“You know who he is, Watson.”
“I’ve read my Conan Doyle,” I said.
“Then you understand the evil he’s capable of.”
“Is this really Moriarty or another instance of some kind of, what did you call it? ‘A concrete reflection of a literary reality’?”
“Moriarty is not the source of all evil, Watson. But his malicious intent here is quite real.”
“So he’s up to something?”
“What a stupid question, Watson. Of course he’s up to something. The real question is what?”
“You’ve seen him, then?”
“Of course.”
“Can you describe him to me?”
“I’ve never seen him except in disguise.”
“If he was in disguise and you’ve never seen him otherwise, how do you know it was him?”
“A wolf may don sheep’s clothing, but he still behaves like a wolf.”
I sat back and considered the boy.
“Do you play chess?” I finally asked.
“Of course. Since I was four.”
“Care to play a game?”
“On my aunt’s nickel? Isn’t that a bit unfair to her, Watson?”
“Tell you what. I give every client one free session. We’ll count this as your free one.”
He shrugged, a very boy-like gesture, and I went to a cabinet and brought out my chess set.
“Carved alabaster,” he said, clearly impressed. “Roman motif.”
“I take my chess seriously.”
We set up the board and played for half an hour to a stalemate. I was impressed with how well he conducted himself. I’m no slouch, and he kept me on my toes. Mostly, however, it afforded me an opportunity to observe his thinking. He was aggressive, too much so, I thought. He didn’t consider his defense as carefully as he should have in order to anticipate the danger inherent in some of his bolder moves. He was smart, beyond smart, but he was still a child. I could tell it irritated him that he didn’t win.
“Tell me more about Moriarty,” I said.
“I believe he killed my parents.” It was an astounding statement, but he spoke it as a simple truth.
“Your aunt told me they died in an automobile accident.”
“Moriarty was behind it.”
“To what end?”
“I don’t know. Ever since I realized he was here, I’ve been observing him. I haven’t quite deciphered the pattern of his actions.”
“Observing him how?”
“How does one normally observe, Watson? I’ve been following him.”
This alarmed me, though I tried not to show it. His brashness, if what he told me was true, was the kind of heedless aggression I’d seen in his chess play. Though I didn’t believe in Moriarty, whatever the boy was up to wasn’t healthy.
A knock at the door ended our session. His aunt entered the office.
“Could I speak with you alone?” I asked.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she said. “Perhaps next time. Come on, Oliver. We’ve got to run.”
When they’d gone, I was left with a profound sense of uneasiness. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t help thinking that the boy was heading somewhere dangerous, dangerous to him and perhaps to others. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to do except bide my time until our next visit.
“Would you care to see him, Watson?” the boy asked. “Moriarty.”
His aunt had dropped him at the door to the building, and he’d come up alone. He’d insisted on a chess rematch, and while we’d played I’d probed him more about his obsession with that fictional villain.
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Meet me at six this evening at the corner of Seventh and Randolph.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you want to see Moriarty or not?”
“I do.”
“Then meet me.”
“I’ll have to discuss this with your aunt.”
“No.”
“Oliver—”
“Sherlock, damn you!”
“Oliver,” I replied firmly, “there are lines I won’t cross. I can’t connive with you behind your aunt’s back.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Watson,” the boy said, having calmed himself. “Meet me tonight, this one time. If you’re not convinced that there’s danger afoot and that Moriarty is the source, I won’t insist anymore that you call me Sherlock.”
I considered his proposal and decided there was nothing to lose. I certainly didn’t believe in Moriarty, and so this might be a way to crack through the boy’s wall of resistance.
“Six,” I agreed.
He was there to meet me and got into my car when I pulled to the curb. He directed me a couple of blocks away to an apartment building in a working-class section with a view of the old brewery. We parked well back from the entrance, sandwiched inconspicuously between two other cars.
“What exactly are we watching for?” I asked.
“At six-fifteen, you’ll see.”
I talked with him while we waited, asked him about his aunt.
“She’s a bit dull,” he said. “Not like my mom or dad were. She feels trapped, but I believe she does her best.”
“Trapped?”