as no surprise to anyone who has had any dealings with the professor. But what will keep the events of these past days unique in my mind forever is the glimpse I was afforded into the private life of my friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty.

Certain aspects of the case will never see print, at least not during the lifetimes of any of those involved; and I certainly cannot write it up in one of my articles for the American press, without revealing what must not be revealed. But the facts should not be lost, so I will at least set them down here, and if this notebook remains locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at my office at the American News Service until after my death, so be it. At least the future will learn what must be concealed from the present.

My name is Benjamin Barnett, and I am an expatriate New Yorker, working here in London as the director and owner of the American News Service; a company that sends news and feature stories from Britain and the continent to newspapers all around the United States over the Atlantic cable. Four years ago I was rescued from an unfortunate circumstance — and being held prisoner in a Turkish fortress is as unfortunate a circumstance as I can imagine that does not involve immediate great pain or disfigurement — by Professor James Moriarty. I was employed by him for two years after that, and found him to be one of the most intelligent, perceptive, capable; in short one of the wisest men I have ever known. Most of those who have had dealings with the professor would, I am sure, agree, with the notable exception of a certain consulting detective, who places Moriarty at the center of every nefarious plot hatched by anyone, anywhere, during this past quarter-century. I have no idea why he persists in this invidious belief. I have seen that the professor sometimes skirts the law to achieve his own ends, but I can also witness that Professor Moriarty has a higher moral standard than many of those who enforce it.

But I digress. It was last Tuesday evening, four days ago, that saw the start of the events I relate. We had just finished dinner and I was still sitting at the dining table, drinking my coffee and reading a back issue of The Strand Magazine. Moriarty was staring moodily out the window, his long, aristocratic fingers twitching with boredom. He was waiting, at the time, for a new spectrograph of his own design to be completed so that he could continue his researches into the spectral lines of one of the nearer stars. When he is not engaged in his scientific endeavors, Moriarty likes to solve problems of a more earthly nature, but at the moment there was no such exercise to engage his intellect; and to Professor Moriarty intellect was all.

I finished the article I was reading, closed the magazine, and shook my head in annoyance.

"You're right," Moriarty said without turning from the window. "It is shameful the way the Austrian medical establishment treated Dr. Semmelweis. Pass me a cigar, would you, old chap?"

"Not merely the Austrians," I said, putting the magazine down and reaching for the humidor on the mantel. "The whole medical world. But really, Moriarty, this is too much. Two hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake as a sorcerer."

Moriarty leaned over and took a cigar from the humidor as I held it toward him. "After all the time we have been in association," he said, "surely you can follow my methods by now."

"It is one thing to watch from the audience as De Kolta vanishes a girl on stage," I told him, "quite another to know how the trick is done."

Moriarty smiled and rolled the cigar between his palms. "My 'tricks' are in one way quite like those of a stage conjurer," he said. "Once you know how they're done, they don't seem quite so miraculous." He paused to clip and pierce the ends of the cigar with his silver cigar cutter. Then he lit a taper from the gas mantle on the wall, and puffed the cigar to life. "But think back. This particular miracle should succumb even to your analysis."

I rose and went over to the sideboard to pour myself another cup of coffee. The serving girl had yet to clear away the dinner dishes, and I absently banged the coffee spoon against a wine glass that had recently held its share of a fine '63 Chateau de Braquenne Bordeaux. Some months ago Moriarty had cleared up a particularly delicate problem for Hamish Plummet, partner in Plummet & Rose, Wines and Spirits, Piccadilly. Plummet presented the professor with a case of that rare vintage as a token of his appreciation, and tonight Moriarty had uncorked a bottle and pronounced it excellent. I was pleased to agree.

"You read the article," I suggested.

"Bravo, Barnett," Moriarty said. "A capital start."

"And you saw me reading it. But wait — you were across the room, looking out the window."

"True," Moriarty acknowledged. "I saw you reflected in the window glass."

"Ah!" I said. "But how did you know which article — even if you saw me reading—"

"I did not merely see, I observed. You stared down at your free hand, turning it over and examining it in a contemplative manner."

"Did I?"

"You were reflecting on Semmelweis's campaign to get his fellow physicians to wash their hands before treating patients. You were no doubt thinking of how many poor women had died in childbirth because the doctors scorned him and refused to take his advice."

"That's so, I remember," I told him.

"Thus I knew, by observation, which article you were reading. And then you put down the magazine and shook your head, clearly revealing your sequence of thought, and I said what I said." Moriarty returned his gaze to the window and puffed silently on his cigar.

A few moments later Mr. Maws, Moriarty's butler, knocked at the door and entered, and the serving girl scurried in past him and started clearing the table. "There's a milord come to see you, Professor," he said. "I put him in the front room. Here's his lordship's card." Mr. Maws handed Moriarty the rectangular pasteboard.

Moriarty centered his cigar carefully on the lip of an oversized ashtray and looked at the card, and then looked again. He ran his fingers over the surface, and then reached for a glass of water on the table, using it as a magnifying glass to carefully study the printing on the card. "Fascinating," he said. "What does the milord look like?"

"Young," Mr. Maws pronounced. "His attire is a bit on the messy side."

"Ah!" Moriarty said. "Well, I'll see him in my office. Give us a few seconds to get settled, and then bring him along."

"Very good, Professor," Mr. Maws said, and he bowed slightly and backed out of the room.

"The nobility has a sobering effect on Mr. Maws," Moriarty commented, as we crossed the hall to the office.

"Who is it, Professor?" I asked. "A client?"

Moriarty passed me the card. "Certainly he desires to become one," he said. "Else why would he come calling at this time of night?"

I examined the card to see what had fascinated Moriarty. Printed on the face was: Lord Everett Tarns, and underneath that: Earl of Whitton. There was nothing else. "Then you don't know who he is?"

"No." Moriarty went to the bookshelf by his desk and reached for the copy of Burke's Peerage, then took his hand away. "And we don't have time to look him up, either, if those are his footsteps I hear."

I sat down on a chair by the window and awaited events.

A few seconds later a harried-looking man of thirty-five or so in a rumpled dark suit burst through the door and stared at both our faces before deciding which of us he had come to see. "Professor Moriarty," he said, addressing my companion, who had lowered himself into the massive leather chair behind his desk, "I am in the deepest trouble. You must help me!"

"Of course, your lordship. Sit down, compose yourself, and tell me your problem. I think you will find this chair by the desk comfortable."

His lordship dropped into the chair and looked from one to the other of us, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

"This is Mr. Barnett, my confidant," Moriarty told the distraught lord. "Anything you choose to tell me will be safe with him."

"Yes, of course," Lord Tams said. "It's not that. Only — I'm not sure how to begin."

"Let me see if I can help," Moriarty said, leaning forward and resting his chin on his tented hands. His hawklike eyes looked Lord Tams over closely for a few seconds. "You are unmarried. Your older brother died unexpectedly quite recently, leaving you heir to the title and, presumably, estates of the Earldom of Whitton. Your new obligations make it necessary for you to give up your chosen profession of journalism, a result that is not altogether pleasing to you. You and your brother were not on the best of terms, although nothing irreconcilable had passed between you."

His lordship's hands dropped to his side and he stared at Moriarty. The professor has that effect on some people.

Moriarty sat up. "There are some other indications that are suggestive but not certain," he said. "As to the specific problem that brought you here, I'm afraid you'll have to tell me what it is."

"Who has spoken to you about me?" Lord Tams demanded.

"No one, your lordship, I assure you," Moriarty said. "You carry the indications about for the trained eye to read."

"Really?" Lord Tams rested one hand firmly on the edge of the desk and pointed an accusing finger at Moriarty with the other. "The death of my brother? The fact that I am unmarried — and a journalist? Come now, sir!"

Moriarty leaned forward, his eyes bright. "It is, after all, my profession, my lord," he said. "My ability to see what others cannot is, presumably, what brought you to me. Now, what is your problem?"

Lord Tams took a deep breath, or perhaps it was a sigh. "Your surmises are correct, Professor Moriarty," he said. "I am unmarried. My profession, if such I may call it, has been writing freelance articles on economic subjects for various London newspapers and magazines. When an editor wants a piece on free trade, or Serbian war reparations, he calls on me. I have recently — very recently — come into the title, inheriting it from my elder brother Vincent, who died suddenly. It is his death that has brought me here to seek your assistance."

I leaned forward in my chair. The thrill of being in at the beginning of one of Moriarty's little exercises does not diminish with time. "Your brother was murdered?" I asked.

"My brother's death was, and is, completely unexplainable, Mr. Barnett," Lord Tams replied.

Moriarty clapped his hands together. "Really?" he said. "Come, this is quite — interesting. Tell me everything you know of the affair."

"The circumstances are simple. Vincent had gone to one of his clubs — the Paradol in Montague Street — to stay for a few days. On the morning of the third day a waiter went in to bring Vincent his breakfast, which he had ordered the night before, and found my brother dead in his bed. He was lying on his back, his face and chest unnaturally red, his hands were raised as if to ward off some unseen threat, and a look of terror was fixed on his face. The club doctor, a Dr. Papoli, examined him and said it was apoplexy; but, as the doctor is from somewhere in the Balkans, and lacks a British medical degree, nobody seemed to take him too seriously. The police doctor strongly disagreed, although he could not come up with an alternate diagnosis."

"This was at the Paradol, you say? Did your brother commonly frequent the Paradol Club?"

"He has been a member for years," his lordship said, "going perhaps six or seven times a year. But for the past three months he had been going twice a month, and staying for two or three days each time."

"Are you also a member?"

"I am a permanent guest of my brother's," his lordship said. "I occasionally use the reading room, but as for the club's other — functions — I found that they were not to my taste."

"I don't believe I know the club," I said to Moriarty.

"It is for, ah, specialized interests," Moriarty told me. "It is where rich men go to meet with complaisant women. It is an upper-class rendezvous for what the French call le demimonde. The French seem to have a word for everything, have you noticed?"

"It is so," Lord Tams agreed. "The Paradol Club exists for those gentlemen who enjoy the company of women of, let us say, loose morals but impeccable manners. It is not the only establishment of its type in London, but it is one of the most exclusive, expensive, and discreet."

"Did your brother express his taste for these sorts of amusements in any other way?" Moriarty asked.

"His whole life revolved around the pleasures of the senses. It's funny, really; Mama was always pleased that Vincent didn't go in for blood sports. She never guessed the sort of sport in which he did indulge."

Moriarty leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on Lord Tams. "When was the last time you saw your brother?" he asked. "The evening before he died."

"Ah! Under what circumstances?"

"I went to see him at the club to ask a favor of him. I am — I was — getting married. I wanted to advance some money from my allowance."

"Allowance?" Moriarty asked. "Then you had nothing on your own?"

"Upon our father's death the entire estate went to Vincent. The house and lands were, of course, entailed, but Vincent also inherited everything else. It was inadvertent. Vincent was fourteen years older than I, and the will was drawn two years before I was born. My parents did not expect another child, and no provision was made in the will for the unexpected. My father died suddenly shortly before my second birthday, and had not gotten around to revising the will."

"I see," Moriarty said.

"My brother has actually been quite generous," Lord Tams said. "The income of a freelance journalist is precarious at best. Vincent gave me an allowance and added a few odd bob here and there when needed."

"How did you feel about his — indulgences?"

"It was not my place to approve or disapprove. Vincent's penchants were his own business. His habits, as he kept reminding me, hurt no one. His view was that his companions were all willing, and profited from the relationship. I remonstrated with him, pointing out that the path of vice spirals ever downward, and that the further along it one travels, the harder it is to get off."

"He didn't listen?"

"He was amused."

"Yes. And you went to see him because you're getting married?"

"I have been engaged to Miss Margot Whitsome, the poetess, for the past two years. We were to have been married next week."

"Were to have been? Then the ceremony has been called off?"

"Delayed, rather."

"By the poetess?"

"By me. How can I allow any lady of breeding to marry me with this hanging over my head?"

"Ah!" Moriarty said. "You are suspected of murdering your brother?"

Our newly ennobled visitor stood and walked to the window, staring out into the dark evening drizzle. "No one has said anything directly," he said. "But I have been questioned by Scotland Yard twice, each time a bit more sharply. My fellow journalists are beginning to regard me as a potential story rather than a colleague. An inspector named Lestrade has been up to see my editor at the Evening Standard to ask if I've ever written anything on tropical poisons."

"How imaginative of him," Moriarty commented.

Our visitor turned sharply. "Professor Moriarty, I have been told that you can solve the unsolvable; that you can see clearly where others find only darkness. I hope this is true, for otherwise I see nothing but darkness ahead of me," he said. "I want you to find out what happened to my brother. If he was murdered, I want you to find out who did it. If he met his death by some natural means, I want you to discover the agency that brought it about. My peace of mind and my future happiness depend upon your success! You can name your fee!"

Moriarty rose and took Lord Tams's hand. "First let me solve your little problem," he said, "then we'll discuss the price."

After some further reassurances, Moriarty sent Lord Tams back out into Russell Square, assuring him that he would have some word for him soon.

"All right, Moriarty," I said when we were again alone. "By what feat of legerdemain did you deduce all that? Did you pick the man's pocket as he entered the room?"

"Deduce what?" Moriarty asked, settling back down in his chair. "Oh, you mean—"

"Yes, I mean," I agreed.

"Nothing extraordinary," Moriarty said. "That he was unmarried I deduced from the state of his clothing. No respectable woman would let her husband go out with his suit unpressed and a tear in the jacket pocket. That also told me that he does not yet employ the services of a valet. That his older brother died quite recently I deduced from his calling card. The lower line of type was of a slightly different font than the upper, also the spacing between the two lines was slightly off. The second line was added, probably by one of those small hand presses that you find around printers' offices. The missing valet and the calling card surely indicate that he became the Earl of Whitton quite recently. And he hasn't come into the estate quite yet, or he surely would have had new cards printed, and probably bought a new suit. The hand press also pointed me in the direction of his profession. The column proof that was stuffed into his right-hand jacket pocket completed that deduction."

"His suit looked fine to me," I commented.

"Yes, it would," Moriarty said. "Anything else?"

"How did you know it was an older brother who died? Why not his father?"

"If it were his father, then he would have expected to inherit at some time, and the conflict between career and station would have been resolved long since. No, it was clearly the unexpected death of an older brother that has created this dilemma for him."

"And the antipathy between him and his brother?"

"A glance at his right sleeve showed me the pinholes where a black armband had been. The band had not been tacked on, and the pinholes had not enlarged with wear. His period of mourning for his brother was brief. Surely that suggests a certain coolness between them?"

"But not irreconcilable?"

"Certainly not. After all, he did wear the armband."

-

The next morning Moriarty disappeared before breakfast and returned just as I was finishing my coffee. "I have been to Scotland Yard," he said, drawing off his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. "This exercise is promising indeed. I have sent the Mummer out to procure copies of the last two months' London Daily Gazette. The crime news is more complete, if a bit more lurid, in the Gazette. Is there more coffee?"

"What did you learn at Scotland Yard?" I asked, pouring him a cup.

"The inquest has been postponed at the request of the medical office, who are still trying to determine the cause of death. The defunct earl may have suffered from apoplexy, as diagnosed by Dr. Papoli, probably on the basis of the red face, but that did not cause his death. There are indications of asphyxiation, but nothing that could have caused it, and two deep puncture marks on his neck. The two pathologists who have been consulted can agree on nothing except their disagreement with Dr. Papoli's findings."

I put down my coffee cup. "Puncture marks — my dear Moriarty!"

Moriarty sipped his coffee. "No, Barnett," he said. "They are not the marks of a vampire, and neither are they the punctures of a viper. They are too wide apart, coming low on the neck and almost under the ear on each side of his head. There are some older puncture marks also, in odd places; on the inner thighs and under the arms. They do not seem to have contributed to his death, but what purpose they served is unknown."

Moriarty drank a second cup of coffee, staring at the fireplace, apparently deep in thought. Then Mummer Tolliver, Moriarty's midget-of-all-work, came in with bundles of newspapers, and Moriarty began slowly going through them. "It is as I remembered," he said finally. "Look here, Barnett: the naked body of a young man was found floating in the Thames last week, with two unexplained puncture marks."

"In his neck?" I asked.

"In his upper arms. And here — three weeks previously the body of a girl, clad only in her shift, was discovered in a field in Lower Norwood. She had what the Gazette describes as strange bruises on her legs."

"Is that significant?" I asked.

"Scotland Yard doesn't think so," Moriarty said. After a moment's reflection he put down the paper and jumped to his feet. "Come, Barnett!" he cried.

"Where?" I asked, struggling into my jacket.

"Since we cannot get satisfactory answers as to the manner of Lord Vincent Tams's death, we must inquire into the manner of his life. We are going to Abelard Court."

"I thought the Paradol Club was in Montague Street."

"It is," Moriarty said, clapping his hat on his head and taking up his stick. "But we go to Abelard Court. Come along!"

We waved down a passing hansom cab, Moriarty shouted an address to the driver, and we were off. "I must tell you, Barnett," Moriarty said, turning to face me in the cab. "We are going to visit a lady who is a good friend and is very important to me. Society would forbid us calling her a 'lady,' but society is a fool."

"Important to you how?" I asked.

Moriarty stared at me for a moment. "We have shared events in our lives that have drawn us very close," he said. "I trust her as fully as I trust myself."

The address the hansom cab let us off in front of was a paradigm of middle-class virtue, as was the lady's maid who answered the door, though her costume was a bit too French for the more conservative household.

"Is Mrs. Atterleigh at home?" Moriarty asked. "Would you tell her that Professor Moriarty and a friend are calling?"

The maid curtseyed and showed us to a drawing room that was decorated in pink and light blue, and filled with delicate, finely detailed furniture that bespoke femininity. Any male would feel rough and clumsy and out of place in this room.

After a brief wait, Mrs. Atterleigh entered the drawing room. One of those ageless mortals who, in form and gesture, encompass the mystery that is woman, she might have been nineteen, or forty, I cannot say. And no man would care. Her long brown hair framed a perfect oval face and intelligent brown eyes. She wore a red silk house dress that I cannot describe, not being adept at such things, but I could not but note that it showed more of her than I had ever seen of a woman to whom I was not married. I did not find it offensive.

"Professor!" she said, holding out her arms.

Moriarty stepped forward. "Beatrice!"

She kissed him firmly on the cheek and released him. "It has been too long," she said.

"I have a favor to ask," Moriarty said.

"I, who owe you everything, can refuse you nothing," she replied.

Moriarty turned. "This is my friend and colleague, Mr. Barnett," he said.

Beatrice took my hand and firmly shook it. "Any friend of Professor Moriarty has a call on my affections," she said. "And a man whom Professor Moriarty calls 'colleague' must be worthy indeed."

"Ahem," I said.

She released my hand and turned to again clasp both of Moriarty's hands in hers. "Professor Moriarty rescued me from a man who, under the guise of benevolence, was the incarnation of evil."

I resisted the impulse to pull out my notebook then and there. "Who?" I asked.

"The monster who was my husband, Mr. Gerald Atterleigh," she replied.

"Moriarty, you never—" I began.

"It was before you joined my organization," Moriarty said. "And I didn't discuss it later because there were aspects of the events that are better forgotten."

"Thanks to Professor Moriarty, Gerald Atterleigh will no longer threaten anyone on this earth," Mrs. Atterleigh said. "And I pity the denizens of Hell that must deal with him."

Moriarty let go of Mrs. Atterleigh's hands, looking self-conscious for the first time since I had known him. "It was an interesting problem," he said.

Mrs. Atterleigh went to the sideboard and took a decanter from the tantalus. "It is not too early, I think, for a glass of port," she said, looking questioningly at us.

"Thank you, but we cannot stay," Moriarty said.

"A small glass," she said, pouring the umber liquid into three small stemmed glasses and handing us each one.

Moriarty took a sip, and then another, and then stared down at his glass. "My God!" he said. "This is the aught-nine Languert D'or! I didn't know there was any of this left in the world."

"I have a new gentleman friend," she said. "His cellars, I believe, are unrivaled. Now, what can I do for you, my dear professor?"

"Vincent Tams, the newly defunct Earl of Whitton," Moriarty said. "Do you know of him?"

"He died at the Paradol Club last month," Mrs. Atterleigh said. "I believe he was alone in bed at the time, which was unlike him."

"He was a regular visitor to the demimonde?"

"Say rather he dwelled in its precincts," Mrs. Atterleigh said.

Moriarty turned to me. "Mrs. Atterleigh is my gazette to the fils du joi—the harlots, strumpets, and courtesans of London," he said. "They all trust her, and bring her their problems. And on occasion, when it violates no confidences, she passes on information to me."

I remained silent and sipped my port.

"Was his lordship keeping a mistress?" Moriarty asked.

"Always," Mrs. Atterleigh replied. "He changed them every three or four months, but he was seldom without."

"Do you know who was the current inamorata at the time of his death?"

"Lenore," she said. "Dark haired, slender, exotic looking, artistic; she is, I believe, from Bath."

"Will she speak with me?" Moriarty asked.

"I'll give you a note," Mrs. Atterleigh said. "I would come with you, but I'm expecting company momentarily."

Moriarty rose to his feet. "Then we will not keep you. If you would be so kind—"

Mrs. Atterleigh went to her writing-desk and composed a brief note, which she handed to Moriarty. "I have written the address on the outside," she said. "Please come back to see me soon, when you don't have to run off."

"I shall," Moriarty said.

She turned to me and stretched out a hand. "Mr. Barnett," she said. "You are welcome here, too. Anytime. Please visit."

"I would be honored," I said.

We left the house and walked down the street to hail a cab. As the vehicle took us back up the street again, I saw a black covered carriage stop in front of the house we had just left. A man in formal attire got out and went up the steps. Just as we passed he turned around to say something to his driver and I got a good look at his face. "Moriarty!" I said. "That was the prime minister!"

"Ah, well," Moriarty said. "He is reputed to have an excellent wine cellar."

The address we went to was in a mews off St. Humbert's Square. A small woman with raven-black hair, bright dark eyes, and a cheerful expression threw the door open at our ring. She was wearing a painter's smock, and by the daubs of color on it I judged that the garment had seen its intended use. "Well?" she demanded.

"Miss Lenore Lestrelle?" Moriarty asked.

She looked us up and down, and didn't seem impressed by what she saw. "I have enough insurance," she said, "I don't read books, and if a distant relative died and left me a vast fortune which you will procure for me for only a few pounds for your out-of-pocket expenses, I'm not interested, thank you very much. Does that cover it?"

Moriarty handed her the note and she read it thoughtfully and then stepped aside. "Come in then."

She led us down a hallway to a long room at the rear which had been fixed up as an artist's studio. A easel holding a large canvas on which paint had begun to be blocked in faced us as we entered the room. On a platform under the skylight a thin red-headed woman, draped in artfully arranged bits of gauze, stood with a Greek urn balanced on her shoulder.

"Take a break, Mollie," Miss Lestrelle said. "These gentlemen want to talk to me."

Mollie jumped off the platform and pulled a housecoat around her shoulders. "I'll be in the kitchen then, getting sommat to eat," she said. "Call me when you need me."

A large wooden table piled high with stacks of books and clothing and assorted household goods stood against one wall, surrounded by similarly burdened straight-back chairs. Miss Lestrelle waved in their general direction. "Take your coats off. Sit if you like," she said. "Just pile the stuff on the floor."

"That's all right, Miss Lestrelle," Moriarty said.

"Suit yourself," she said. "Don't bother with the 'Miss Lestrelle.' Lenore is good enough."

"My name is Professor Moriarty, and this is Mr. Barnett," Moriarty told her.

"So the letter said. And you want to know about Vincent. Why?"

"We are enquiring into his death."

"I can't be much help to you there. I didn't see him for several days before he died."

"I thought he was — ah—"

"Keeping me? That he was. In a nice flat in as fashionable a section of town as is reasonable in the circumstances." She waved a hand at the goods piled up on the table. "Those are my things from there. I've just finished moving out."

"Ah!" Moriarty said. "The brother evicted you?"

"I've not seen the brother. This is where I do my work, and this is where I choose to be. I am an artist by choice and a harlot only by necessity. As there was no longer any reason to remain in that flat, I left."

A fair number of canvases were leaning stacked against the near wall, and Moriarty started flipping them forward and examining them one at a time. "You don't seem overly broken up at his lordship's death," he commented.

Lenore turned, her hands on her hips, and glared at Moriarty. After a moment she shrugged and sat on a high wooden stool by her easel. "It was not a love match," she said. "Most men want their mistresses to provide love and affection, but Vincent wanted only one thing of his women: to be there when he called. He was not particularly faithful to the girl he was keeping at the moment, and he tired of her after a few months. As I'd been with Vincent for over three months, I expected to be replaced within the fortnight. The flat he kept, the girls were transitory."

"You had to be at the flat all day waiting for him?"

"After ten at night," she said. "If he hadn't found another interest by ten or eleven, he wanted to have someone to come home to."

"Did he ever discuss his business affairs with you?"

"Never."

"Ever have any visitors?"

"Once we had another girl in for the evening, but aside from that none."

"How did you feel about that?"

Lenore shrugged. "He was paying the bills," she said.

Moriarty looked up from his study of the paintings. "How would you describe his sexual tastes? You can speak freely. Mr. Barnett is a journalist, and therefore unshockable."

"I have no objection to talking about it if you have no objection to listening. Lord Tams was normal that way. No strange desires or positions or partners. He was just rather insistent. He felt that if he didn't bed a woman every night he would die."

I couldn't help but exclaim, "Every night?"

"So he told me." She looked at me. "You're trying to solve his murder?"

"That's right," I said.

She turned to Moriarty. "And you're Professor Moriarty. I've heard of you. Then I guess it's all right."

Moriarty leaned forward like a hound dog catching a scent. "What's all right?" he asked her.

"Talking about Vincent. A person in my trade shouldn't talk about her clients, it isn't professional. And since I haven't found a patron for my art yet, I can't afford to take my departure from the sporting life."

"Has anyone else asked you to talk about Vincent?" Moriarty asked.

"Oh, no," she said. "Not specifically. But there's always men wanting to hear about other men. I figure there's men who like to do it, men who like to talk about doing it, and men who like to hear about it. They come around and buy a girl dinner and ask all sorts of questions about who does what and what other men like to do and what do girls really like, and that sort of thing. Most of them claim to be writers, but I never heard of them. And where could they publish the stories I tell them?"

"The intimate tastes of men are varied, and stretch from the mundane to the absurd," Moriarty commented.

"I'll say," Lenore agreed. "Why I could tell you—" She smiled. "But I won't. Except about poor Vincent, which is why you're here."

"Indeed," Moriarty agreed. "So Vincent saw his prowess as necessary to his health?"

"That he did. About a month ago, when for a couple of nights he couldn't — perform — he went into a sulk like you've never seen. I tried cheering him up, told him he was just overtired, or ill, and would be up to snuff in no time."

"How did he take to your cheering words?" Moriarty asked.

"He threw a fit. I thought he had gone crazy. He broke everything in the house that could be lifted, and some that couldn't. He knocked me down, but that was an accident. I got between him and something he was trying to break. When everything was broken, he collapsed on the floor. The next morning when he left he seemed quite normal, as if nothing had happened. That afternoon a team of men from Briggs and Mendel came to repair the damage and replace the furniture and crockery."

"And how was he after that?"

"I only saw him a couple of times after that. Once he came to the flat, and once he sent a carriage for me to join him at the Paradol Club. There's an inconspicuous door around the side for the special friends of the members. He was unusually silent, but he had recovered from his trouble, whatever it was. He proved that."

"Did you notice any peculiar bruises on his body when you saw him?"

"Bruises? Why, yes. On his neck. Two bright red marks, almost opposite each other. I asked him about them, and he laughed and said something about Shelley."

"Shelley?" I asked. "The poet?"

"I suppose. He said something about an homage to Shelley, and then for a long time we didn't speak. And then I left, and that was the last time I saw him."

"I see you're heavily influenced by the French school," Moriarty said.

"Excuse me?"

"Your art." Moriarty gestured toward the paintings. "You're quite good."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Will you sell me one?"

"Will I — you don't have to—"

"I want to. I'll tell you what; there's a gentleman who owns an art gallery in the Strand who owes me a favor. I'll send him down to see you, look at your work."

"That would be very kind."

"Nonsense. After he's seen your stuff he'll owe me two favors. We'll have to make up some tale about your past, London society is not ready for a harlot artist. It's barely ready for a woman artist. You won't make as much money as men who only paint half as well, but it'll be better than you're doing now."

Lenore had the wide-eyed look of a poor little girl at the pastry counter. "I don't know what to say," she said.

"Say nothing until it happens," Moriarty said. "And I'll be back next week to pick out a painting for myself."

"Whichever you want, it's yours," Lenore said.

"We'll let Vincent's brother pay for it," Moriarty said. "It's only fitting." He took her hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you," he said. "You've been a great help."

We exited to the street, leaving behind a pleased Miss Lestrelle. "Moriarty," I said, putting my collar up against the light drizzle that had begun while we were inside, "you shouldn't do that."

"What?"

"You know perfectly well what. Raising that girl's hopes like that. I got a good look at her paintings and they were nothing but blobs of color splattered on the canvas. Why, from close up you almost couldn't tell what the pictures represented."

Moriarty laughed. "Barnett," he said, "you are a fixed point of light in an otherwise hazy world. Just trust me that Van Delding will not consider himself ill-used to look at those canvases. The world of art has progressed in the last few decades, along with practically everything else. And we are going to have to accustom ourselves to even more rapid changes in the future."

"I hope you're wrong," I told him. "Few of the changes that I've observed over the last quarter-century have been for the better."

"Change is the natural condition of life," Moriarty said. "Stones do not change of themselves." He hailed a passing hansom cab and gave our address to the driver. "Well, Barnett," he said as we started off, "what do you think?"

"I think I've missed my lunch," I said.

"True," he admitted. "I get rather single-minded when I'm concentrating on a problem." He knocked on the roof and shouted to the driver to change our destination to the Savoy.

"I don't see as we're any further along with discovering how Lord Tams met his death," I told him. "We've learned a lot about the character and habits of the deceased earl, but it doesn't seem to have gotten us any closer to the way he died."

Moriarty glanced at me. "Scientists must train themselves to use rational deductive processes in solving whatever problems come their way, whether they involve distant galaxies or sordid crimes in Belgravia," he said. "And the deductive process begins with the collection of data. Only after we have all the facts can we separate the dross from the gold."

"Of course, Moriarty," I said. "And what of this case? You must have some facts that are relevant to the problem at hand on which to set those rational processes to work. Lord Vincent Tams may have been a sexual glutton, but I fail to see how a knowledge of his grosser appetites of the flesh will advance our knowledge of how he died."

"Grosser appetites of the flesh?" Moriarty said. "Very good, Barnett; you outdo yourself. If you reflect on what we have learned these past few hours, you will realize that our time has not entirely been wasted."

"I am not aware that we have learned anything of value," I said.

Moriarty considered for a moment. "We have learned that the defunct earl spoke of Shelley," he said, "and that by itself should tell us all. But we have learned more: We have learned that artistic talent can flower in the most unlikely places."

"Flower!" I said. "Pah!"

Moriarty looked at me. "Who, for example, would suspect that such fine writing talent could emerge from a quondam reporter for the New York World?"

"Pah!" I repeated.

-

I had some errands that occupied me after lunch, and Moriarty was out when I returned to Russell Square. I dined alone, and was catching up on filing some accumulated newspaper clippings when the door to the study was flung open and a tall man with a scraggly beard, a dark, well-patched overcoat, and a blue cap strode in. Convinced that I was being accosted by a dangerous anarchist, I rose, trying to remember where I had put my revolver.

"Ah, Barnett," the anarchist said in the most familiar voice I know, "I hope there is some dinner left. I have been forced to drink more than I should of a variety of vile liquors, and I didn't trust the food."

"Moriarty!" I exclaimed. "I will ring for Mrs. Randall to prepare something at once. Where have you been?"

"Patience," Moriarty said, taking off his long gabardine overcoat. He pulled off the beard and reached into his mouth to remove two gutta-percha pads from his cheeks. Then a few quick swipes over his face with a damp sponge, and he was once again recognizable. "Food first, and perhaps a cup of coffee. Then I'll tell you of my adventures."

I rang and told the girl to have Mrs. Randall prepare a tray for the professor, and she returned with it inside of five minutes. Moriarty ate rapidly, seemingly unaware of what he was eating, his eyes fixed on the far wall. I had seen these symptoms before. He was working out some problem, and I knew better than to interrupt. If it was a difficult one he might spend hours, or even days, with a pencil and notepad in front of him, drinking countless cups of coffee and consuming endless cigars, or quantities of the rough-cut Virginia tobacco he favored in one of his briar pipes, and staring off into space before he again became conscious of his surroundings.

But this time the problem had worked itself out by the time he finished the last of the roast, and he poured himself a small glass of cognac and waved the bottle in my direction. "This was laid in the cask twenty years before we met," he said, "and it has aged well. Let me pour you a dram!"

"Not tonight, Moriarty," I said. "Tell me what you have discovered!"

"Ah!" he said. "There was a fact in the new earl of Whitton's statement to us that begged for examination, and I have spent the afternoon and evening examining it."

"What fact?" I asked.

"How many clubs are you a member of, my friend?"

I thought for a second. "Let's see… the Century, the American Service Club, Whites, the Bellona; that's it at present."

"And you have, no doubt, an intimate knowledge of two or three others through guest membership, or visiting friends and the like?"

"I suppose so."

"And of these half-dozen clubs you are well-acquainted with, how many have club doctors?"

"I'm sure they all have physician members," I said.

"Your reasoning is impeccable," Moriarty said. "But how many of them have doctors on staff?"

"Why, none," I said. "Why would a club keep a doctor on staff?"

"My question exactly," Moriarty said. "But Dr. Papoli was described by both Lord Tams and Inspector Lestrade as the club doctor, which implies a professional relationship between the doctor and the club. And a further question: if, for some reason, the directors of a club decided to hire a doctor, would they pick one who, as Lord Tams told us, lacks a British medical degree?"

"Certainly not!" I said.

"Quite so. And so I went to that area of the East End that is teaming with Balkan immigrants and I let it be known that I was in search of a doctor. I hinted at mysterious needs, but I was very vague, since I didn't know just what the needs in question were."

"But Moriarty," I said, "You don't speak the language."

"There are five or six possible languages," Moriarty said. "Whenever someone spoke to me in anything other than English, I told him I was from Ugarte, and didn't understand his dialect."

"Where is Ugarte?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Moriarty said. "I would be very surprised if there is any such place."

"What did you find out?" I asked.

"That Dr. Papoli is looked upon with almost superstitious dread by his countrymen, and that he has recently hired several assistants with strong backs and dubious reputations."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That a visit to the Paradol Club is in order for tomorrow. But for now I will enjoy my cognac, and then get a good night's sleep."

Although it was clear that Moriarty had reached some conclusion, he did not share it with me. That night I dreamed of beautiful women in dishabille marching on Parliament and demanding the right to paint. The prime minister and Beatrice were singing a duet from Pirates of Penzance to a packed House of Commons, who were about to join in on the chorus, when the chimes on my alarm clock woke me up the next morning.

The Paradol Club was housed in a large building at the corner of Montague and Charles Streets. The brass plaque on the front door was very small and discreet, and the ground floor windows were all barred. Moriarty and I walked around the block twice, Moriarty peering at windows and poking at the pavement and the buildings with his walking stick. There appeared to be two additional entrances; a small, barred door on Charles Street, and an alleyway leading to a rear entry. After the second circuit we mounted the front steps and entered the club.

Considering what we had been told of the Paradol Club, the entrance area was disappointingly mundane. To the right was a cloakroom and porter's room; to the left was the manager's office, with a desk by the door. Past the desk was the door to the front reading room, with a rack holding current newspapers and magazines visible inside. A little birdlike man sitting behind the desk leaned forward and cocked his head to the side as we entered. "Gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to the Paradol Club. Of which of our members are you the guests?"

"Are you the club manager?"

"I am the assistant manager, Torkson by name."

Moriarty nodded. "I am Professor Moriarty," he said. "I am here to investigate the death of one of your members. This is my associate, Mr. Barnett."

Torkson reared back as though he had been stung. "Which one?" he asked.

"How many have there been?" Moriarty asked.

"Three in the past three months," Torkson said. "Old General Quincy, Hapsman the barrister, and Lord Tams."

"It is the death of Vincent Tams that occupies us at the moment," Moriarty said. "Has his room been cleaned out yet, and if not may we see it?"

"Who sent you?" Torkson asked.

"Lord Tams," Moriarty said.

Torkson looked startled. "The Lord Tams that is," explained Moriarty, "has asked me to enquire into the death of the Lord Tams that was."

"Ah!" said Torkson. "That would be Mr. Everett. Well then, I guess it will be all right." Pulling a large ring of keys from a desk drawer, he led the way upstairs. "Lord Tams kept a room here permanently," he said. "Our hostesses were very fond of him, as he was always a perfect gentleman and very generous," he added, pausing on the first floor landing and glancing back at us. Moriarty and I just stared back at him, as though the idea of "hostesses" at a gentleman's club were perfectly normal. Reassured, he took us up to the second floor, and down the hall to Vincent Tams's room. Again I was struck by the very normality of my surroundings. One would expect a club defined by its members' addiction to vice, as others are by their members' military backgrounds or fondness for cricket, to have risqué wall hangings or scantily clad maidens dashing from room to room. But from the dark wood furniture to the paintings of hunting scenes on the wall, it all looked respectable, mundane, and very British.

When we reached the door to Vincent Tams's room the assistant manager paused and turned to us. "Do you suppose the new Lord Tams will wish to keep the room?" he asked.

"He is hoping to get married in the near future," I said.

"Ah!" said Torkson. "Then he will almost certainly wish to keep the room." He unlocked the door and turned to go.

"One moment," Moriarty said. "Is the waiter who found his lordship's body available?"

"Williamson," the assistant manager said. "I believe he is working today."

"Will you please send him up here?"

Torkson nodded and scurried off back downstairs. The room was actually a three-room suite. Moriarty and I entered a sitting room, to the left was the bedroom, and to the right a small dining room. The sitting room was fixed with a writing desk, a couch, and an easy chair. A large bookcase took up one wall. Moriarty whipped out a magnifying glass and tape measure and began a methodical examination of the walls and floor.

"What can I do, Professor?" I asked.

He thought for a second. "Examine the books," he said.

"For what?" I asked.

"Anything that isn't book," he told me.

I went to the bookcase and took down some of the volumes at random. Except for some popular novels and a six-volume work on the Napoleonic Wars, they were all books that could not be displayed in mixed company. Most were what are called "French" novels, and the rest were full of erotic drawings displaying couples coupling, many in positions that I had never dreamed of, and some in positions that I believe are impossible to attain. I began going through them methodically, right to left, top to bottom, for anything that might have been inserted between the pages, but found nothing.

There was a knock at the door and I turned to see a thick-set man in the uniform of a waiter standing in the doorway. "You wished to see me, sir?" he asked, addressing the air somewhere between Moriarty and myself.

"Williamson?" Moriarty asked.

"That's right, sir."

"You found Lord Tams's body the morning he died?"

"I did, and quite a shock it was too." Williamson stepped into the room and closed the door. "Tell me," Moriarty said.

"Well, sir, I brought the tray up at a quarter to eight, as instructed, and entered the sitting room."

"You had a key?"

"Yes, sir. I got the key from the porter on the way up. My instructions were to set breakfast up in the dining room, and then to knock on the bedroom door at eight o'clock sharp. Which same I did. Only there was no answer."

"One breakfast or two?" Moriarty asked.

"Only one."

"Was that usual?"

"Oh yes, sir. If a hostess spent the night with his lordship, she left when he sat down to breakfast."

"I see," said Moriarty. "And when there was no answer?"

"I waited a moment and then knocked again. Getting no response, I ventured to open the door."

"And?"

"There was his lordship, lying face-up on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His hands were raised in the air over his head, as though he were afraid someone were going to hit him. His face were beet-red. He were dead."

"Were the bedclothes covering him?"

"No, sir. He were lying atop of them."

"What did you do?"

"I chucked."

"You—?"

"I throwed up. All over my dickey, too."

"Very understandable. And then?"

"And then I went downstairs and told Mr. Caltro, the manager. And he fetched Dr. Papoli, and I went to the pantry to change my dickey."

Moriarty pulled a shilling out of his pocket and tossed it to the waiter. "Thank you, Williamson," he said. "You've been quite helpful."

"Thank you, sir," Williamson said, pocketing the coin and leaving the room.

A short, dapper man with a spade beard that looked as if it belonged on a larger face knocked on the open door, took two steps into the room, and bowed. The tail of his black frock coat bobbed up as he bent over, giving the impression that one was observing a large, black fowl. "Professor Moriarty?" he asked.

Moriarty swivelled to face the intruder. "That is I."

"Ah! Torkson told me you were here. I am Dr. Papoli. Can I be of any service to you?"

"Perhaps. What can you tell me of Lord Tams's death?"

Dr. Papoli shrugged. "When I was called he had been dead for several hours. Rigor was pronounced. His face was flushed, which suggested to me the apoplexy; but I was overruled by the superior knowledge of your British doctors. If you would know more, you had best ask them."

"I see," Moriarty said. "Thank you, doctor."

Papoli bowed and backed out of the room.

Moriarty crossed to the bedroom and gazed at the rumpled bedclothes. "Picture it, Barnett," he said. "The dead earl staring up at the ceiling, his face unnaturally red and bearing a horrified expression, his arms raised against an unseen foe. And the strange puncture marks on the body, don't leave those out of your picture." He turned to me. "What does that image convey to you?"

"Something frightful must have happened in this room," I said, "but what the nature of that happening was, I have no idea."

Moriarty shook his head. "Nothing frightful happened in this room," he said. "Understanding that will give you the key to the mystery." He took one last look around the room and then went out into the hall. For the next half hour he walked up and down the hallway on that floor and the ones above and below, peering and measuring. Finally he returned to where I awaited him on the second floor landing. "Come," he said.

"Where?"

"Back to Russell Square."

We left the club and flagged down a hansom. Moriarty was taciturn and seemed distracted on the ride home. When we entered the house, Moriarty put a small blue lantern in the window, the sign to any passing members of the Mendicants' Guild that they were wanted. Moriarty has a long-standing relationship with the Mendicants' Guild and Twist, their leader. They are his eyes all over London, and he supplies them with technical advice of a sort they cannot get from more usual sources. About half an hour later a leering hunchback with a grotesquely flattened nose knocked on the door. "My moniker's Handsome Bob," he told Moriarty when he was brought into the office, "Twist sent me."

"Here's your job," Moriarty told the beggar. "The Paradol Club is at the intersection of Montague and Charles. It has three entrances. Most people use the main entrance on Montague Street. I want a watch kept on the club, and I want the men to give me the best description they can of anyone who enters the club through either of the other two entrances. But without drawing any attention to themselves. Send someone to report to me every half-hour, but keep the place covered at all times."

"Yessir, Professor Moriarty," Handsome Bob said, touching his hand to his cap. "Four of the boys should be enough. We'll get right on it."

Moriarty reached into the apothecary jar on the mantle and took out a handful of coins. "Have them return here by cab if there's anything interesting to report," he said, handing the coins to him. "This is for current expenses. I'll settle with you at the usual rates after."

"Yessir, Professor Moriarty," Handsome Bob repeated, and he turned and sidled out the door.

Moriarty turned to me. "Now we wait," he said. "What are we waiting for?"

"For the villain to engage in his employment," Moriarty said. He leaned back and settled down to read the latest copy of the quarterly Journal of the British Geological Society. I left the room and took a long walk, stopping for sustenance at a local pub, which I find soothes my mind.

-

I returned at about six in the evening, and stretched out on the sitting room couch to take a nap. It was just after eleven when Moriarty shook me by the shoulder. Standing behind him was an emaciated-looking man on crutches, a crippled beggar I remembered seeing at Twist's headquarters in a Godolphin Street warehouse. "Quick, Barnett," Moriarty cried, "our drama has taken a critical turn. Get your revolver while I hail a cab!" He grabbed his hat, stick, and overcoat and was out the door in an instant.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom and pulled my revolver from its drawer, made sure it was loaded, and then grabbed my overcoat and ran downstairs. Moriarty had stopped two cabs, and was just finishing scribbling a note on the back of an envelope. He handed the note to the beggar. "Give this to Inspector Lestrade, and no one else," he said. "He will be waiting for you."

Moriarty put the cripple in the first cab and looked up at the driver. "Take this man to Scotland Yard, and wait for him," he said. "And hurry!"

We climbed into the second cab together and set off at a good pace for the Paradol Club. Moriarty leaned forward impatiently in his seat. "This is devilish," he said. "I never anticipated this."

"What, Moriarty, for God's sake?"

"Two people of interest have entered the back door of the club in the past hour," he said. "One was a young girl of no particular status who was taken in by two burly men and looked frightened to the watcher. The other was the duke of Claremore."

"Moriarty!" I said. "But he's—"

"Yes," Moriarty agreed. "And we must put an end to this quickly, quietly, and with great care. If it were ever to become known that a royal duke was involved—"

"Put an end to what?" I asked. "Just what is going on in the Paradol Club?"

Moriarty turned to looked at me. "The Greeks called it hubris," he said.

We arrived at the club and jumped from the cab. "Wait around the corner!" Moriarty yelled at the driver as we raced up the front steps. The door was closed but the porter, a thick-set man with the look of a retired sergeant of marines, answered our knock after a few seconds, pulling his jacket on as he opened the door. Moriarty grabbed him by the collar. "Listen, man," he said. "Several detectives from Scotland Yard will arrive here any minute. Stay out front and wait for them. When they arrive, direct them to Dr. Papoli's consulting room on the second floor. Tell them that I said to be very quiet and not to disturb any of the other guests."

"And who are you?" the porter asked.

"Professor James Moriarty." And Moriarty left the porter in the doorway and raced up the stairs, with me close behind.

The second floor corridor was dark, and we moved along it by feel, running our hands along the wall as we went. "Here," Moriarty said. "This should be the doctor's door." He put his ear to the door, and then tried the handle. "Damn — it's locked."

A match flared, and the light steadied, and I saw that Moriarty had lighted a plumber's candle that he took from his pocket. "Hold this for me, will you?" he asked.

Moriarty handed me the candle and took a small, curved implement from his pocket. He inserted it into the lock and, after a few seconds fiddling, the door opened. We entered a large room which was dark and deserted. I held up the candle, and we could see a desk and couch, and a row of cabinets along one wall.

"There should be a staircase in here somewhere," Moriarty said, running his hand along the molding on the far wall.

"A staircase?" I asked.

"Yes. I measured the space when we were here earlier, and an area just below this room has been closed off, with no access from that floor. Also water has recently been laid on in this corner of the building and a drain put in. You can see the pipes hugging the wall from outside. Logic says that — aha!"

There was a soft click and a section of the wall swung open on silent hinges, revealing a narrow stairs going down. A brilliant shaft of light from below illuminated the staircase.

Moriarty, his revolver drawn, crept down the staircase, and I was but a step behind him. The sight that greeted my eyes as the room below came into view was one that will stay with me forever. It was as though I was witness to a scene from one of Le Grand Guignol's dramas of horror, but the chamber below me was not a stage setting, and the people were not actors.

The room was an unrelieved white, from the painted walls to the tile floor, and a pair of calcium lights mounted on the ceiling eliminated all shadow and cast an unnatural brightness over the scene. Two metal tables of the sort used in operating theatres stood several feet apart in the middle of the room. Surrounding them was a madman's latticework of tubing, piping, and glassware, emanating from a machine that squatted between the two tables, the purpose of which I could not even begin to guess.

On the table to my right, partially covered by a sheet, lay an elderly man; on the other table a young girl similarly covered had been tied down by leather straps. Both were unconscious, with ether cones covering their nose and mouth. Between them stood Dr. Papoli, his black frock coat replaced by a white surgical apron, absorbed in his task of inserting a thin cannula into the girl's thigh. His assistant, also in white, was swabbing an area on the man's thigh with something that left a brown stain.

"All right, Doctor," Moriarty said, starting toward the tables. "I think it would be best if you stopped right now!"

Papoli looked up, an expression of annoyance on his face. "You mustn't interrupt!" he said. "You will ruin the experiment."

"Your experiments have already ruined too many people," Moriarty said, raising his revolver. "Get away from the girl! The police will be here any second."

Papoli cursed in some foreign language and, grabbing a brown bottle, threw it violently against the wall. It shattered and, in an instant, a sickly-sweet smell filled the room, a smell I recognized from some dental surgery I'd had the year before.

"Don't shoot, Professor!" I yelled. "It's ether! One shot could blow us all into the billiard room!"

"Quick!" Moriarty said, "we must get the duke and the girl out of here."

Papoli and his assistant were already halfway up the stair. Doing my best to hold my breath, I staggered over to the tables. Moriarty lifted the duke onto his shoulders, and I unstrapped the girl and grabbed her, I'm not sure how, and headed for the stairs.

While we were on the staircase two shots rang out from the room above, and I heard the sound of a scuffle. We entered the room to find Lestrade glaring at the doctor and his assistant, who were being firmly held by two large policemen. "He shot at me, Moriarty, can you believe that?" Lestrade said, sounding thoroughly annoyed. "Now, what have we here?"

We lay our burdens gently on the floor, and I staunched the wound on the girl's thigh with my cravat.

Moriarty indicated the unconscious man on the floor. "This is the duke of Claremore," he said. "It would be best to get him out of here before his presence becomes known. Dr. Papoli can safely be charged with murder, and his accomplice, I suppose, with being an accomplice. We'll see that the girl is cared for. Come to Russell Square tomorrow at noon, and I'll explain all over lunch."

"But Moriarty—"

"Not now, Lestrade. Tomorrow."

"Oh, very well," Lestrade said. He turned to a policeman by the door. "Get a chair to seat his lordship in, and we'll carry him downstairs," he instructed.

We took the waiting cab to Abelard Court, and Beatrice Atterleigh herself opened the door to our knock. She did not seem surprised to find us standing at her door supporting a barely conscious girl at one in the morning.

"Will you take care of this girl for a few days?" Moriarty asked. "She has been mistreated. I have no idea what language she speaks."

"Of course," Mrs. Atterleigh said.

The next morning at quarter to twelve our client arrived at Rus-sell Square in response to a telegram. Lestrade arrived at noon sharp, thereby demonstrating the punctuality of the detective police.

We sat down to duckling a l'orange and an '82 Piesporter, and Moriarty regaled us with a discourse on wines through the main course. It was not until the serving girl put the trifle on the table and Moriarty had poured us each a small glass of the Imperial Tokay— from a case presented to Moriarty by Franz Joseph himself upon the successful conclusion of a problem involving the chief of the Kundschafts Stelle and a ballerina — that he was willing to talk about the death of Lord Vincent Tams.

"It was obvious from the start," Moriarty began, "that Lord Tams did not die where he was found. Which raised the questions why was he moved, and from where?"

"Obvious to you, perhaps," Lestrade said.

"Come now," Moriarty said. "His hands were raised and his face was flushed. But corpses do not lie with their hands raised, nor with their faces flushed."

"This one did," Lestrade said. "I saw it."

"You saw it full in the grip of rigor mortis," Moriarty said, "which makes the body rigid in whatever position it has assumed. But how did it assume that position? The face gives it away. The head was lower than the body after death."

"Of course!" I said. "Lividity. I should have known."

"Lividity?" Lord Tams asked.

"After death the blood pools at the body's lowest point," I told him, "which makes the skin in that area appear red. I've seen it many times as a reporter on the New York police beat. I'm just not used to hearing of it on faces."

"Your brother was at the Paradol Club to avail himself of the services of Dr. Papoli," Moriarty said, turning in his chair to face Lord Tams. "The doctor claimed to have a method to rejuvenate a man's lost vitality. He transfused his patients with youthful blood. Thus they regained youthful vigor. It is a not uncommon desire of men, as they get older, to recapture their youth. Papoli was preying on men who could afford to attempt it. Occasionally one of his patients died, because for some reason as yet unknown, some people's blood will cause a fatal reaction when injected into another. Papoli claimed that he had devised a machine that would solve that problem — the strange apparatus that was between the two beds. But he was obviously mistaken."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked.

"I went to talk to your prisoner this morning," Moriarty said. "He is extremely indignant that he is in jail. He considers himself a savior of man. He is quite mad."

"So other men died besides my brother?" Lord Tams asked.

"Yes, several. But they were elderly men, and their natural vanity had kept them from telling anyone about the operation, so his secret remained safe. Occasionally one of his donors died, but they came from the poorest classes of the city and they were not missed."

"But my brother was not that old."

"True. It was his obsession with sexual vitality that made him seek the operation. It failed. Papoli and his assistant thought your brother had died on the table. They left him there, not wanting to carry a body through the hallway early in the evening. Later, when they came back to take him to his room, they found that he had briefly regained consciousness and partially removed his restraining straps. The upper half of his body fell off the table in his dying convulsions, and he was left hanging from a strap around his legs. That explains his hands, which had fallen toward the floor. When they lifted him, rigor had set in and his arms looked as though they were raised."

Lord Tams sighed. "Poor Vincent." He stood up. "Well, Professor Moriarty, you have saved my marriage, and possibly my life. I had the impression that Inspector Lestrade was preparing to clap me in irons at any second."

"That's as it may be," Lestrade said. "No hard feelings, I trust?"

"None, Inspector. I invite you — all of you — to my wedding. I must be off now to see Miss Whitsome and tell her the happy news. Professor Moriarty, you will send me a bill, whatever you think is right, and I will pay it promptly, I assure you."

Moriarty nodded, and Lord Tams clapped his bowler on his head and was out the door. A minute later Lestrade followed.

"Moriarty," I said, refilling my coffee cup, "two last questions."

Moriarty held out his own cup for a refill. "What?" he asked.

"Do you think the new Lord Tams will keep his brother's rooms at the Paradol?"

"I never speculate," Moriarty said, "it is bad for the deductive process." He leaned back. "But if I were a betting man, I'd put a tenner on it. What else?"

"Miss Lestrelle told us that Vincent had made some reference to Shelley, and you said that that told all. Were you serious? I looked through my copy of Shelley this morning, and I could find nothing that applies."

Moriarty smiled. "I fancy you were looking up the wrong Shelley," he said.

"The wrong—"

Moriarty reached over to the bookshelf and tossed a book across to me. "Try this one."

I looked down at the book. On the cover, in an ornate Gothic type, was the title: Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.

-

Moriarty was out all this morning, and he came back with a painting by Lenore Lestrelle. It is all green and brown and blue blotches and seems to be some sort of pastoral scene. I am afraid that he intends to hang it in the dining room.