Grisombre indicated his bodyguards. ‘Whatever your business it can be discussed in front of them.’
Moriarty shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. This is too large a scheme. A great deal of money is involved.’
Grisombre appeared to be thinking, and if Moriarty had the right measure of the man, money would be uppermost in his cogitations.
‘All right,’ the Frenchman finally nodded. ‘There is a room we can use here. Upstairs.’
Then a whispered word to the bodyguard who had now returned from seeing the previous guests from the premises. The man bowed his head and left, oblivious to the wild cavortings of the dancing girls.
‘You like the ladies, Monsieur Morningdale?’ Grisombre smiled – bleak as ever.
‘In moderation, M. Grisombre. I find this dance a trifle too flamboyant for my tastes.’
‘You are from America. Perhaps I can arrange a meeting with a girl whom I know you would like – a mulatto who has lived here in Paris for most of her young life. She is very discreet, and – how can I put it? – Eager?’
A woman was the last entanglement Moriarty required: particularly in this disguise which, in the bedchamber, would be seen through with little difficulty.
‘I think not. You see I am after a lady of exceptional breeding.’
‘If you wish to be so choosey.’ He shrugged.
‘Her name,’ Moriarty said slowly, ‘is Madonna Lisa, wife of Zanobi del Gioconda.’
Grisombre’s eyebrows twitched. ‘So. I believe you are right. We should talk in private.’
The normal use of the room to which they were taken, upstairs, was not difficult to define. A large brass bedstead took up much of the space; there was also an ornate dressing table and many mirrors, including one on the ceiling. Grisombre and Jarvis Morningdale sat opposite one another on a pair of walnut armchairs with beautifully carved cabriole legs, the seats, arms and backs richly upholstered in red and gold brocade. They were good reproductions yet, like the girls who Moriarty presumed used the room, not quite the real thing.
The bodyguards left a bottle of brandy and two glasses, but Moriarty would have wagered heavily that the two men were within easy call outside the door. He would have done the same.
‘Tell me more about the Madonna Lisa,’ said Grisombre, feigning amusement. The corners of his mouth turned up but his eyes remained dead – the eyes of sheep in jelly.
‘There is little to tell. I am merely putting an abstract question to you, Monsieur Grisombre. If you wished to obtain some treasure without the owners knowing it had gone, what would you do?’
‘I understand that the usual method is to take it, leaving some form of copy in its place. I am told this has been done many times – often by people who should know better. It is done with jewellery, I believe. But you speak of a painting. A work of great value and age.’
‘The painting hangs in the Louvre Museum. In the Salon Carré. I will be open with you, I had thought of carrying out this scheme by myself. I have enquired into it, but, alas, it needs experience in certain arts – robbery, for instance. Tell me, would it be difficult to steal such a painting?’
Grisombre gave a short laugh. ‘The theft would be easy. As I recall it is not a large picture, and the Louvre has no idea of how to protect its treasures. Why should they? Who would be so foolish as to steal such works? They cannot be sold.’
‘If the theft could be concealed, that picture could be sold to me.’
Grisombre remained silent for a full minute. ‘And how much would you be prepared to pay for such a thing? What is its worth, Monsieur Morningdale?’
‘They say that it is priceless, but everything on earth can be given a calculated price. I had a relative once – he is gone now – who was no mean mathematician. He calculated a price for me. It was some years ago, mind you. We are told that Francis I bought the painting from Leonardo for 4,000 golden florins.’
‘I know the story,’ Grisombre leaned forward as though scenting money.
‘Well, if you take that as an original investment made in the early 1500s, and calculate at three per cent compound interest, today that investment would be worth something like nine hundred million dollars. Eleven million pounds sterling.’
‘In francs?’ asked the Frenchman.
‘I am not interested in francs. Only dollars or pounds sterling, and, to be honest with you, sir, I do not put a great deal of faith in the currency of nations.’
Grisombre raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘So?’
‘Can you not read the signs in the wind? It is the same in America as it is in Europe. On the one hand there is great wealth, power. On the other, great poverty, unrest. Between the two there is incredible progress. Inventions which stagger the mind. But the poverty and the wealth must eventually clash. It is inevitable. The seeds of revolt and chaos are all around us, my dear sir – the bombs, the anarchists, the workers organizing themselves. They will eventually inherit the earth, but they forget the corrupting influence of power. It may happen in five years, or ten. It may not happen for seventy or eighty years – not in our lifetime. But when the corruption is complete, the world will return to a feudal system. It will be like the dark ages, and between now and that time only the strong will survive. I believe we must store up against the time with things of lasting value. The really priceless things, such as this piece of wood covered with paint by an artist of the sixteenth century. For that, now, I will pay a reasonable price in the currency which will eventually be worthless.’
‘How much?’ Simple. The question for which Moriarty had been waiting.
‘I am a wealthy man, monsieur. Six million pounds sterling. But on one condition.’
‘Yes.’
‘That the theft goes undiscovered.’
‘That a reproduction is exchanged for the true painting?’
‘Quite so. You know someone who could provide you with a work which would pass even close inspection?’
‘There are possibly only three men of such talent.’
‘I have enquired also. Their names?’
‘Oh no, Monsieur Morningdale. I give you names and, maybe, you save yourself a great deal of money.’
Moriarty’s head began to oscillate to and fro. He had to use considerable will power to control the nervous action.
‘Very well,’ he took a gulp of brandy. ‘A man here in Paris called Pierre Labrosse; an Englishman, Reginald Leftly; and an artist who lives in Holland and calls himself Van Eyken, though that is not his real name.’
Grisombre’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I am impressed, Monsieur Morningdale. You must be very serious about this.’
‘I wish to own that painting: the Mona Lisa, the Madonna Lisa, La Joconde, the Gioconda. The lady with the smile who sits waiting in the Salon Carré. Of course I am serious, and I will tell you more. Labrosse is no good. He drinks too much and I understand he has now left Paris. The so-called Hollander is old and unreliable – though he would probably produce the best imitation. Reginald Leftly is the only possible candidate. Just as you are the only man with nerve and resources to exchange the paintings.’
The Frenchman moved his head to signify agreement. It was like a fish opening his mouth, sliding fast through the water to hit the bait and the hook.
Moriarty had to play him gently now. ‘I will pay five thousand pounds, now, to cover your expenses. After that, you will have to move with haste. I shall be in London for one week – the 8th to 13th March. At the Grosvenor Hotel. If you are willing to undertake this commission you will send me a telegraph on any of those days. It will read, The lady is willing to see you. You will sign it Georges and it will signify that you have exchanged the paintings. I will wait at the Grosvenor Hotel, every evening, between eight and nine, until the 13th following receipt of that telegraph. You will bring the painting to me there. In return I will pay the remaining millions.’
‘It is a great deal of money,’ Grisombre’s voice was guttural, throaty, almost as though the thou
ght of such riches was too much.
Jarvis Morningdale smiled and spread his hands in almost an act of humility. ‘I have a great deal of money,’ he said.
Within twenty-four hours, Jean Grisombre had called upon the American at the Crillon and taken away the five thousand pounds sterling. Within forty-eight hours, Jarvis Morningdale and his secretary were out of France and James Moriarty had returned to Albert Square. Eight weeks would pass before Morningdale was resurrected. Eight weeks of bitter winter weather, snow and ice turning gradually to the first hint of spring.
By the end of January, Angus McCready Crow was set on a firm course of action regarding the tracking and detection of James Moriarty.
His thinking on the matter had been direct. A week or so after Christmas, Crow realized that there was little point in hoping for some constable, or detective, to come up with the apprehension of Ember or Lee Chow, or even any of the other named associates of the Professor.
As he was now logically certain that Moriarty was engaged in a series of vendettas, and as one of the victims, Schleifstein, appeared to be missing, the answer lay in going out and keeping some kind of watch on the others.
Holmes, it seemed, had people on the continent who would inform him of anything unusual concerning Grisombre, Sanzionare or Segorbe. But the detective made it plain that too much reliance should not be placed on these spies. Crow, therefore, had to make some move himself. He began by writing to his old friend Chanson of the Police Judiciaire indicating that any current intelligence on Jean Grisombre – contacts, strangers, sudden moves, unusual occurrences – would be greatly appreciated. At the same time, Crow wrote similar letters to officers in Rome and Madrid. These were men he had never met – Captain Meldozzi of the Carabinieri and Captain Tomaro of the Guardia Civil – but were both known to be highly thought of in their own forces. Both sent careful replies, acknowledging Crow’s letters, assuring him in almost poetic phrases that they would assist in any way possible, but adding nothing of substance regarding Sanzionare or Segorbe. Chanson alone provided intelligence, though it was little. Grisombre, he said, had been keeping to himself and his own kind, but one trivial detail had been noted at the beginning of the year. It concerned a visit which the French gang leader had made to the Hôtel Crillon, 10 Place de la Concorde, on the night of 4 January.
A detective from the 1st District (which covered the 1st and 8th Arrondissements – the Crillon being situated in the 8th) was at the hotel on the night in question, making an enquiry concerning some trifling complaint, when he recognized Grisombre in the foyer. The notion of Grisombre at the Crillon put the officer on his guard. He immediately asked about jewellery lodged in the hotel safe, and questioned the concierge on duty regarding Grisombre’s presence. From these enquiries the detective elicited that Jean Grisombre had been calling on an American guest – Mr Jarvis Morningdale. A description of Morningdale was also attached with a note stating that he had arrived in France from Dover on 3 January, travelled directly to Paris, leaving via the same port two days later.
Chanson could not resist a sly dig at the end of his letter, saying that he hoped these dates of entry and exit would be useful, for the British police would have no track of the American’s movements, allowing, as they did, visitors to roam their country at will.
The French detective knew that Crow had long been an advocate of the carte d’identité system (and the German Meldewesen) for keeping a check on visitors and subjects alike.* Crow was irritated by this inference, and decided that it was time for him to send another memo to the Commissioner on this matter – even if it would be to no avail.
But Angus Crow had other things on his mind. The number of crimes which he was investigating had undoubtedly risen since Christmas, and this increase of work was not helped by the domestic situation at 63 King Street. It was not easy for him to be resigned to the many soirées and dinner parties which Sylvia was arranging, not to mention those to which they were invited. Time and again Crow returned to King Street, late and tired from investigations which took him into the iniquitous areas of the capital, or even further afield, to find Sylvia in a mood of high and touchy temper. Guests were due to arrive any minute, or they had only half an hour to be at some function – usually at the residences of people with whom Crow had little in common. But nothing would stop Sylvia, who was determined to rise in society, and Crow was quite unable to impress upon her obsessed mind that she was only mixing with people who had similar pretensions as herself – a mid-strata of middle-class folk cast adrift in their own revolving limbo.
This eternal round and comic task of dinners and musical evenings was also playing havoc with the pleasures of the bedchamber, and Crow was not slow to discover that the unbridled passions, which had been theirs before marriage, now became dulled and, at times, non-existent.
Fobbed off from what Sylvia referred to as his ‘conjugals’ – with headaches, fatigue or simply plain bad temper – Crow’s frustration rose. He was a fit man, in his prime, who had always been used to the pleasures of the flesh. Now, it seemed, they were to be denied him. He fretted, brooded and, more and more, took note of the hard-working and most attractive Harriet, whose bright smile and constant happy mood made a deep impression upon the detective.
So it fell out that on a night in early February, after a dinner party of intense boredom, Sylvia, complaining of a headache and the onset of a cold, departed to bed with unusual haste, leaving Crow alone sipping a nightcap in the parlour.
A tap on the door, some fifteen minutes after Sylvia’s exit, announced the arrival of Harriet, smiling and asking if anything more was required.
‘Is the mistress between the sheets, Harriet?’ asked Crow, the dark unthinkable already forming in his mind.
‘Indeed she is, sir, And with the lamps all out. I think her cold is much worse tonight. She had me prepare her warm milk and aspirin before she retired.’
‘Well then,’ Crow swallowed. ‘Harriet, would you care to take a glass of brandy with me?’
‘Me, sir? My, I do not know. What would …? Well, if that’s what you wish, sir.’ She came towards the settee upon which Angus Crow sprawled.
‘It is what I wish, Harriet. Get yourself a glass, then come and sit by me.’ He could only presume that it was an excess of claret at dinner which now made him bold.
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied in a small voice.
He stood up as she approached, glass in hand. In fact his timing was bad – or impeccable, whichever way you wish to look at it, for the two suffered a mild collision. Crow felt the soft yielding of Harriet’s bosom against his chest.
‘Oh my, sir,’ she gasped, putting up a hand to his shoulder in order to steady herself. ‘Oh goodness, what would madam think?’
Crow could hardly believe it was himself who said, ‘The blazes with what madam thinks,’ and, wrapping his arms about the girl, he clasped her to him.
‘Sir?’ Still the small voice, breathless and bird-like: questioning his forward action, yet not resisting. Rather pushing against him, the hand holding the glass feeling backwards seeking a resting place.
‘Harriet, did you know that you were deucedly attractive?’ Crow’s voice now breathless.
Harriet’s hand found the edge of the occasional table, upon which she set down the glass.
‘There have been men who have told me so, sir. But then you are flatterers all.’ As she spoke, Crow felt her push even closer, the very junction of her thighs hard against him.
He bent to their mutual will. Their lips met, and it was as though each was parched and would never be done slaking a thirst which burned their mouths, so hot was the onrush of lip upon lip, tongue upon tongue.
Angus Crow was hardly aware that it was Harriet who pulled him down onto the sofa, nor that she unbuttoned her own blouse, presenting her bust to him, uncorseted.
‘What pretty wee bubbies,’ gasped Crow. ‘Wee modest crimson-tipped flowers.’
‘Oh, Mr Crow. Poetry,’ she gasped, thrusting
upwards to his swooping mouth and pulling at her long black skirt: assisting him in the raising of it.
‘Angus,’ moaned Crow between sips at her orbs.
‘Sir?’
‘Angus.’ Sup. ‘When we are like this ye must call me Angus, lassie.’ Always in moments of drama and tension, Crow lapsed into his more obvious Scots accent. ‘Oh,’ he moaned again, his hand touching the leg of her drawers. And, ‘Oh, what a fine garden hedge. Harriet, my dear.’
‘Dig it deep, sir … Angus. Dig deep.’
At the moment of their interlocking, Crow had a sudden vision. It was as though Mr Sherlock Holmes was standing at his shoulder, shaking his head and clicking his tongue as a sign of disapproval.
On the morning following, Angus Crow was beset by a great sense of guilt. So much so that he found it difficult to look either Sylvia or Harriet in the eye. This did not, however, stop him that night from seeking out the servant in the kitchen, when Sylvia had retired, and ploughing her briskly and with the passion of a much younger man, across the table.
In Albert Square many things of importance took place between the onset of the New Year and the beginning of March, the most singular of which was Sal Hodges’ revelation to the Professor that she was with child. Since before Christmas she had pondered long on discovering the right moment to break the news, and had made up her mind that it had to be done with on his return from Paris.
Moriarty was, happily, in a good frame of mind on that first evening back, knowing that he had done all things well in France. A goose was ordered for dinner, and Bridget hounded the Pearson girls in the kitchen to make certain the meal was a fitting banquet.
A little before six, Sal brusquely ordered Carlotta up to her room, and set out to beard Moriarty in the drawing-room where he was partaking of a glass of sherry.
‘There is no easy way to say what I have to tell,’ she began, glancing almost shyly at him as he stood, smiling, in front of a cheery fire freshly made up with logs.
‘Why, Sal, you’ve never been bashful with me. Out with it.’