Moriarty Returns a Letter Read Free Page A

could possibly make up such things? Figuring out the meaning of the five orange pips? Deciphering the note written by the Reigate squires? Do you really think some git of a writer in a penny magazine could make those things up?”
    Redgil looked back at the skinny man, and the skinny man, proud of his own knowledge, shook his head emphatically.
    “All right,” said Redgil slowly, turning back to the shackled American. “I suppose they’re not made up.” And then, to prove that he figured this out of his own accord, he added: “This Mr. Watson being an army doctor and such.”
    “Of course not,” said the American. “Only a true genius could decipher those clues. And only the greatest of minds could deduce and unravel the plots I have laid. Only a man with an intellect that rivals my own. But great minds have great egos, and the great weakness of Mr. Sherlock Holmes is that he cannot bear to work in anonymity. And so he allows his feats to be published. And that’s what you see in The Strand Magazine —biographical accounts of his actual doings, with only an occasional detail altered here and there.”
    “All right,” said Redgil, still pondering that possibility. “But just because Sherlock Holmes is real—that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the reason your plans didn’t work, now does it?”
    “Hell, he’s thwarted more of my plans than I can count!” said the American. “I set up a burglary just last year that would have shook the world if Sherlock Holmes hadn’t figured it out.”
    “Prove it,” snarled Redgil.
    “Look it up yourself,” said the American. “It’s in last month’s issue.”
    The skinny man came running over.
    “You don’t mean the Naval Treaty?” he said, quite eagerly.
    “Bloody hell yes, except it wasn’t just a Naval Treaty. They change things you know, even in biographies, when they write them up. But I was behind it, it was no simple burglary, and it would have worked, too, if Holmes hadn’t sussed out where the document was.”
    “So all the crimes that Sherlock Holmes solved in these … these biography things that Dr. Watson writes,” said Redgil, “they were all schemes of yours?”
    The American hesitated. He wasn’t claiming that at all; it could be too easily disproved. But he couldn’t be seen to be backing down. He needed a denial that didn’t sound like one.
    “All?” he said. “Well, that’s a mighty big word. Your crimes of passion, someone’s long-lost love surfacing in a quest for vengeance, snakes crawling down ropes—those had nothing to do with me, although I’ll admit that snake thing might have come in handy. Mine were just the ones where a lot of money was at stake, and even one or two of those accounts had nothing to do with me. That Red-headed League thing?”
    The skinny man nodded enthusiastically. Clearly, he had read them all.
    “Not mine,” said the American. “Not my style. If I’d been starting a Red-headed League, it’d have been only women could join, if you take my meaning. But the important point here is, the few failures I have had, and there have been very few, have all been due to Holmes.”
    “So you say,” said the leader, rubbing his chin. “So you say.” He looked over at the magazine on the table. “But I’ll wager that if we take a look in the one that came out today, whatever the Sherlock Holmes story is—”
    “Biography,” said the American.
    “Whatever the hell it is, it will have nothing to do with you.”
    “Fair enough,” said the American. “I’ll wager a quid.”
    “No,” sneered the leader. “You’re wagering your life.”
    “Fine,” said the American. “Just bring it over here. I can help you with the long words if you want.”
    The skinny man eagerly ran forward toward the American agent, the magazine in hand.
    “Stay back!” commanded Redgil, before the skinny man could get too close. “Don’t let him see what’s in it.”
    The American shrugged, though it hurt to do