The Last Moriarty Page 14

  “Not without a warrant. And this paper doesn’t have the word Worth on it.”

  Holmes nodded. “Then perhaps Watson and I will pay Mr. Raymond a visit.”

  I was nodding my concurrence when the library door burst open and the small, ragged figure of Flynn ran to us, followed by one of Lestrade’s men, equally breathless.

  “It’s all right, officer,” said Holmes. “This boy’s name is Flynn. He and his associates have been on a mission for me concerning our mutual interest. Flynn, as soon as you have recovered from your exertions will you please give us your report.”

  The boy nodded and took a deep breath. “We lost ’em, Mr. ’Olmes, and sorry I am to say it. We ’ung about Exeter Street this morning and a few minutes after Dr. Watson and a lady went in, the painters came barrelin’ down the side of the building on their scaffold with a big canvas bundle. It was heavy-like, cos it took both of ’em to lug it into their van, which didn’t ’ave no sign or nuffing on it, and then the one of ’em got in—smaller than the other, ’e was, and walked with a limp—and the other climbed up to drive. ’E whipped up the horse and off they went, with Brooks and me runnin’ after. Well, we stayed with ’em to Covent Garden and then Leicester Square, but then traffic thinned out and we couldn’t keep up.” His shoulders sagged dejectedly. “So we lost ’em.”

  Holmes spoke kindly. “You did your best, I am sure. Where did you see them last?”

  Flynn hung his head. “We lost ’em on Piccadilly Circus.”

  34. BREAKING AND ENTERING

  Within fifteen minutes Lucy, Lestrade, Holmes, and I stood across the street from 198 Piccadilly, waiting impatiently for one of Lestrade’s men to return with a warrant to search the premises. Number 198 was located in an imposing three-story row of white granite structures built along classical lines. A luggage shop was on the ground floor, one of a number of elegant stores similarly situated throughout the block. The exclusivity of the residences in the two floors above the shops was evidenced by a well-maintained sculptured facade decorated by serene classical figures amid various filigrees and tall windows in a pleasing variety of proportions. Balconies, each with a graceful wrought iron railing, were provided for the first-floor residences above the shops, enabling the fortunate occupants to overlook the passersby below.

  Lestrade looked nervous. “Swells,” he said, glancing up at the majestic building. “I don’t much—Mr. Holmes! Where are you going?”

  Holmes was striding rapidly across the wide street. In a moment we saw him enter a florist’s shop several doors down from Number 198. Shortly after, he emerged bearing a large basket of roses. He then entered the luggage shop, and popped out a few moments later, still bearing the flowers, and entered the building again through an imposing, unmarked black door several shops to the left.

  Several minutes passed as we watched the black door. Then Holmes’s voice came from behind me.

  “Henry Judson Raymond resides on the top floor.” We turned in astonishment as he continued. “I left the flowers in his hallway. There is a service entrance coming from an alley behind the building. It leads to St. James Churchyard. Come, Watson. We have a delivery to make.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Miss James.

  “Watson and I are accustomed to working together.”

  “Not the way Watson tells it. You never let him know anything until the end.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “Let us be reasonable. Whoever answers Mr. Raymond’s door will be far more relaxed at the sight of a young woman bearing the flowers than that of a hawk-faced gentleman in a frock coat.”

  “I cannot allow you to expose yourself to danger.”

  She pulled Holmes and me away, out of Lestrade’s hearing. “When I was eighteen I was attacked by a man in the riding stables of my school. He did not survive the encounter.”

  I stared at her, amazed.

  “Fortunately I had recently read Dr. Watson’s account of the racehorse named Silver Blaze. So I reconstructed the scene to indicate that the man had attacked the horses, and that the horses had successfully defended themselves.”

  On the busy street before us, the horses drawing their cabs, carts, and carriages seemed to take on a new and sinister demeanor as they moved past.

  Miss James looked at them, then at us. “Growing up as an orphan teaches one self-reliance. Now, are we going to make this a contest of wills, or are we going to find my mother?”

  A brief smile from Holmes immediately defused the conflict. “You must understand, Lucy. I really do not want to tell your mother I have lost you.”

  Regrettably, the remainder of our visit to Piccadilly bore us no fruit. We crossed the street and entered quietly through the tradesman’s door in the rear. We climbed the stairs. Holmes and I drew our revolvers and stood in the shadows as Lucy knocked. No answer was forthcoming, so Holmes picked the lock. We entered to find the flat beautifully furnished, but empty. There were no clothes in the dressers or closets. No food in the kitchen pantry. No serving dishes on the sideboard. No sheets or blankets on the beds. No sign that anyone was living there.

  “And yet Perkins told us that when in London, Mr. Worth spends most of his time in his flat in Westminster, which we know to be the one in which we are now standing.” said Holmes.

  “So he has another flat,” said Lucy.

  “Or Perkins was lying,” said Holmes.

  35. PHILOSOPHY WITH MR. ROCKEFELLER

  Rockefeller Sr. greeted Holmes and me on the deck of the White Star. Holmes had changed his mind about attending dinner, since the report on Worth that Rockefeller had promised had become of far greater importance now that Perkins was dead. We had still wanted to keep our relationship with Lucy unknown to the Rockefellers, so Lucy had made arrangements with Johnny to have him escort her directly from her rehearsal on the Shamrock, which was docked barely fifty yards away.

  A mischievous twinkle shone in Rockefeller’s keen gray eyes. “I’m glad you could join us after all, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Roosevelt has sent us some interesting information about your Mr. Worth. But first, shall we have our supper? As you saw at luncheon, I generally allow one hour for the sake of efficiency in digestion. Will that suit your schedule? It is now six o’clock.”

  “Perfectly,” Holmes replied, to my relief, for I was very much anticipating a splendid supper from America’s wealthiest man, after what I thought had been a rather abstemious midday meal. Also, the arrangement would allow us to be on time for the PM’s committee. They met at nine o’clock, so after dining with Rockefeller we would have two hours to make the six-mile journey to the Diogenes Club. In the carriage Holmes could peruse Roosevelt’s report while also considering the implications of some new material that Lestrade had provided concerning Clevering’s recent activity.

  “Fine, then.” Rockefeller indicated the stairs leading to the dining saloon. “Cettie is looking forward to meeting you. She is below, with my son and his young acquaintance from Connecticut.”

  A few moments later we were once again in the spacious and well-lit dining area. Rockefeller introduced us to his wife. From a small settee Mrs. Rockefeller rose to greet us, graciously inclining her head toward Holmes and me but not extending her hand.

  “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am Laura Celestia Rockefeller. Usually they call me Cettie. Welcome to our supper table.” She was primly dressed in an embroidered white blouse and dark blue jacket and skirt, her dark hair severely parted precisely in the middle. She was smaller than her husband, but seeing them side by side I could not help thinking that somehow they had grown to look alike. Each had the same bright eyes and suppressed intensity, and a tight-lipped way of making those around them feel under close scrutiny.

  Mrs. Rockefeller continued with her introductions. “You’ve met my son, Johnny, at lunch, I believe.” She went on, with a slight tinge of apprehension, “This is his friend from school in
America, Miss Lucy James.”

  Johnny and Lucy were already standing. The younger Rockefeller gave a polite nod and smile of acknowledgment. Lucy’s smile was more direct, though not revealing any connection with us. I noticed that she wore no jewelry, and that beneath her black wool jacket were the same style of white blouse and long black skirt that she had worn at the theater. I wondered if she had seen pictures of Mrs. Rockefeller in the papers, and had deliberately not worn any of the new outfits Johnny had purchased for her so that she would not outshine the plainness of Mrs. Rockefeller’s attire.

  “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes. Johnny tells me you’re a famous English detective. Well, now, before you make any detective deductions about Johnny and me, I need to tell you I’m just here as an actress, more or less. That’s what I do at the Savoy Theatre, and then by day I’m playing another role on Johnny’s behalf.”

  I saw Mrs. Rockefeller’s eyes widen momentarily, and then relief showed on her face as Lucy continued.

  “He has a sweetheart back home, you see. But right now the lucky girl is traveling in Italy or Paris or some such place and not writing or paying him much attention at all. So he hit on this idea of starting a rumor that he had captured the heart of a London actress, which I’ve been lucky enough to become, at least for the past few days. Of course we don’t know whether this little strategy is working, but I have high hopes that it will make Johnny’s sweetheart just as jealous as she deserves to be.”

  Johnny was blushing furiously by this time. His mother, however, seemed delighted. “You never told me about a sweetheart!” she exclaimed with a happy smile. “Is she the senator’s daughter?”

  Johnny nodded.

  Mrs. Rockefeller beamed. “Though I’m not sure about starting a rumor about a London actress.” She turned to us. “We’re Baptists, you see, Mr. Holmes. Neither John nor I ever set foot in a theater.”

  “The play that Miss James is in is perfectly proper, Mother,” said Johnny. “Everyone’s dressed in long Japanese robes, and the music is by the same man who wrote ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’”

  Rockefeller added, though without enthusiasm, “Johnny tells me we’re to see it tomorrow night, Cettie. As a business matter—it’s to show friendship with the English. They’re very proud of their plays, you know. But the actors will perform right here in the harbor, on the deck of Morgan’s yacht.”

  So Rockefeller knew the performance was to be on the Corsair. I wondered if Foster also had known, and if that was what really had prompted his investigation of the Savoy Theatre.

  Rockefeller was continuing, “—and it’s just a short walk. Mr. Holmes is in charge of making sure everything is safe for us.”

  I knew that such a responsibility was the last thing Holmes wanted, and I shuddered inwardly to think of the consequences if another dynamite bomb, with far greater explosive force than the one at St. Thomas Hospital, were to somehow be detonated on the Corsair. Yet Holmes was too polite to contradict his host, and too considerate to draw Mrs. Rockefeller’s attention to the danger we were facing. He merely nodded.

  “I hope I shall feel well enough to go with you,” Mrs. Rockefeller replied.

  Then the attendants appeared with the serving dishes, and with a bright “Shall we?” she bade us all to the supper table.

  To my disappointment, the fare provided for our supper meal was identical to that of our luncheon. We were given lettuce, peas, green beans, baked potato, and broiled fish, with iced barley water. Yet to my surprise, the abstemiousness of the meal occasioned a remarkable congeniality between Rockefeller and Holmes. Holmes paid compliments on the freshness of the vegetables, which it turned out had been brought, on ice, from one of Rockefeller’s gardens in America. Holmes noted that barley and potato had been the main staple of his extremely simple diet during the two years he had recently spent in Tibet, where the lamas in the monastery at Lhasa took their tea in small and very infrequent sips in order to facilitate digestion, precisely in the way that Rockefeller imbibed his barley water. And when Holmes observed that the longevity of the lamas sometimes reached more than a century, Rockefeller exhibited the keenest of interest.

  “I knew I was on the right track!” He turned to his wife, and I had the distinct impression that the two had had numerous debates on the subject. “You see, Cettie? This is the way to live to be a hundred!”

  “But, John, it’s not just what they eat. Those people in a monastery don’t have the business cares that you do.”

  “I’d expect their leaders have their share of headaches all the same. Human nature is the same wherever you are, I’ve been told, and it takes a lot of effort to manage people. Wouldn’t you say that’s true, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Very likely,” Holmes replied. “I have always preferred to work more or less alone. Still, I can tell you that the head lama did not mention dietary rules when he told me the secret to his longevity.”

  He paused, and we all leaned forward expectantly, myself included, for Holmes had never before spoken of his experience in Tibet, much less talked about the philosophy of Tibetan religious leaders. To my surprise, Holmes turned to look directly at Lucy. He seemed to be speaking only to her as he continued, “The secret is to have a quiet heart, and to celebrate each moment of life so as to have no fear of death.”

  Lucy’s beautiful green eyes widened. She held her napkin to her mouth, as if to conceal her emotion. I do not know whether it was because of the message imparted in the words, or simply the heartfelt tone in which Holmes was addressing her, or the fact that she might be receiving guidance of this sort from a man of Holmes’s experience and stature for the first time in her life. Whatever the cause, it seemed to me that she was suddenly overcome with feeling. She did not speak.

  All three of the Rockefellers had listened to Holmes’s words with polite attention.

  “Makes sense,” said Rockefeller Sr. “But of course it’s easier said than done.”

  “I believe the Gospels say something similar,” said Mrs. Rockefeller. “Now, John, I know you have some papers from New York that you wanted to discuss with these gentlemen. Lucy, would you like to come up on deck for a breath of air?”

  36. COMMISSIONER ROOSEVELT’S REPORT

  When the ladies had departed, Rockefeller Sr. took a two-page telegraph message from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and handed it over to Holmes. To my surprise, Holmes did not unfold the message. Instead he looked up at Rockefeller.

  “Watson and I are most grateful for your help, and for your hospitality,” Holmes began. “I wonder if I might presume upon your kindness a bit further?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “It concerns Miss James. I believe her to be in danger from Mr. Worth’s organization. I do not wish to alarm her, but Watson and I must soon leave to make our report to the Prime Minister and I have reason to believe that if she returns to the Savoy Hotel this evening she will not be safe. I wonder if you could give her shelter here for the night.”

  “Nothing easier. We have the entire ship. She can have her pick of thirty cabins.” He paused. “And our Pinkertons are top-quality men. She’ll be safe. I’ll just have a word with Cettie. It’s all right with you, Johnny? Then consider it done.”

  “I am most grateful,” Holmes replied.

  “Now, have a look at that message,” said Rockefeller. “Some interesting history about Mr. Worth, and it gave me an idea.”

  Holmes opened the telegram and held it so that we both could read its contents. Worth, the report said, was the false name of Adam Moriarty, one of two sons of an immigrant tailor in the poorer section of Boston. He had taken the identity of Adam Worth from a dead American soldier after the battle of Bull Run and used the name to enlist in both Union and Confederate armies several times, each time collecting the enlistment payment and then deserting to another regiment.

  Four years after the war, using
the name of William A. Judson, he had rented a store adjacent to the Boylston National Bank of Boston, and sold bottles of patent medicine to an unsuspecting public while his brother and other associates dug a tunnel from the basement of the store to the steel wall of the bank vault. The gang then used augers to drill into the steel again and again, making a series of holes in a large circular pattern, until they had isolated and removed a large disc, creating an opening large enough for a man to climb through.

  Before dawn one Sunday Worth and his brother entered the vault and emptied it of nearly a million dollars in cash and bonds, as well as all the safe-deposit boxes, which were then loaded into boxes labeled as nerve tonic and shipped by rail to New York City. By Monday morning when the robbery was discovered, Worth and his brother had boarded the USS Indiana at the port of Philadelphia and were sailing for Liverpool with their ill-gotten gains, Worth traveling under the name of Henry Judson Raymond.

  The report concluded:

  BIGGEST ROBBERY IN US HISTORY BUT STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS APPLIED IN 1889. MORIARTY/WORTH/RAYMOND SUSPECTED IN OTHER CRIMES IN EUROPE, WHERE WE HAVE NO JURISDICTION. ROOSEVELT.

  “I had thought of holding our meeting at the Bank of England,” Rockefeller said. “But this Worth seems to know his way around banks. I think we ought to stay clear of Threadneedle Street, or at least be sure there hasn’t been any tunneling going on over there.”

  “I agree you should stay away from the Bank,” said Holmes. “And this report, coming as it does from the Commissioner of Police, will be excellent evidence to present to the PM. I will try once again to have the conference postponed, or relocated somewhere far away from London.”

  “Unless you have stronger evidence, no one will agree, and everyone will think you are admitting failure.”

  “If I am not successful, failure is precisely what I will have to admit.”

  “You British and your word games. What you need to admit, Mr. Holmes, is that you can’t just tell two nations to stand aside and wait. You must do your job now, Mr. Holmes, and you must succeed.”