Moriarty Returns a Letter by Michael Robertson Read Free Book Online Page B

point out that when someone in fiction plunges into a waterfall, however fearsome, and their body is never recovered, fictionally or otherwise—well, anything is possible in the future, is it not? Perhaps if you were to make a polite request of the author—”
    The inspector stood. He was trying desperately to think of a solid objection to her plan.
    “My dear woman,” he blurted in desperation, “do you actually know anything about whiskey?”
    “I know that my husband began drinking something called Macallans’s since he arrived here and he liked it. I myself neither drink, nor smoke, nor gamble at cards or horses. I do not participate in any of the recreational pursuits that men engage in, except for one that I do enjoy, and that one was and is reserved for my husband. But I am good at numbers, Inspector, and you can rely on me to make good use of that cargo.”
    “Mrs.… Mrs. Moriarty,” said the inspector, pleadingly, “if you do indeed take on that name, I shall not be able to protect you from whatever Redgil does in the future.”
    The widow stood.
    “I shall be in New York City, Inspector. Do you know anything of the Irish in New York City?”
    “A little. I know what your husband told me. It was partly on that experience that we hired him.”
    The widow smiled.
    “I am Irish myself,” she said. “New York City Irish, as are all my family there, of course. And if Mr. Redgil should wish to come to Hell’s Kitchen to reclaim his cargo, he is very much welcome to try.”
    The widow moved toward the door now—but then she stopped and turned very deliberately back to the inspector.
    “The letter that this Mr. Redgil wrote to you—may I have it please?”
    “Really, no. I’m afraid not. We must keep it for our records.”
    The widow Moriarty nodded. “As you wish,” she said. “I was just thinking that perhaps someday it might be returned to him. But please be so good as to sign this additional document and add it into the place where you keep your official records.”
    She handed the inspector a one-page, typewritten document. He read through it quickly, and then looked up at her.
    “I don’t understand,” he said. “You are deliberately keeping the name Moriarty so that you can depart with the cargo. So why do you also want a document stating that your husband was not Moriarty and was in fact working for Scotland Yard?”
    “Because I don’t want our child or the future children of our child growing up without knowing who their father really was.”
    “You can tell them that yourself.”
    “I do intend to. But the future is uncertain. I want it documented here at Scotland Yard—so that the Yard will remember the price that was paid in pursuit of this fiend named Redgil, and so that if anyone should ever ask in the future, the proof will exist.”
    The inspector didn’t want to sign such a thing, and he tried to think of a way to dissuade her.
    “Aren’t you worried,” he said, “what might happen if the document should ever fall into the wrong hands—if Redgil should ever learn of your identity … and find you?”
    “I trust you completely not to let it fall into the wrong hands,” said the woman. And then, quietly, she added: “And perhaps it is Mr. Redgil who should worry if our paths should ever cross.”
    The inspector sighed. “Well, let’s try not to let that happen,” he said. He scrawled his signature on the document, and he called the sergeant back to the office.
    “Turner will take care of it,” said the inspector, and he handed the signed piece of paper to the sergeant.
    “Thank you, Inspector,” said the woman. “Good day. I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”
    And then she exited the office.
    Turner was about to exit the office as well, with the documents in hand, but the inspector stopped him.
    “Where are you going with that?”
    “To the archives for filing,” said the sergeant.
    “Not bloody likely,” said the inspector. “Didn’t I say that I