Moriarty and the Massacre of Mammon

by Nyla Nox

  I can see a brief flash of recognition in those sharp eyes.

  ‘I am in a position to extend your operations not only now, but also for the foreseeable as well as the unforeseeable future.’

  The eminent banker raises his formidable brows.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we are interested in high volume opportunities only. Very high volume, you understand…’

  ‘And you need to act fast’, I say, ‘at least that is what my sources tell me…’

  The eyebrows come down. A decision has been made.

  ‘It is true’, he says, ‘ the two Kaisers are running out of money.’

  I nod. ‘I am quite familiar with the appearance of the powerful in my presence when they are running out of money’, I say. There is a sharp intake of breath as Mr M realises the full impact of this insult. I am implying that he is a servant of our enemy. But he does not rise to it.

  ‘And so are our own Allies’, he says.

  Although he clearly does not have my advantage of having growing up in poverty and crime, he is not easily shaken.

  ‘So’, I say, ’the end of the war is imminent?’

  Silence while we appraise each other.

  ‘It was only supposed to last six months’, he says. ‘It may last much longer. If…’

  I raise my eyebrows, well aware that they are nowhere near as impressive as his.

  ‘There’s no war without money’, I say.

  ‘Well’, the other M says slowly, ‘I wouldn’t quite say that…’

  The tinkle of thin walled porcelain as I refill our cups.

  ‘There are ways, Mr Moriarty’, Mr M continues, ‘of creating money where there was none before.’

  ‘A matter I have dedicated my life to’, I say. Moriarty Enterprises, after all, have never created or produced anything. All our transactions are based on the work and investment of others.

  Maybe this time I will be able to provoke him.

  But The Other Mr M shows his mettle by breaking out in a huge guffaw.

  ‘You crack me up, Moriarty’, he says. ‘And you are quite right, too. Because, while the Bank is very proficient at creating money from nothing in our own way, we do need assistance right now.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say. ‘Good luck.’ And lean back, arms crossed against him.

  He smiles. ‘I come from a lucky family, Moriarty. The US President himself gave us a Christmas Present only two years ago that will pay for itself for generations to come.’

  ‘You are speaking, of course, of the establishment of the US Federal Bank’, I counter. I remember only too well how dear Emmeline droned on and on about it at the time, saying that it meant putting the regulation of the system into the hands of the robbers themselves.

  ‘Indeed’, he says. Is he condescending enough to be surprised that I am well informed? If so, he will find his response in my price.

  ‘Presidents are weak, and governments are weaker’, he says. ‘You only have to look at this war to see what I mean.’

  I cannot help but nod. Did I not have the exact same thought only last night?

  ‘But’, he says, leaning forward so that I can count the pores on his skin, ‘before we go any further here, I need to know one thing from you.’

  ‘I fully understand’, I say.

  I get up and lift the lower panel of the window that looks out into our own luscious and very real garden.

  As I do so, the colourful view is suddenly obscured by even more vivid and spectacular colours – colours that can only be created by the imagination of the artist.

  Mr M cannot help uttering a sudden gasp and executing what I believe is called a double take.

  What we both see, at a just enough distance on the other side of the window to let the sun light it up magnificently, is of course the great painting that so mysteriously disappeared from his possession last night.

  I signal and the picture travels up. It reveals a wholly intact canvas (no little squares missing!) and, at closer inspection, authentic signature.

  Mr M satisfies himself of this and then sits back again.

  At my signal, the picture gives again way to the real garden outside. The removal specialists are smooth that way.

  ‘Yes’, I say, ‘the answer is: you can trust me.’

  Mr M looks at me curiously.

  ‘The picture will be going home with me,’ he says. It is not a question.

  ‘No matter what the outcome of this conversation’, I say. ‘Of course.’

  Silence descends once more upon the room. Birds sing in the garden somewhere. It is somewhat idyllic, I must confess.

  ‘Now I know you run a very successful business here, Moriarty’, Mr M says after a while and a few deep gulps of tea. ‘But, you see, this war really will be over in another three months’ time if we don’t act’, he says, pulling his lumberjack face into mournful folds, ‘and what we need, no offence, is not a minor investment but a very very serious infusion of money.’

  He reaches into his pocket. I stay calm. My men would have made sure he carries no weapon into the garden. And indeed, all he takes out is a fountain pen and a tiny note book. The pen works beautifully as he writes down a figure, tears out the page and pushes it towards me. Once again I get a chance to admire his fine English accountant’s hand.

  In spite of my expectations I am still taken aback at the sum even he refrains from putting into words.

  This is how much he thinks I can provide? Or is how much he thinks I am not able provide? Is this another insult from the pale bottomed banker?

  ‘So you see, Mr Moriarty’, he says. ‘ Unless you really are able to invest sums of this nature, I am afraid I will have to take advantage of your chivalry and leave with my precious painting. Right now.’

  I lean back.

  Straight talking is all very well when you are the one who does it. I need to reset the dynamics. It is Mr M who will be the borrower here.

  ‘It needs to be understood right now’, I say’, that this investment would necessitate a reasonable return. We are not simply looking to get rid of money.’

  I turn my head and the lumberjack face is in complete repose. No clues there.

  ‘But there is no doubt, no doubt whatsoever that we would be able to fulfil the amounts you suggest.’

  He nods. Like a lumberjack who has found a good tree.

  ‘Many times over.’

  I open a ledger and push it towards him. Like dear Emmeline, he is a trained accountant. He will be able to understand it.

  He does.

  I can see it in his eyes.

  ‘Let this be decided now’, I say, ‘because, no matter what the outcome, I intend this meeting to be the only one of its kind.’

  Mr M looks at me for a while.

  ‘I agree wholeheartedly’, he then says. ‘I too have no desire to repeat this experience, pleasant as it has been, of course.’ (And here he inclines his head towards me as well as making a sweeping gesture with his arms that seems to include the house, the garden, and, of course, his painting).

  ‘So, Mr Moriarty, here is my own question: how fast can you deliver?’

  In other transactions, I have often been able to inspire a certain amount of, shall we say, cooperation, through the more aggressive aspects of my business. A certain ridiculous private detective, I believe, used to talk about the associates of my enterprise as an ‘army’. They are of course no such thing. They are freelance entrepreneurs.

  But between the two of us, it is Mr M who controls an army, or in fact several.

  A real army. The kind that bleeds the youth of many nations to death in the trenches of a godforsaken little country in the name of a war that has no real goal and can end only in the destruction of the world as we know it. Not that I am opposed to the destruction of the world as we know it. I have contributed to that destruction in my own small way.

  Maybe the fact that both our names start with the sa
me letter is not a mere whim of fate. As we sip our tea we haggle about price and percentage. We nibble on teacakes and thrash out a plan.

  ‘Wars destroy assets of all kinds’, I say, ‘Houses, horses, ships and men. ‘

  ‘During a war, Moriarty, no price is too high to go on fighting it’, he says. ‘Nations will borrow money at any cost, if they can still find a lender. Normal business practice is suspended. Well, for them. And after the war, those debts will have to be repaid. I intend to control the process every step of the way.’

  Now this is certainly taking the long view. But surely Mr M surely exaggerates when he says that the nations who lose this war will be paying off reparations well into the next century (while this one has barely started…). However, it might be wise to anticipate and make provision for such payments to find a recipient after my own life span runs out.

  ‘And at the same time, the nations will need to buy everything they destroyed over and over again. No risk for the banks. Nations by their very nature, must survive and therefore will pay.’

  The expensively maintained flowers glow deeply in the lengthening light of the waning afternoon. Mr M never has not looked at them even for the fraction of a second in his passionate exposition of the financials of modern warfare. In our negotiation, we fight over every inch of territory, every fraction of percentage points.

  Just like the young men die in their thousands for an inch of the battlefield. Our hostess’ son is not one of them - a benevolent organisation has been able to provide a certificate of indispensability, valid for just exactly as long as the widow is useful to me.

  ‘You and I, Mr Moriarty’, the great banker says, ‘will win this war without firing a single shot.’

  I nod as if in agreement. We set the price.

  He reaches out and we shake hands. The tea cups tremble on their saucers.

  ***

  This deal, like all deals, is based on mutual interest.

  I am not so naïve that I trust Mr M never to turn against me. I am still on the ‘wrong side’ of everything, and our interests, while aligned right now, may well diverge in the future. I have therefore prepared a few small surprises for him on his way out.

  But first I show him that I, for my part, am true to my word.

  Which he sees the moment he passes through the door that I politely hold open.

  For, on the wall of the corridor connecting the garden room to the house, hangs a certain priceless work of art that only yesterday transitioned into my sphere of commerce.

  He stares at it in silence. I stand just behind him and say nothing.

  ‘My men will wrap it for you while you wait’, I say. ‘No trouble at all. No trouble.’

  He raises his hand and gingerly touches the frame.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Moriarty’, he says.

  We walk away together, towards the front door.

  The lady of the house meets us just inside, together with her silent companion and with the lady Mr M’s bank kindly provided for this purpose. The spinster sister of a trusted clerk, I later hear. She might get her pick of elderly suitors at last with the dowry that was surely transferred to her account.

  I assume the duties of the master of the house again, and open the door. Mr M’s ‘clerks’ who have been waiting here all along, move out first, then nod that all is clear.

  ‘So pleased to meet you, Mr M’, I say and shake his hand again.

  The smile on his lumberjack face looks genuine as he opens his mouth to speak -

  ‘Boom!’

  The shot of a rifle rings out. Surely the first time a shot has been heard in this neighbourhood.

  Mr M screams and jumps back into the entrance.

  I express both shock and bewilderment but compose myself immediately to come to his succour. But not before I have received a surreptitious nod from somewhere in the ornamental hedges that surround the front gardens of all these villas.

  One of the ‘clerks’ storms off, the other turns to hold Mr M in a firm grip.

  The widow is already at his side, offering medical assistance.

  ‘Thank you’, he manages to mumble, shaken but upright, ‘I believe – I believe I am alright…’

  ‘The anarchists!’ Mr M’s other ‘clerk’ grunts.

  The banker and his party seem to think that this must be a sinister plot by Mr M’s persecutors, the aforementioned group of anarchists who object not only to his involvement in the war but the war itself, and have chosen to express their pacifism through a lethal gun attack. I express my extreme surprise that anarchists should have found their way to this respectable suburb.

  I then dispatch my own men and quickly excuse the ladies who retreat to the living room.

  Upon closer examination, we discover that the shot did indeed almost find its target. It hit close to the great banker’s groin but has only pierced the fabric of his heavy trousers. And, presumably, his heavy underpants beneath. If so, they have done a sterling job in protecting their master.

  Of course the one who really did a sterling job here is the young sharp shooter who is long gone by the time I send my thugs after the ‘unknown’ attacker. I employ only the best and that young man has more than earned the exemption from the draft I was able to obtain for him. And which he knows would expire immediately on my demise. This young man would be a terrible waste in the war of bloody amateurs being waged in the trenches of Belgium. He could not make a difference even if his talents were recognized. The only people who can make a difference in this war by now are Mr M and myself.

  I breathe in the soft summer air. Everything is so alive.

  ‘It seems you have brought your own enemy with you, Mr M’, I say. ‘Rest assured I will do whatever I can to protect you from now on.’

  After a small hesitation, Mr M submits gracefully, if not even pleasurably, to the ministrations of my widowed mistress further inside the house. I leave him to it, for I have seen the flash of metal that signifies the safe retreat of the other shooter who really hit his target.

  I will have a photograph of Mr M and myself, shaking hands companionably at this seemingly obscure but perfectly verifiable location. The bang of the revolver perfectly masked the smaller explosion from the camera hidden in the decorative hedge.

  Of course Mr M was perfectly safe. I would not wish for anything to happen to him, and certainly not now. The photograph is just an insurance policy. Besides, I am a man in a vulnerable position. It is only right that Mr M should be reminded of his own vulnerability, too.

  The photographer is also a gifted young man. He is of course no other than young Spencer himself who has been extremely busy these last 12 hours in the service of our enterprise. He should be rewarded. And he will be. His mother will get a handsome sum of money.

  After Mr M and his entourage are safely seen off together with, of course, the valuable painting (his men have protected him from precisely nothing), I decide to spend the night. The widow is at first delighted, then almost overwhelmed by the intensity of my exertions and attendant demands in the bedroom. The invisible companion must be getting quite an earful.

  The papers later report that Mr M was, indeed, attacked by an anarchist. In his own garden in New York, a city he never left all summer, according to the papers.

  I take that as a confirmation of our business partnership.

  ***

  And so we come to the famous photograph.

  No, it is not of the Other Mr M in the widow’s garden. Although as it happens, that picture is also well known, albeit without the name of the photographer attached to it. A version of it was published in the New York Times a few days later, with a capture that suggested it was taken in New York, and it shows just the great banker himself. My own image was most skilfully erased. Thus the Other Mr M was able to perform the unenviable feat of being on both sides of the Atlantic at once.

  It was a clever ruse, a true gesture of power, and o
ne that I might have thought of myself.

  However, I did not. The photograph that should have remained in my possession had wandered into his.

  Young Spencer assured me with tears in his eyes that he had nothing to do with it. His mother implored me with tears in her eyes to believe him. But in that case, where is the negative? I gave them a day to produce it. They failed.

  Young Spencer has even less chance of surviving the trenches than the young sharp shooter who has since become a regular member of my entourage. Unfortunately, however, after failing to safeguard this picture, whether through negligence or perhaps yielding to monetary persuasion, the artist and photographer was no longer able to avoid the draft and get the opportunity to fight for his country, like a patriot.

  I let his mother keep the money. She will need it.

  No, the very famous photograph whereof I speak now was not taken in the hot London summer of 1915.

  It was taken in the trenches, only a few months later.

  A line of soldiers marches against a cloudy horizon. They are tired and dirty, and their weapons damaged by battle. The picture is simply composed, but it says everything. Each of these young men is walking slowly to his death. And they know it.

  Young Spencer did actually not die that day. He lived long enough to take this picture and the next, showing an improvised ‘splatter mask’ worn by those who ride our tanks, welded together in the field from metal sheets and body armour.

  Young Spencer’s war photography has already acquired legendary status. I would not be surprised if the Other Mr M had at least a print hanging in his art gallery. Or perhaps he owns the negatives, too.

  The negatives that were found, still undeveloped, on young Spencer’s body in a blood soaked trench only a week later.

  He died for King and country.

 

  ***

  Emmeline has no offspring while I have many children.

  Not that I know any of them, personally.

  Apart from my relationships with women like the suburban widow who know how to take care of themselves (and occasionally of others), I never sleep with a woman more than once. It’s a solid business principle for a man in my position, and it is also my personal inclination.