Moriarty Returns a Letter Read Free Page B

so. “Well, we can’t settle the bet if you won’t open it up.”
    “You read it,” said Redgil to the skinny man. “Read it aloud.”
    The skinny man opened the magazine. He was quite eager about it, but he wasn’t a fast reader, and it took almost a full agonizing minute for him just to locate the story in the magazine.
    “I found it!”
    “Well, read the bloody thing!” commanded Redgil.
    The skinny man began to read aloud: “‘The Final Problem,’” he announced.
    “What’s that mean?” said Redgil.
    “That’s the title,” said the skinny man. “‘The Final Problem.’”
    “Well, get on with it,” said Redgil.
    The skinny man began to read.
    “‘It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which—”
    “Wait,” said Redgil now. “Just how long is this going to take?”
    The skinny man shrugged. “I read the last one in just two days,” he said, with some pride.
    Redgil shook his head. “Take your damn magazine over there,” he said, pointing at the little table. “When you’ve figured out what it’s about, assuming it happens before the sun comes up, then give us the short version.”
    The skinny man did as he was told, and went to the table, his eyes fixed on the page of the magazine even as he walked.
    Meantime, Redgil picked up the bill of lading, brought it over to the American, and stuck it in front of his face.
    “Sign this. Make it over to bearer, so I can present it to the ship’s captain and take possession.”
    The American shook his head. “That’s not our deal. I’ll sign it over when you bring the money to the dock and I get my twenty-five percent.”
    “Of course you’ll get your cut. Why wouldn’t you? You will. I promise. You have my word. As a gentleman.”
    The American just snorted defiantly.
    Redgil nodded to the brute, and the rope came down on the American’s back again.
    The pain ran in shivers down his back, into his legs, and then back up again to his head, nearly causing him to pass out. He fought to stay conscious. He raised his head and looked directly at Redgil.
    “You are making a very serious mistake,” said the American. “I am not alone. Do you think I work with no one but you, that I have no confederates? I have schemes in place everywhere in this city. You know that. I don’t take credit by name, but it’s me that makes it happen. You know and I know that you cannot cheat me and leave me alive. But my operatives are everywhere, and if you kill me, I will be avenged.”
    Redgil just sneered when the American said those things. But the skinny man—still slowly working his way through “The Final Problem” in The Strand —looked up now when he heard the threat. He looked back down at the text he was reading—then across at the American—and then at the text again.
    Then he got up and came over, the opened magazine in his hand. He stared at the American.
    “What is your real name?”
    The American looked up. The skinny man’s face had a look not just of suspicion but also something very much like awe—as though he were wondering whether he should bow down in front of the American before it was too late.
    Once more the skinny man looked at the text he had been reading, and then up at the American and then back at the text again.
    Page two, thought the American. He’s reached page two. It was just far enough.
    “If you’re reading that,” said the American, nodding toward the copy of The Strand, with all the quiet menace he could muster, “you know damn well know what my name is.”
    The skinny man’s eyes grew wide. He stepped back from the American as though the man was a bonfire that had gotten too big. He turned toward Redgil.
    “What now?” said Redgil.
    The skinny man displayed the magazine in front of Redgil, and jabbed his finger at the relevant page.
    “Moriarty!”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “He is Professor Moriarty! The Napoléon of crime! It says so, right here!”