Moriarty

His reply was a profanity of the worst sort. I felt the presence of the police officers nearby and saw them out of the corner of my eye, gathering uncertainly in the doorway behind me. Not exactly the cavalry, but I was relieved that I was no longer on my own.

‘Give us Devereux!’ I said. ‘He is the one we want. Turn him in and it will go easier for you.’

‘I will give you nothing but this: the promise that you will regret this until the end of your days. But trust me, Pinkerton, there won’t be many of them. You and I will have our reckoning.’

In a single movement, without hesitating, Mortlake turned and jumped. I saw him fall through the air, his coat flapping up behind him, and watched as he plunged feet first into the river, disappearing beneath the surface. I ran forward, the wood tilting beneath me and suddenly I was dizzy and might have fallen myself had not one of the constables grabbed hold of me.

‘It’s too late, sir!’ I heard a voice shouting. ‘He’s finished.’

I was being held and I was grateful for it. I stared down at the water but there was nothing more to see, not even a ripple.

Edgar Mortlake had gone.

SIXTEEN We Make an Arrest

That evening, we raided the Bostonian for a second time.

Inspector Jones had instructed me to meet him at eight o’clock and, accompanied by an impressive entourage of uniformed constables, we marched in at exactly that hour, once again silencing the pianist as we made our way past the gilded mirrors and marble panels, in front of the bar with all its glittering crystal and glass, ignoring the muttered protests of the largely American assembly, many of whom were having their evening interrupted for a second time. This time we knew exactly where we were going. We had seen the Mortlakes emerge from a door on the other side of the bar. This must be where their private office was to be found.

We entered without knocking. Leland Mortlake was sitting behind a desk, framed by two windows with red velvet curtains. There was a glass of whisky in front of him and a fat cigar, smouldering in an ashtray. At first, we thought he was alone but then a youth of about eighteen with oily hair and a pinched, narrow face got to his feet, rising up from the place where he had been kneeling next to Mortlake. I had seen his type many times before and felt revolted. For a moment neither of us spoke. The boy stood there, sullen, unsure what to do.

‘Get out of here, Robbie,’ Mortlake said.

‘Whatever you say, sir.’ The boy hurried past us, anxious to be on his way.

Leland Mortlake waited until the door had closed, then turned to us, coldly furious. ‘What is it?’ he snarled. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’ His tongue, moist and grey, flickered briefly between his bulbous lips. He was wearing evening clothes and his hands, curled into fists, rested on the desk.

‘Where is your brother?’ Jones demanded.

‘Edgar? I haven’t seen him.’

‘Do you know where he was this afternoon?’

‘No.’

‘You are lying. Your brother was at a warehouse in the Blackwall Basin. He was taking receipt of a collection of items, stolen from the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit. We surprised him there and would have seized him had he not committed murder in front of our eyes. He is now a wanted man. We know that you and he organised the theft in collaboration with a third man, Clarence Devereux. Do not deny it! You were with him only the other night at the American legation.’

‘I do deny it. I told you the last time you came. I know no Clarence Devereux.’

‘He also calls himself Coleman De Vriess.’

‘I don’t know that name either.’

‘Your brother may have slipped through our fingers but you have not. You will come with me now for questioning at Scotland Yard and you will not leave until you have informed us of his whereabouts.’

‘I will do no such thing.’

‘If you will not come of your own volition, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Obstruction and as an accessory to murder.’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘I do not think so.’

There was a long silence. Mortlake was sitting there, fighting for breath, his shoulders rising and falling while the rest of his body remained still. I had never thought it possible for the human face to display such intense hatred but the very blood was swelling in his cheeks and I was worried that if he had some weapon — a gun — close at hand, perhaps in one of the drawers of his bureau, he would not hesitate to use it and to hell with the consequences.

Finally he spoke. ‘I am an American citizen, a visitor to your country. Your accusations are false and scandalous. I wish to telephone my legation.’

‘You can telephone them from my office,’ Jones replied.

‘You have no right—’

‘I have every right. Enough of this! Will you accompany us or must I call my men into the room?’