"Quite right," Moriarty said. "And if it were your decision, what would you do? I did not mean to sound disparaging of your intellect; it is for that and for your extensive journalistic experience that I am employing you. So, as a journalist, if you were assigned to track down Trepoff for a story, how would you go about it?"
"Don't humor me, Professor," Barnett said. "If I spoke out of turn, I'm sorry."
"No, no," Moriarty said. "I have around me entirely too many men who are afraid to speak out of turn. Conversational interplay is a great aid to focusing one's thoughts on the subject at hand. Please do not ever allow my unfortunate tendency toward the sarcastic rejoinder to deter you from questioning, suggesting, or amplifying as you see fit. And I was quite serious in my question: How would you go about locating the elusive Trepoff?"
"Well," Barnett considered. "There are areas in London where Russian émigrés are known to congregate. That's probably the place to start."
"Quite right," Moriarty said. "And that is, indeed, where I began. There are nine revolutionary clubs run by expatriate Russians in the East End, of which the Bohemian Club seems to be the most popular. The center for intrigue, however, is a smaller establishment called the Balalaika. Behind and above the public rooms at the Balalaika are a complex of private rooms, in which all manner of scheming and plotting against every government in Europe would seem to go on. The owner, a Mr. Petruchian, has agreed to aid us, and one of my agents is now stationed behind the bar."
Barnett whistled softly. "You got the owner of an anarchist bar to help you? What do you have on him?"
"Petruchian is not himself an anarchist, you understand — merely the proprietor of a club. And while he might not be averse to an occasional bombing in St. Petersburg or Vienna, he is a loyal citizen of Britain. When I explained to him — after I had established my bona fides—that an atrocity was planned against his adopted homeland, he was eager to help."
Barnett would have been fascinated to find out how Professor Moriarty had established his "bona fides," but he knew better than to inquire. Instead, he asked, "Have you found anything?"
"Precisely nothing."
"Do you know what you're looking for?"
"It would be enough to discover someone who is whispering of plots against some target here in Britain. Trepoff is probably recruiting his men from among the ranks of the genuine anarchists, but if so, he is being too subtle for me."
"Well, he certainly knows where you are," Barnett said.
"A fact that I have been hoping to put to good use," Moriarty said. "I have managed to trace three of the men who attempted to kill me, including last night's jehu. But they've all been hirelings, who know nothing of their employer." He slapped his hand down on the desk vehemently. "It is time to go on the offensive," he said, "before the man manages to kill one of us by sheer luck."
"You said you have something for me to do," Barnett said. "What is it? I confess I can't think of anything helpful."
"Ah, yes," Moriarty said. He leaned forward across the desk. "I want you to go to Fleet Street," he said, "and reacquaint yourself with your profession. I want you to become familiar with all the important dailies. Get to know the journalists who work for them."
"Sounds easy enough," Barnett said, "except for one thing— what do I tell them I'm doing there, and who do I say I am?"
"Your name is Benjamin Barnett," Moriarty said, "and you are going to open a news bureau. An American news bureau, I rather think. Rent an office in the area and hire a competent secretary; you'll need one for my plan in any case. Put a sign on the door. Something on the order of: 'Barnett's Anglo-American Telegraphic News Service.' I leave the exact wording to you."
"What happens when some random Turkish newsman or government official happens on the name 'Benjamin Barnett'?" Barnett asked.
"Ah, yes," Moriarty said. "That's the other thing I wished to see you about. I have good news for you: you are dead."
"What?"
"As far as the Ottoman government is concerned, you are dead. Shot while trying to escape, or something very like that. So the Gurra-Pasha reported to the Sultan, and so it shall be."
"Why would he do that?" Barnett asked.
"Better not look a gift Pasha in the mouth," Moriarty said. "I would assume he was trying to cover up the escape to protect his reputation. He waited a couple of weeks to make sure you were really gone and then officially notified Abd-ul Hamid Khan the Second, Sultan of Sultans, King of Kings, Shadow of God upon Earth, that you were killed while escaping. Thus he managed to please himself, Abd-ul Hamid, and you all at once, and hurt nobody. Would that all human intercourse were that simple."
Barnett nodded. "Such a short life," he said, "but lived to the full. I shall have to get the copy of the New York World that has my obituary and see what they have to say about me."
"A unique opportunity," Moriarty agreed. "I trust you will not be disappointed."
"At any rate that is certainly good news — and I wonder how many people would say that after being informed of their own deaths."
"Anyone of whom the report was in error, I fancy, would at least be amused. For the others I will not venture to speak."
"There's no chance that someone seeing my name or encountering me will report it to the Ottoman government?"
"There's every chance it will be reported. And no chance the report will be anything but studiously ignored. Would you like to be the one who informs the King of Kings that you had made a slight mistake in regard to the death of a prisoner?"
"I see what you mean," Barnett said. "Now, back to Fleet Street. I am to open a news service. What sort of news?"
"Anything out of the ordinary," Moriarty said. "I feel sure that there are many stories that come into a newspaper every day that are not used because they prove to be insufficiently interesting or questionably factual."
"That's so," Barnett said. "I'd say less than half of the stories that come over a city desk ever see print."
"And one class of these unused stories would be the unique event that looks as though it would be newsworthy if more information could be developed, but that additional information never comes to light — is that so?"
"Right," Barnett agreed. "That happens all the time. Someone comes up with one fascinating fact that looks as though there is a great story behind it, and you investigate it and get nowhere. And you never know for sure if there was anything there or not. And, of course, you can't use the story because you have insufficient information."
"These are the stories," Moriarty said, "in which I wish you to be most interested. This is where the spoor of Trepoff is to be found. You must look for the merest hints and traces, for this man will most assuredly cover his tracks with the cunning of a jungle beast."
"But what am I to look for?" Barnett asked. "How can I tell when one of these stories relates to Trepoff?"
"You must first eliminate those incidents which cursory investigation will show do not relate to Trepoff or the Belye Krystall. What is left you will write up and put into a notebook. I shall periodically go through the notebook and tell you which items warrant further consideration. Investigate bizarre crimes, seemingly senseless cruelties, and insane acts; look for the unique masquerading as the commonplace."
Barnett shook his head. "I'm sorry if I appear dense, Professor, but I'm still not clear on what sort of thing it would be most profitable to look at. Perhaps if you could give me some example…"
Moriarty stared at his laced fingers and thought for a moment. "Rather than an example," he said, "let me give you an analogy. Trepoff is like a general in some field army preparing for a battle. He will have his scouts out surveying the land; he will have training exercises for his troops; he will be preparing his logistics and supply; his spies will be probing for the enemy's weak points; his armorer may be preparing and testing weapons; and so on. I'm sure you can extend the analogy yourself well into the ridiculous. And each of these activities will leave a trace for the observer who knows what he is looking for — and looking at.