Moriarty

Scowling horribly, Mortlake rose from his seat. His shirt was hanging out of his trousers and, with a slow, deliberate movement, he tucked it back in. ‘You are wasting your time,’ he murmured. ‘I have nothing to tell you. I have not seen my brother. I know nothing of his affairs.’

‘We shall see.’

We stood there, the three of us, each waiting for the other to make a move. Finally, Leland Mortlake smashed out the cigar, then walked to the door, his bulky frame passing between us. I was glad that there were two policemen waiting outside for, with every moment that we stood in the Bostonian, I felt myself to be in enemy territory. As we made our way back past the bar, Mortlake turned to the barman and called out: ‘Inform Mr White at the legation.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Henry White had been the councillor, introduced to us by Robert Lincoln himself. I had a suspicion that Mortlake was bluffing, attempting to intimidate us. Jones ignored him anyway.

We continued through the silent, indignant crowd, some of them jostling against us as if they were unwilling to let us leave. A waiter reached out as if to take hold of Mortlake and, imposing myself between them, I pushed them apart. I was quite relieved when we passed through the door and found ourselves in Trebeck Street. There were two growlers waiting for us. I had already noticed that Jones had decided to spare his prisoner the indignity of a Black Maria, the famous coach used by Scotland Yard. A lackey at the door handed Mortlake a cape and a walking stick but Jones took hold of the latter. ‘I will keep this, if you don’t mind. You never know what you might find in such a device.’

‘It is a walking stick, nothing more. But you must do as you must.’ Mortlake’s eyes blazed. ‘You will pay for this. I promise you.’

We stepped onto the pavement. It seemed to me that the street was darker than ever, the gas lamps unequal to their struggle against the night sky and the thin drizzle that was falling constantly. The cobblestones with their oily reflections provided more illumination. One of the horses snorted and Mortlake stumbled. I was close by and reached out to steady him, for it appeared that he had lost his footing. But one glance in his direction showed that something much worse had occurred. All the colour had left his face. His eyes were wide and he was gasping for breath, grinding his jaw as if he were trying to say something but could no longer speak. He seemed to be terrified … frightened to death was the thought that crossed my mind.

‘Jones …’ I began.

Inspector Jones had already seen what was happening and had taken hold of his prisoner, one arm stretched across his back. Mortlake was making the most horrible sound and I saw some sort of foam appear on his lower lip. His body began to convulse.

‘A doctor!’ Jones shouted.

There was no doctor to be found; certainly not in the empty street and nor, it would seem, in the club itself. Mortlake fell to his knees, his shoulders heaving, his face distorted.

‘What is happening?’ I cried. ‘Is it his heart?’

‘I don’t know. Lay him down. Surely a doctor can be found, for Heaven’s sake?’

It was already too late. Mortlake pitched forward onto the pavement and lay still. It was only then that we saw it, illuminated by the street lamp; a slender reed protruding from the side of his neck. ‘Do not touch it!’ Jones commanded.

‘What is it? It looks like a thorn.’

‘It is a thorn! It is poisoned. I have seen this before but I cannot believe … I will not believe … that it has happened a second time.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Pondicherry Lodge!’ Jones knelt beside the prostrate form of Leland Mortlake. He had stopped breathing and his face was utterly white. ‘He is dead.’

‘How? I don’t understand! What has happened?’

‘He has been the victim of a blowpipe. Someone has fired a dart into his neck as we attempted to get him out of the club and we allowed it to happen even while he was in our hands. It is strychnine or some such poison. It has taken immediate effect.’

‘But why?’

‘To silence him.’ Jones looked up at me with anguish in his eyes. ‘And yet it cannot be. Once again, Chase, I tell you, nothing is as it seems. Who could have known we were coming tonight?’

‘Nobody could have known. I swear that I told no one!’

‘Then this attack must have been planned whether we were here or not. The blowpipe, the dart, they were already prepared. It had been decided that Leland Mortlake must die long before we arrived.’

‘Who would want to kill him?’ I stood there, all sorts of thoughts rushing through my mind. ‘It must have been Clarence Devereux! He is playing some devilish game. He killed Lavelle. He tried to kill you … for who else could it have been in the brougham that was parked nearby? Now he has killed Mortlake.’

‘It could not have been Devereux at Scotland Yard.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the driver dropped him in the street — had it been Devereux, he would surely have been unable to step out into the open.’