Moriarty Returns a Letter by Michael Robertson Page B

the man currently throwing the darts, was some thirty years older.
    A father and son was the captain’s guess. Probably it was the grandchildren who were playing with the chalkboard.
    The captain had two children of his own, just now grown to adulthood, and a young grandchild as well.
    He hadn’t seen any of them in almost two years. Perhaps that was why, as he was looking at these young children now, they reminded him of his own.
    And at this moment, the American captain hoped that the man throwing darts was not in fact the person he had come looking for. Perhaps the woman at the hotel had been mistaken about the hotel owner’s destination. Or perhaps that man had come here and then gone and this was someone else entirely.
    It wasn’t as though the captain could not do what might need to be done. After Normandy, he knew that he was capable of doing anything that was necessary.
    But he had had enough of death and dying.
    What he was thinking of doing now was to just walk back down the stairs, catch a bus to Victoria Embankment, and talk to someone again at Scotland Yard. That would suffice. He could leave it with them. And then he would just go back home to New York and resume his life. It might be just that simple.
    But first he had to be sure. He couldn’t just stride into Scotland Yard, tell them a tale his mother had told him, and expect to be believed. He had tried that once already, immediately after getting out of the hospital, and the officials he talked with had not been of much help. There was a war on, after all. They were not much interested in a crime that he claimed his mother said had been committed against an American in London some fifty years ago.
    The officer at Scotland Yard had said that they had more pressing concerns.
    And at this moment, the American captain was inclined to agree. He drank the remainder of his beer in one long draught and set the empty glass down on the table, and was about to leave.
    “Your turn, mate.”
    The older man was pulling the darts out of the board, his back to the American.
    “Thanks,” said the American. “But I need to be on my way.”
    “We’d love it if you’d stay for a game, Yank,” said the younger of the two dart players.
    This was a friendly invitation between peers, one Allied officer to another, and the only reason the Englishman addressed him as “Yank” instead of “Captain” was because they were in a pub and the formal titles were dropped in favor of being sociable. There was an etiquette to be observed, a basic courtesy, and the American had no excuse that was good enough for him to decline.
    “Sure,” he said.
    The English officer gave his handful of darts to the American.
    “But watch out my dad doesn’t cheat you,” he said. He winked when he said that, and then he went to check on his two children at the chalkboard.
    The American stepped up to the throwing line, holding the three darts in his hand. He had played the game once or twice before, on his first arrival in London. He was pretty sure he had a grasp on the rules.
    He waited for the older man to finish collecting his darts from the board.
    The older man turned—and now, for the first time, the American saw the right side of his face. In the light from the lamps above the dartboard, he could see it clearly—a birthmark, a slashing reddish line, just above the man’s jaw.
    The American froze. And stared.
    The older man caught that stare, and returned it with an inquiring glance. The American looked away, and the older man came back to the throwing line.
    “And what is your name, Captain?” said the older man. And then, with the American not responding immediately, he pointed toward the board and said, “Your turn now, you see.”
    This was a challenge.
    “Moriarty,” said the American. “My name is James Moriarty. After my father.”
    With that, the American threw his three darts in rapid succession, each perfectly on target.
    He went to collect his darts from the