"I rather think the jarvey did something to annoy our steed as a parting gesture," Moriarty said, knocking the remaining shards of glass out of the window on his side. "Thus enhancing an already interesting experience. Mr. Barnett, if you would make your way to the street through this window…"
Barnett looked out at the pavement, which was passing under the wheels of the cab at a dizzying speed. Then he glanced across the cab at Tolliver, who was already most of the way out of the window on his side. He shrugged. "This will ruin my suit," he said. Grabbing the leather strap above the door, he swung his legs out the window, twisted through, and dropped.
The cab swerved just as he let go, and he fell heavily on his side and slid across the cobblestones. A second later, Moriarty followed him out the window, hitting the ground feet-first, and then rolling forward in the baritsu manner to absorb the impact before coming neatly to his feet again.
The cab, now bouncing and clattering wildly behind an increasingly frenzied horse, barely missed a carter's wagon to its left and then careened into a lamppost on the right. Bouncing off the lamppost, it twisted over until it was riding on just two wheels. The traces gave way under the twisting force, and the horse, suddenly freed, raced off down the street. The four-wheeler righted itself again, now heading directly toward a bank on the corner. As it reached the curb, it exploded in a cloud of black smoke, sending wood and iron fragments hurtling through the air to clatter against the walls and breaking windows up and down the block. Barnett instinctively covered his face with his arms, but miraculously none of the fragments touched him.
When most of the debris had come to rest, Barnett got up and dusted himself off. His leg burned where he had scraped it, and his good French frock coat and trousers were now suitable only for the dustbin, but there seemed to be no other damage done. He looked around and saw Moriarty crossing the road to where Mummer Tolliver was lying. The Mummer's tiny body, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle, lay quite still. Somehow, despite the explosion debris and dust all around him, Tolliver's checkered suit and yellow spats were still neat and spotlessly clean, but his face was covered with blood.
Moriarty knelt by the Mummer and cleaned his face off with his pocket handkerchief. Cautiously he straightened the twisted leg and then undid the Mummer's tight high collar and loosened his cravat. "He's breathing," he told Barnett. "Let us get him home."
"Shouldn't we take him to the nearest hospital?" Barnett asked.
"St. Bartholomew's is probably the closest hospital," Moriarty said. "And my house is quite a bit closer, a good bit cleaner, and has most of the facilities." Lifting Tolliver as gently as he would a small child, Moriarty rose. "Flag down that cab," he directed Barnett. "We'll stop at the house first, and then you go on to Cavendish Square and bring back a physician named Breckstone. He's the only man in London I'd trust to treat anything more complicated than a head cold."
Barnett hailed the growler, which was busy trying to turn around and avoid the blocked far end of the street. A uniformed policeman came around the corner at a dead run as they boarded the cab. "Here, here," he yelled, continuing past them toward the wreckage. "What's all this?"
ELEVEN — THE SCENT
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"I have been remiss," Moriarty said. "I have allowed my own interests, my own desires, to distract me from an assignment which I accepted in all good faith, just because there is no one here to prod me into activity. While I have been concerning myself with anomalies in the orbit of an asteroid, Trepoff has been planting his infernal devices about me with the assiduity of a British gardener setting roses."
"It would seem so," Barnett said. It was the morning after the exploding four-wheeler, and Moriarty had called Barnett into his study after the latter had finished his breakfast.
"As a result of my stupidity, Tolliver nearly lost his life. Had he indeed died, I would never have forgiven myself," Moriarty said, pacing back and forth in the small area between his desk and the bookcase upon which rested his clipping books. "It is one thing for me to blithely ignore these threats and sidestep these attacks while pursuing my own affairs. It is quite another for me to subject my associates to these dangers without at least giving them a chance to engage themselves in the Trepoff affair."
"How is the Mummer?" Barnett asked, in part to find out and in part to get Moriarty off a line of self-abasement that Barnett found uncomfortable.
"Doctor Breckstone was here again this morning, before you descended," Moriarty said, with just possibly a hint of reproach in his voice. "The haematoma over the right parietal has somewhat subsided and it looks as though there is no underlying fracture. Aside from a severe headache, which Doctor Breckstone feels should subside in a day or so, and some minor abrasions, Tolliver is none the worse for his experience. You might go up and see him."
"I shall," Barnett said.
"Good. He refuses opiates for his headache, so he remains quite querulous. I don't like him snapping at the maids, and Mrs. H is far too busy. Go and let him snap at you for a while so he won't take it out on the domestic help."
"I'm glad to discover that I have some useful function in this establishment," Barnett said, smiling ruefully. "And here I was beginning to think that you had nothing for me to do."
"On the contrary, I have a great deal for you to do," Moriarty said. He gave up pacing and sat down in the large leather chair behind his desk. "I have been giving some thought to the Trepoff problem, and you figure prominently in my plans."
"Say, Professor," Barnett said, "just exactly who, or what, is this Trepoff you keep talking about?"
"Trepoff is the man who blew up our clarence cab last evening. He is the man who committed the crime you were accused and convicted of in Constantinople."
Barnett thought about this for a minute. "Trepoff is the fellow the Russians want you to catch," he said.
"That's correct."
"Who is he?"
"Nobody knows," Moriarty said. "Let me explain." And inside of ten minutes he had told Barnett all that he knew of Trepoff and the Belye Krystall, withholding nothing. It was Moriarty's usual practice to burden his associates with no more information than they needed to perform their tasks, but on the Trepoff matter, there was, so far, not sufficient information to be selective about it.
While Moriarty spoke, Barnett longed to take out his small pocket notebook and jot down the facts in his private journalistic shorthand, but he fought the impulse. In his new position he was going to have to learn to rely more on his memory and less on his pencil. "It's a fascinating problem," he said when Moriarty had finished. "I don't see how to get a handle on it: finding a man you've never seen and can't identify in the midst of the world's largest city in time to prevent him from committing an unknown atrocity."
"It is a challenge," Moriarty admitted. "Although it is only the time constraint that makes it interesting. Any population can be sifted through for one individual member, given sufficient time. I have already begun several lines of inquiry. I confess I should have done more."
"I'll say," Barnett said.
Moriarty stared steadily at Barnett. "Perhaps your keener intellect has grasped some fact that has eluded me," he said. "You have some suggestion as to what course of action I should initiate?"
"I'm sorry, Professor," Barnett said. "I didn't mean it that way. It's just that — well — clearly, something has to be done."