But that much could be said about many professional fields. No, there was more to this.
Others wouldn’t understand the unique connection, pondered Moriarty as he changed into evening dress. They wouldn’t see how beautiful it is.
The beauty lay in the slow revelation of the puzzle and the process of its solution; the careful evaluations of all components of the equation; solving one piece after another … It was a rigorous task, demanding patience and care. In applied mathematics, he would typically start with a problem, account for its variables and determine the outcome. Sometimes the work concerned numerous variables difficult to estimate, like his current work at the university. He had recently started working on a new task concerning the dynamics of an asteroid.
In crime, the procedure was a little different. He would start with the desired outcome and then determine the values of variables needed for it. They were much more complex to account for but it was feasible if he picked the problem carefully. He loved the process of thinking it all through, moving the invisible pieces on his imagined board. There it was – a passion stronger than for pure mathematics, stronger than anything else the world could offer.
Usually, he was the one to determine the parameters of the equation to his needs. Then, though with certain degrees of freedom, the result was the one he’d anticipated.
Not so now. He was a variable in someone else’s equation, a state he very much despised.
Patience, now. I’ll be playing their game a little while longer and then, when I deem it most useful, my variable shall become truly unpredictable. Then I’ll make it my equation.
He could learn a lot from it. And the sweet, sweet reward awaiting him if he succeeded …
In criminal enterprises, one could learn a lot from mathematics, even where hardly anyone would expect it. The binomial theorem, while interesting, was becoming a child’s exercise. Even its applications in combinatorics and various distribution functions, the principal points of Moriarty’s earlier academic work, were about as surprising for a professional as the statement that the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening for any layman.
So why try so hard to get one’s hands on a work presumably concerning the theorem? Moreover, work a few decades old and in all likelihood outdated?
One would need a unique kind of imagination to see the possible implications. Such as James Moriarty undoubtedly possessed.
The signs scattered through Bolzano’s documents suggested the existence of an ambitious extension of the good old binomial theorem, such that would make complicated and hardly attainable operations like accounting for all crime in a big city at least feasible if not easy or reliable. But the specifics … Moriarty longed to see the theorem more than anything else.
I wonder if Bolzano saw this implication too and therefore hid this particular manuscript of his. He surely wouldn’t destroy his own work, but hiding it would explain the rumors and indications and yet the absence of the document itself, Moriarty mused. It would become him. He seems to have been a very … honest man.
Honesty. It usually made for a good variable. It tended to be quite predictable.
A hired carriage, already bearing Zimmermann and his sister, stopped in front of the hotel just on time. The professor seemed a little distracted, while his sister gave “Herr Galbraith” her full attention. She had exchanged her previous dull dress for a blue evening gown, which suited her very well. Clad in it, she seemed a different woman. Even the wittiness of her conversation on the way to the theater managed to surprise Moriarty.
Sweet yet sophisticated perfume. Expertly applied face paint. Her behavior and movements – all balanced on the edge of appropriate and enticing. Hmm.
If he needed to get even closer to the siblings, he would know the way. For now, he always replied politely and laughed at her jokes, but made no sign of an advance whatsoever. Her brother didn’t seem to notice a thing. Moriarty felt a little relief when the opera finally started.
The performers were good and practiced, but mostly unremarkable. Only one of the chorus girls, almost still a child, caught the attention of his ear. He skimmed through the program to see her name. Hmm, Adler. Let’s hope to see more of her in theaters in the future.
The opera itself was good albeit not at all innovative. The Faustian legend seemed an infinitely deep well of inspiration for multitudes of artists. Their efforts amused Moriarty greatly. They were like crows picking at an especially fat corpse. But he had to admit the legend had had a certain appeal. Revealing the mysteries of nature and history – that was an admirable undertaking. So what if there had been a bit of devilish help? Moriarty fully approved of that; he only detested the awful moralistic ending.
He shot a brief glance to the Zimmermanns. The professor looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. In contrast, Eva seemed fully absorbed in the play. Her eyes gleamed as she stared at the singers.
Moriarty could imagine the music broken down to its frequencies and individual tunes, translated into equations; but the passion onstage and in the auditorium was something he understood from observation only. His passion lay far elsewhere.
When the final applause died down, Eva exclaimed: “Wasn’t it exciting?”
“A true masterpiece,” Moriarty agreed, with an awed expression. Though he felt that should he act like this much longer, his face muscles would start to twitch.
Eva gave him a long look, too long to be comfortable. He was already preparing some innocent reply when Zimmermann spoke. “Allow us to invite you for a glass of wine, Professor Galbraith. I’m sure you’re thirsty after the long performance.”
“Please forgive me but I won’t accompany you. I still have some work to do tonight.”
“If we get a carriage, we can at least take you to your hotel,” Zimmermann offered.
“You’re very kind, but I think I’ll walk. It is not too cold tonight and it’s the perfect opportunity to see the beautiful city at night.”
Eva looked disappointed that they would part already but said nothing.
The night truly was quite mild, given that it was late winter. At first, Moriarty considered going on a previously planned mission, despite his not ideal appearance. But, as he walked through the city as it was growing quiet, he soon noticed a strange presence behind him.
Am I being trailed?
He stopped in the middle of a bridge, seemingly looking at the panorama of the Prague Castle, only just noticeable in the dark but still magnificent. Actually he threw a sideways glance towards where he suspected his pursuer to be.
There: a shadow of a statue, and a part of it just a shade deeper than the rest. Now he was sure he was being followed.
He hadn’t taken his gun to the opera, only his walking cane with a blade inside. Perfectly sufficient, provided his opponent would not have a gun.
Should he confront the pursuer? He could gain much information from it – but he’d also give some away. No, he had better wait. He would give whomever was following him an innocent story to tell: how the man walked from the opera house back to the hotel and did not emerge until morning.
And so it would seem to any unsuspecting observer.
A shadowy figure emerged from the hotel kitchen’s window into an empty street plunged in darkness. When faint moonlight finally fell upon it, it revealed a gruff man in worker’s clothes and a shabby hat, which concealed most of his face. What could be glimpsed were a short unkempt beard and a large nose.
The figure walked swiftly through the city, like someone who knew every inch of it, and stopped before an old house in Mala Strana.
The face turned upwards. Moonlight reflected briefly from its bright piercing eyes.
Moriarty concluded that his surroundings really were deserted, and started working on the house door’s lock. It took his skilled hands only a couple of minutes to open it. He slipped inside and closed the door quietly.
The rooms he was interested in were on the third floor. A small office had resided
here for many years now; he’d checked on it before he decided on this small escapade.
The lock on the office’s door was even more ridiculous than the one downstairs. He entered and saw that Professor Bolzano’s old home had become a place of dereliction and decay. The office that occupied it now cared not for the crumbling plaster, creaking floor or draught coming from the old windows. No wonder, judging from the state of their own affairs: the desks and cabinets seemed about as tidy as Herr Zimmermann’s room at the university.
It was unlikely that the manuscript would remain hidden here, but he had nowhere else to start. He would check every loose brick, every plank in the floor, if he must.
He spent a few demanding hours turning the office upside down – and found nothing.
Despite telling himself that it was to be expected, that he only had to eliminate the most obvious possibility, James Moriarty felt the rage coming to him once again.
He looked around the room. He was certainly in no mood to tidy up after himself.
At least it may teach them to organize their work in some sort of system – even if only they would understand it, better than nothing.
Then it struck him. A system. A code.
Was it possible that he had missed something in Bolzano’s documents? Was he looking too superficially?
The prospect of going through the disordered pile again did not attract him, but hard work often bore fruit … He would try tomorrow.
But tonight he’d try to make use of other sources as well.
“Professor Galbraith! You look a little tired today. I hope you slept well.”
“I slept quite soundly, thank you. It must still be the travel,” Moriarty answered smoothly. He poured himself a cup of what they dared to call tea here.
In truth, he’d slept barely two hours. His excursion into the Prague criminal underworld, however, brought forth at least some results. There was a recent shift of status quo, some other player had entered the game and seized it firmly. The new king remained unseen, pulling the strings through his minions. His actions had made quite a splash, as the previously rival worlds of German and Czech criminals merged in some areas. What he’d heard that night truly left him wondering. Czech and Germans working together for a common goal. Efficiently, even, from what he’d learned. So moving. Had Moriarty been more inclined to displays of emotion, he might have shed some tears. Maybe state officials should consider building criminal enterprises as a way to bring together the ever-quarreling nations.
As it happened, he was not inclined to displays of emotion. Therefore, he only frowned slightly and noted the fact for later use.
It surprised Moriarty that there hadn’t even been any rumors about the new king’s identity. Was it possible that this mysterious figure had been the one to lure him here? But then he’d need to have access to Bolzano’s documents and at least a partial understanding of them …
Anyone from Zimmermann’s university department or with access to it could have gotten to the manuscripts. And Moriarty had a suspicion that Zimmermann, being as lax as he was, may have taken the precious papers home as well. His servants could have seen them too.
But who would find the signs he had spotted as well, and recognize their meaning?
He returned to going through the manuscripts, remembering where the spotted indications had been and trying to make more sense of them. When Zimmermann asked him to lunch, he politely declined.
He was left alone in the office.
Going towards Zimmermann’s despicable desk, Moriarty produced a set of small lock picks from his pocket. Chaotic as he may have been, Zimmermann didn’t leave most correspondence lying around, but, Moriarty noticed, put it in a desk drawer.
Click. The drawer opened readily.
He flipped through the correspondence. After a few letters, he understood why the otherwise reckless Zimmermann had paid attention to locking the drawer. He and a certain Josephine would undoubtedly find it most humiliating if their exchanges were made public. That would also explain his distractedness at the opera.
But petty human concerns like this were of no interest to Moriarty. He focused on the academic correspondence, notes from colleagues – and there was no match for the writing from his note, even taking deliberate alterations into account.
He closed the drawer and looked at the desk again. Could something have been left here? Ah, that pile: a few newer notices from colleagues, a note from sister, letters from Brünn and Vienna …
He almost failed to notice the approaching quiet steps. A second before the door opened, he put the pile back as it was and made a leap into the other room.
Just in time.
Eva Zimmermann entered, bearing a small basket. She stopped when she saw him through the open door between the rooms. “Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt your work, Professor Galbraith. I thought you were lunching with my brother. I … I brought him a snack for the afternoon.”
“Waiting for the moment he wouldn’t be here.” He nodded calmly.
A panicky expression flickered through her face. “Well, I … I meant to …”
He got up and walked slowly to her. “Just tell me the truth.”
She gave him a hopeless glance. He noticed she was wearing perfume and her day dress and jewelry were unusually ostentatious.
“H-Herr Galbraith, I d-don’t …” she stuttered.
“You thought you would find me here alone, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, her gaze firmly fixed on her toes.
“Well, I find this kind of attention very flattering from a beautiful and respectable young lady like you, but think of what others would say if they heard. You are a remarkable woman, Fräulein Zimmermann. Don’t let pointless rumor ruin your life. You deserve better.”
Now she was blushing to the roots of her hair. “Thank you, Herr Galbraith,” she managed. “That – that’s very wise of you. If you’ll excuse me now.”
She almost ran through the door.
Moriarty allowed himself a little chuckle and went back to work.
In spite of skipping lunch, he felt more energized than before. Absorbed in his search, he didn’t notice Zimmermann returning from lunch.
“Did anything happen while I was away?”
“Nothing at all,” Moriarty murmured, not taking his eyes off the old texts. Thus he spent the next hour, and the next …
… the theorem in reference … praying my work brings peace and understanding but so uncertain about this … pure mathematics, yet what others may do … if one prays to God, true and pure, where the Lord can see him, then he may know …
He stopped and almost broke into laughter. “I’m famished,” he said to the surprised professor. “Are you going to dinner?”
“Ahem, I’m very sorry, I have other plans for the evening though I could—”
“Do not worry, Professor. I will see you tomorrow!”
Or not, if I’m right, he added to himself.
Moriarty’s steps resonated in the empty church. It was long closed by now; however, he had means to enter places. He walked to the first carved bench, then knelt down as if to pray.
Where the Lord can see him …
There was a large statue of the Christ gazing down at his lambs. Moriarty moved a little to the right – yes, here. The statue seemed to stare right at him at this spot.
He began to fumble around the bench, hoping it hadn’t been replaced in several decades.
At the beginning of the century, Bernard Bolzano worked as a preacher at the St Salvator’s Church by the Clementinum. He’d been there for nearly fifteen years and remained a very pious man throughout his whole life. Where else would he turn to when hiding a work he considered dangerous in the hands of someone not as devout as himself?
Moriarty’s fingers found a strange shape under one of the carved ornaments, something that didn’t quite belong. He palpated it, pulled and pushed and, after a couple of minutes, it finally gave in. A small leather sheath fell out
into his awaiting palms.
Yes! He hid it here, this is it …
Once safely outside, he couldn’t resist opening the sheath and unwrapping the frail paper. There it was, before his own eyes: the lost theorem!
He had already packed, all that was left to do was to take his belongings and catch the late night train to Berlin, from where he would continue to England.
He took a little detour and then returned to his hotel. The door didn’t look as if it had been tampered with. It should be safe to retrieve his possessions. He unlocked the door, entered the dark room—
The door suddenly closed behind him and the light went on. “Stay where you are. Hands up and turn around slowly.”
He obeyed, and saw Eva Zimmermann, clad in a dark grey practical dress and aiming a Webley pocket revolver at him. “You don’t look surprised to see me.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
She smiled coldly. “What gave me away?”
“A simple mistake, truly. You left a note in your handwriting lying on your brother’s desk. It was most likely that someone close to your brother – or he himself – had sent me the note that had brought me here. Why would I fail to check on you, so deep in the circle of suspects? Just because you’re a woman? I never underestimate anyone based on superficial characteristics. But it surprises me you didn’t use someone else to write the letter.”
“This is my doing only. Who else would understand the importance of it? I cannot let anyone think I’m entertaining myself with useless pursuits. I worked hard to attain my current position.”
“So why risk it for an old document?”
“An old document?” she exclaimed. “I would never have expected to hear these words from you. Don’t you see its significance? Oh … I see. You just wanted to see my reaction, didn’t you? Good. Now hand it over.”
“I don’t have it on me. I hid it in the lining of my suitcase just after I found it earlier. I have to tear it again. If you’d allow me to use my knife …”
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 36