The Return of Moriarty by John E. Gardner

the piece of cork fitted with the “shiner,” which had fallen from Moran’s pipe. “I may be young and inexperienced in some of the ways of the world, but I know what this is. In Australia we have firsthand knowledge of this kind of thing. I know a “shiner” when I see one. You are a cheat, sir, and, as I have been playing with you, and winning with you, I am implicated.”
    Moran had stayed silent, it was better to let the young fool get it out of his system.
    â€œI can only presume, sir,” Adair had continued, “that some pressing and personal difficulty has forced you into this distressing, ungentlemanly and dishonorable act. I will not precipitate matters. You may rest easy on that score, but I cannot stay silent forever. There is, as I see it, only one course of action open to you. You must remove yourself from the temptation of resorting to this behavior again, by which I mean you will have to resign from all your clubs. A week should be more than ample time for that. I would ask you, therefore, to give me evidence of your various resignations within the week. If you have not done so in that time, then I will be forced to go at least to the secretary of this club and present him with the evidence, no matter what scandal it may bring upon me.”
    Moran knew the puppy was fool enough to do it. Two days later he set out for Adair’s temporary home at 427 Park Lane, equipped as he was now, with the air gun and the box of soft-nosed bullets that were the weapon’s deadly projectiles. While there was murder in his heart and mind, he had, on that occasion, no firm plan, as he had now. It was only when he arrived opposite the Park Lane house and saw that young Adair’s window was open and the man actually in his room, visible from the street, that Moran quickly made his plan, slipped into the shadow of a convenient doorway, put the weapon together, pumped in the air, loaded it with one bullet, stepped into the street again, took fast and careful aim and noiselessly fired the fatal shot.
    This business, now, was of a different mettle: calculated, cold and performed with unswerving malice. The weapon was ready, locked together, the small hand pump providing the necessary pressure of 500 pounds per square inch, and the soft bullet loaded into the breach. Moran still did not take his eyes from the quarry in the room across the street, conscious that this was possibly the most important shot of his entire life.
    The black outline of Moran’s target against the yellow blind was aligned with the foresight and the V of the back-sight, the skeletal butt firm against his shoulder, the chill of its cold metal against the colonel’s cheek.
    Slowly his hand tightened as his finger squeezed the trigger. With no kick or jerk, only a slight popping sound, the air gun fired. Moran was conscious of the tinkle of glass as the bullet penetrated the window across the street.
    Then all hell and chaos broke out in the dark room. *
    Moriarty’s face was gray. He had not taken the news of Moran’s arrest well. Initially there was a reaction of rage which was quickly followed by a cold, hard, silent anger which could be felt by anyone who approached him. The lamps still burned in the main room of his chambers, though by now it was almost three in the morning. Spear had wakened Mrs. Wright—for it was Mrs. Kate Wright and her husband Bartholomew who ran the bar in the “waiting room” and also attended to the Professor’s personal needs: his laundry, food, and the cleaning of his chambers. Kate Wright, knowing Moriarty’s likes and dislikes, had prepared a glass of mulled claret, fussing about the room, hooking the mulling pan onto the grate before the fire to heat, finishing it off with the traditional warm poker and adding the cinnamon, ginger, lemon and lemon rind. Moriarty drank slowly, sipping it and staring into the fire, Spear and Lee Chow silently looking on,