Holmes stared at him in disgust. ‘What about the rings, the dice, the jute with the dynamite?’
‘Oh, those were all real. I planted each and every one of them and you made the deductions that I knew you would. I anticipated the Griess test that you would do to conclude that dynamite was involved. As for the dice, well, I have been making a study of them, you see. All manner of crooked dice are used in my establishments, but I have been considering dice probabilities and looking at the American games of chance. I hoped that you would make the link with the game of craps. It was a test for you.
‘And the rings, well, that was a simple matter of obtaining a duplicate of Sanderson’s ring. It was given to him by the Church actually, not by a secret society. O’Donohue never wore one. I simply put it on his finger after he was eliminated and his body prepared with the little bundle down his throat. I congratulate you, since you followed that all up rather well. Of course, you didn’t realise that you were on a false trail being manipulated by me.
‘Which brings me to our irregulars. Would you be surprised if I told you that the urchin you rewarded with a guinea is called Alfie Decker. He has been very useful to me these last two years.’
Holmes picked up the whisky glass he had dropped and placed it beside the revolver. ‘But what was the purpose of this incredibly elaborate ruse?’
‘Partly to get rid of Sanderson without showing his organisation that I had anything to do with it. Sherlock Holmes would be the person responsible. Which may mean that they will have plans to seek revenge later, but that is an occupational hazard you are already well aware of, of course.’
Holmes stiffened in his chair. ‘You will hang for this, Moriarty. You are putting your neck in the noose with every little piece of information you give me.’
‘I think not, Holmes. You see, it is almost certainly you that will hang. After all of the information that Inspector Munro has been accumulating on you these past two years. So often you have gone beyond your remit as a detective, and you have taken it upon yourself to be judge and executioner as well. He has details of these cases. He has proof, eyewitnesses, physical evidence of all the crimes you have aided and abetted and committed yourself.’
The professor’s head oscillated again and his unblinking eyes seemed to enlarge, reptilian fashion, as if he was going in for the kill.
‘He has bank details of all of the stolen money, lost money and money defrauded from clients. And he has bank clerks who will swear that you had made those deposits in person. You see, you are quite a distinctive fellow. It was a challenge to emulate you, I admit, but as you yourself have seen these two years, I am fairly proficient at disguise and in sustaining a role.’
Holmes sneered. ‘All done with mathematical precision, I see. What is to stop me from tackling you here and now, eliminating you, as you would say?’
‘Firstly, with that arm you would be no match, I assure you. Secondly, if anything happens to me, the dossier falls into the hands of several journalists, who are in my employ already, as well as copies going straight to Scotland Yard. More than that, though,’ he said, draining his whisky, ‘at any time, Inspector Munro could be found dead, murdered, by Sherlock Holmes. Oh, I can arrange that quite easily. A body of the right height and weight can easily be found. How he was murdered would not matter much: a knife in the back, a slit throat or a bullet to the brain. His face would be eaten away by concentrated sulphuric acid, just like the supplies that you have on your chemistry table, which are supplied to you by Benson & Son of Tottenham Court Road. Together with the evidence that Munro had against you, it would be a certainty that you would be convicted and ignominiously executed for his murder. You have undoubted motive, as anyone can see.’
Holmes picked up his pipe and thumbed the bowl. ‘So when do you propose that this is going to happen?’
‘Oh, it will only happen if you choose it,’ Moriarty said, with an innocent smile. ‘If you decide to be sensible and back off, you are free to enjoy your consulting detective practice, accumulate more adulation and feed that enormous ego of yours. One step in my direction, however, or any interference with my organisation and you will be headed for prison and assuredly to the gallows. London is a large city, Holmes. You can ply your trade, just don’t come near my fishing pool.’
He stood and pointed to the violin case propped up against the wall below the bullet-pocked holes that spelled out V.R. for Victoria Regina.
‘By the way, you will not of course be able to play your prized Stradivarius for some time because of that wound. I do hope that you will be happy with the fiddle that I swapped for it. I purchased it at a market on the Old Kent Road for 1/6d. Consider it a reply to your removal of my painting La Jeune Fille à l’Agneau, by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. I had meant to tell you that there is one thing you need to be aware of. No matter how good your disguise, a man who continuously smokes the strongest, most foul-smelling of tobaccos as you do will always leave an odoriferous trail that is quite offensive and distinctive to those of us who do not partake of the habit.’
The bell rang downstairs.
‘Ah, I imagine that is Dr Watson, returning from looking after his uncle, to come and congratulate you on your latest success and get the background for his next tale to peddle to The Strand. I will take my leave.’
Moments later, Dr Watson opened the door and came in, travelling bag in hand.
‘Holmes! I’ve been reading the …’
He stopped, dropped his bag and held out his hand. ‘Munro! Congratulations to you, too, old man. Your country owes you both a great debt.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ replied Inspector Munro. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t stop, though. I have to get back to Scotland Yard.’
‘No, we mustn’t keep him,’ added Sherlock Holmes. ‘Watson, I know that you will be eager to know all about this trivial business that Munro and I have had the pleasure to work on together. We were just debating what title you would give it.’
‘I think we have come to an understanding, though, haven’t we, Mr Holmes?’
‘Indeed, Munro. Indeed. We’ll leave it up to the good doctor here.’
The Adventure of The Lost Theorem
Julie Novakova
Prague, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, 187–
A gunshot resonated through the narrow alley. In the quiet streets of the Old Town long after midnight, no other sound would be more shocking and out of place.
If any of the inhabitants of the old houses opened their window and looked out, they would see a young man running fast through the streets. He was wearing no hat or overcoat, though it was freezing and the pavement was covered in snow. If the accidental observer saw lamplight illuminate his face, they’d wonder if they hadn’t seen a ghost: so pale and thin had it seemed.
Had they been at the Franz Joseph railway station three days ago, they would have met him under very different circumstances and probably wouldn’t have remembered the encounter. They would see a rather thin, tall young man in an impeccable if somewhat boring clothing, with a simple yet elegant ebony walking cane. He had one of these unexceptional, hard-to-recall faces. Except for the eyes. A more astute observer would surely notice the slightly sunken grey eyes and their piercing stare. They would pigeonhole him as a high clerk or a man of learning – and in this they wouldn’t be wrong, as he’d been a mathematics professor at a small yet renowned English university.
What casual observers wouldn’t see was the blade concealed in the man’s cane, the small derringer resting between two shirts in his case and the Sheffield switchblade in his coat’s pocket. Those who would have seen any of these items probably wouldn’t be inclined to tell others about them, if only for the impracticality of conversing if you’re dead.
The man’s name was James Moriarty and, at this moment, his main concern would be avoiding this impracticality himself.
There was a quiet knock on the door. “Do you wish any refreshments, sir? Today’s newspapers?”
Moriarty
shook his head and the salesman left for another train car, searching for other compartments with lights on to offer his goods.
The sun hadn’t risen yet but James was up habitually early. A lot of his business tended to go on in the wee small hours of the morning, if not in the middle of the night. Luckily, he never felt the need for much sleep. Sleeping only kept you from more thinking – and thinking was what James Moriarty valued most of all.
He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket for a small folded piece of paper. This had been the reason he was sitting in a train going to Prague after all.
Dear Professor Moriarty,
I am writing you because it has recently found a way to my ears that Herr Robert Zimmermann in Prague uncovered information implying the existence of a certain Bernard Bolzano’s manuscript, previously thought to have been destroyed. The work in question is said to concern a rather unusual approach to the binomial theorem. I believe this to be of interest to you, sir.
Your sincere friend
Little could be derived from the letter. It had been sent from Prague and written in the plainest black ink on a plain paper, put in a completely plain envelope. The handwriting had apparently been altered, though if he were to secure a sample of a suspected author’s usual handwriting, he would surely recognize it. Otherwise, he had nothing except for one important fact. That someone had been very careful. Moriarty, in fact, expected that the letter had not been written by its real author, merely transcribed by someone else.
As for the self-described identity of the author: James Moriarty had no friends and did not believe in benefactors. Everyone followed their own agendas in the end. The secret of gaining power over others lay in knowing exactly what theirs were.
Now someone thought he’d known his agenda. Moriarty would gladly let them think that.
As soon as he found a decent hotel and checked the exit routes from his room, James Moriarty went to introduce himself to the Prague academic society.
After his university’s small town and London, Prague was a pleasant change. It was a smallish city by a Londoner’s standards but impressive nonetheless, much more interesting than the town he’d been living in these days. Under the city’s famous thousand spires, he walked toward the mathematics wing of the Faculty of Philosophy of the Charles-Ferdinand University. To get to Zimmermann’s office, he used an alias from a colleague from Edinburgh, certain that no one would know the Scot personally here, and a story remarkably close to the truth – that he heard the professor had been compiling Bernard Bolzano’s work and he’s interested in it. He had sent Zimmermann the note about his arrival yesterday, apologizing for such a quick notice. One day was still passable for an eccentric professor and not long enough for Zimmermann to start making serious enquiries, should it come to that.
Moriarty had developed a custom of not forming assumptions before having acquired the facts, but the first encounter with the renowned scholar surpassed his expectation nevertheless.
First glance into his office: a disorderly mess everywhere. Books lay open on the floor, table and spare chairs. A mug of what presumably had once been tea fulfilled the role of a paperweight. The papers beneath – full of sweeping handwriting not remotely resembling the anonymous friend’s letter – looked an incarnation of chaos.
Robert Zimmermann himself was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of dark hair greying at the temples, clad in what may have been fashionable here at least a decade ago. He spoke in fairly good English, albeit with a strong Teutonic accent: “Ah, Professor Galbraith, is it so? I received your note! I’ve heard a lot about you!”
I doubt it, Moriarty thought. Aloud he said: “And I’ve heard a lot about your work, Professor Zimmermann. Your accomplishments in both philosophy and mathematics are astounding and your work on uncovering Herr Bolzano’s manuscripts is commendable. I have been studying his Grössenlehre because some of my own work centers on the binomial theorem that he mentions there, albeit briefly, not having published possible other manuscripts on it …”
That much was true. But he had always taken an unusual approach to problems, unlike the real Galbraith or the present Herr Zimmermann. Their intellect, however impressive for most people, had been limited, short-sighted. Bernard Bolzano defied this stereotype, even though in matters of philosophy Moriarty disagreed with him without having to apply himself too much.
“Um, I cannot say I recall this particular area of your work,” Zimmermann began.
Moriarty just smiled indulgently and went on describing his alias’s fictional study while they drank tea – not what they would call tea in England, though. He took care to notice Herr Professor’s expression throughout the whole time and tweak the story accordingly. He saw that he had captured Zimmermann’s interest.
So very little is needed to beguile someone. Add a dash of appeal to their pride, a spoonful of shared interests, two slices of engaging questions …
“… but if I could see the original work, it would be such an honor for me—”
His version of Professor Galbraith was excited by the mere thought. Unfortunately, before Zimmermann could answer – and Moriarty was certain he would offer him to go through the documents – a knock on the door interrupted them.
“Come in,” Zimmermann said in German.
A young woman entered: a nondescript dark blonde in a nondescript greyish dress. Moriarty would presume her likely to be a secretary, but her manner suggested otherwise. Before he could read her more thoroughly, she spoke: “Oh, I’m sorry, Robert. I didn’t realize you had a visitor.”
“Don’t apologize, I announced my arrival rather late,” Moriarty said in deliberately badly-accented German.
Zimmermann recalled his manners. “Professor, this is my sister Eva. Eva, meet Professor Galbraith. He traveled here all the way from Edinburgh to learn more about my work on classifying my late mentor’s legacy.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Eva chirped.
“Likewise.” He produced another one of his wide repertoire of carefully practiced smiles: crafted for young ladies in polite society, garden variety.
She blushed a little. He looked down for a second, then his smile widened. He might need to get closer to the Zimmermanns later. Eva could be useful for that.
Her gaze lingered a second too long on him before turning to her brother. “I came because Josephine took ill and cannot go with us to the opera the day after tomorrow. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home and was nearby anyway, so …”
Late nights at the office, with this detestable tea and philosophical papers? Or does something else keep Herr Zimmermann?
“Thank you, dear. I’m sure I’ll think of someone else—” The professor suddenly looked at Moriarty. “Would you like to visit the opera with us? It would be my pleasure to show you our city’s culture as well as its intellectual enticements. They’re having Faust, it’s a truly good work, if you haven’t seen it yet. I would prefer to take you to Mozart, as is traditional, but we could always do that later if you’re staying in Prague for some time.”
Eva’s eyes shined. “Oh, Herr Galbraith, you must come!”
Moriarty waged quickly. He would miss an opportunity for a certain mission he’d been planning; on the other hand, it would do no harm to get to know the Zimmermanns better.
“It would be my honor.” He nodded.
* * *
His move may have earned him even more trust from Robert Zimmermann than the previous academic discussion. Practically without any encouragement, he offered Moriarty to come the next day and look through every piece of Bernard Bolzano’s unpublished manuscripts, provided he would discuss his findings with him without delay.
The filing of the documents was nearly as chaotic as Zimmermann’s office. Moriarty detested disorderliness. Just finding some sort of system in the papers took him a while. He could consider himself lucky he was a fast and observant reader with a keen memory.
But in the end, there was nothing. After two whole days of care
ful shifting through the fragments and unpublished manuscripts from dawn to well after dusk, not a thing even remotely resembling what he had hoped for. He found many indications that the presumed work had existed – most likely the information his unknown benefactor had mentioned. Yet nothing at all pointed at its fate now!
James Moriarty had been an ice-cold man for most of the time: rational, calculating, self-controlled. But, occasionally, he gave in to his temper. And when he did, he was capable of showing more fury than one would think imaginable.
Such a moment almost came now. But Moriarty would take the anger and melt it down to cold determination to find out: whether the manuscript in question had really existed, who was playing games with him and why.
Emotion was not the enemy of reason; one just had to learn to work with it properly.
He would go to the opera with the Zimmermanns tonight and apply himself to learn more about them. Had the professor been hiding something, playing some game? Or had he been what he seemed: the harmless little philosopher, unable to comprehend the true impact of his long-dead tutor’s works?
I feel like a chess piece on somebody else’s board, he thought derisively. He would find a way to look at the game as a whole. Then we shall see who wins.
* * *
What do mathematics and crime have in common?
A more fitting question would be what they don’t.
Hard work, self-control and a brilliant mind are necessary assets in both, should you be successful. Most people couldn’t even understand a simple derivative of a function. Most attempted crimes failed. Not spectacularly, not even a little bit interestingly, because there was nothing spectacular or interesting about them. They were as dull, small-minded and stupid as a child’s tantrum. Not thought through at all.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 35