What I failed to mention to Holmes, but which was of great significance to me, was: with Germany arming its navy, Great Britain was obliged to follow suit. Investing in arms remained lucrative for me. Investing on both sides, that is.
Sarajevo, 27 June 1914
In spring 1914, I travelled to Belgrade in my capacity as unofficial representative of the largest British arms manufacturer. Officially, I was there to supply the Serbian army with Maxim machine guns. In reality, it was about something else entirely. A group of Serbian nationalists had planned an assassination attempt on the Austrian heir to the throne, who was expected for a visit in Sarajevo at the end of June. Sarajevo was the capital of Bosnia. Bosnia belonged to Austro-Hungary. The plan was precarious. Apparently, there was a lack of guns.
Assassins without guns are, of course, ludicrous. In order not to endanger the project, I offered to provide the gentleman with suitable weapons. It was said that they would be three to four people. Just to be on the safe side, I promised to bring five pistols. Naturally, I knew that the connection between the assassins and the Serbian government was ideal to conjure up a larger conflict. If this came to light, a war was unavoidable, and – due to the existing treaty obligations – Russia, Germany, France and England would have to intervene.
On 26 June, I took the train to Sarajevo. The following day, after dusk had fallen, I made my way to our agreed-upon meeting point. I had visited the graveyard in advance, so I did not have to search for long to find the grave of Bogdan Žerajić. Žerajić had been a student who had tried to shoot the Austro-Hungarian Governor for Bosnia and Herzegovina four years previously. He had fired five shots and missed. With the last bullet, Žerajić had shot himself.
Now, the men who wanted to shoot the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria the following day had met at this dubious hero’s grave. They were seven men, most of them very young. Some of them probably still went to school. Princip, for example. They all had primitive bombs from Serbia, and they had three revolvers in total, which they had also brought along from Belgrade. They talked too much and too loudly, just like schoolboys, who still had to convince themselves that their terrible plan might actually work.
I gave them four of my Browning pistols. The new model 1910, 9 mm, six shots. The fifth pistol was spare, so I kept that one for myself. I wanted to suggest that everyone fire a couple of shots to get used to the weapons, but it never came to that. All of a sudden, there was a shrill whistling sound. “A spy!” the lookout shouted.
“Where?”
“Over there!”
Several shots rang out. I disappeared discreetly. I was not keen on a night-time shootout with the police. If indeed it was the police. I was not too sure. Fact was that only the prospective assassins were firing their guns. And fact was, too, that every shot missed. The shadow the lookout had seen remained unharmed.
As I vaulted over the low wall at the rear end of the graveyard, someone cleared his throat quite close by. I plunged my hand into my jacket to draw my pistol, when I heard a familiar voice: “Come, come, Professor Moriarty, we wouldn’t want to shoot one another now, would we?” It was Holmes.
An hour later, we sat together at the bar of our hotel. “To be honest, I did not expect to see you here in Sarajevo,” I said.
“You should always expect me,” replied Holmes.
“Did you tail me?” I had taken good care along the whole journey to ensure that nobody was following me. At least I had thought I had.
“I did not tail you,” said Holmes. “I saw you alight from a taxi at Victoria Station in London, and I was curious as to what your plans were. I observed you for a moment and then drew my conclusions. It was quite simple: you bought your ticket at the station. That means that you are here neither on behalf of the British government nor on behalf of Vickers. You bought a ticket for Lüttich. And you are not someone who is interested in Gothic cathedrals. Therefore I knew that Lüttich was not your final destination. You wanted to travel on. For example to Herstal. Herstal lies just five kilometres away from Lüttich. And Herstal is home to the Fabrique Nationale d’Armes de Guerre.”
“I admire your astuteness.”
“As you are travelling with two large trunks, I knew that you did not want to stay in Lüttich either. Your large pieces of luggage indicated that you wanted to travel to a place where the necessities of life are not always easily available. As you were not going by boat, but by train, I knew you were travelling somewhere inland. And as you are an expert on military equipment, the most likely destination was a place with a need for military equipment. The area with the greatest unrest on the continent is currently the Balkan.”
“But how did you know I would go to Sarajevo?”
“Again, simple. Your visit in Herstal had nothing to do with a larger arms order. Such orders are usually submitted by post. You bought weapons that can be easily stored in a travelling case. That eliminates rifles. Which means you bought pistols. FN produces one of the best pistols in the world, the Browning.”
I confirmed that I had indeed bought Brownings.
“Now, the Balkan has seen a number of wars in recent times, but it seems that the era of wars is currently taking a break. However, the territories occupied by Austro-Hungary are in a state of upheaval. Bosnia, for example. And at the heart of all the unrest is, logically, the capital of Bosnia: Sarajevo.”
“You followed me after all.”
Holmes shook his head. “I travelled ahead. As I knew your destination, I took the shortest connection via Paris and waited here at the hotel for you. I was sure that you, too, are no friend of bedbugs and lice and that you would therefore stay at the best hotel in the city.”
“Perfect deduction, as usual. But why are you here? Surely not to show off your superior wit?”
“I am here to remind you of our agreement. Our aim is to ensure stability. Peace. We both signed a contract. But what you are doing here will not bring peace. You are supporting terrorists, murderers. You are playing with fire, Moriarty. If the assassination attempt succeeds, there will be war.”
“Yes, probably. But we are well armed, thanks to your and my relentless work. And if war does indeed come, we will win. Don’t forget that. And a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.”
Holmes shook his head. “That is cynical. There could be thousands of deaths.”
“Thousands? Hundreds of thousands, my dear Holmes! But the higher the number of victims, the greater the deterrent effect for the following generations. This will be the greatest war the world has seen, but at the same time this will be the last war ever. This is the war to end all wars.”
It was clear that Sherlock Holmes did not believe me.
“You are a pessimist,” I said.
Holmes threatened to sabotage the attack. But of course he had no chance. Me included, there were seven men who wanted to start a war. And just one man who wanted to stop it.
“What do you want to do?” I asked. “We have positioned six men in different places. Each one has a bomb and a gun.”
“They are inexperienced men.”
“That does not matter. If each of them fires their six shots, there are thirty-six bullets flying at the Archduke. And then there are the bombs. Don’t you, too, dear Holmes, believe that even the most resistant Archduke will be finished after thirty-six shots and six bombs?”
Holmes shook his head. “You may have worked out the dynamics of an asteroid, but you have no idea of the dynamics of an assassination attempt.”
I hate to admit it, but Holmes was right. The first assassin did nothing. He simply let the motorcade pass. The second assassin threw his bomb wide. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth assassin did nothing at all when the Archduke passed them on his way to the town hall. The chance was lost. The peace remained intact. Most unfortunate.
After lunch, I sat in front of the delicatessen Moritz Schiller near the Latin Bridge, brooding over the morning’s events. At the table ne
xt to mine sat Princip, drinking a cup of coffee. The failed assassin was lost in thought and did not recognise me. And then, something unexpected happened.
“They are coming,” someone shouted.
I looked up. Indeed. The motorcade was returning from the town hall, and they were turning into our street. There was the archduke, there was his wife, and there was Holmes on the footboard of the car. I looked at Princip. He sat as if paralysed in his chair and stared at the archduke. And then the archduke’s chauffeur stopped. The motorcade had taken a wrong turning and needed to go back. The car had to be turned and had halted right in front of us. Finally, Princip reacted. He suddenly sprang to his feet, tore his pistol from his pocket, ran towards the car and fired at close range. There was nothing Holmes could have done to stop him. But Princip had missed and hit the archduke’s wife instead. Everybody jumped up. As did I. But, while most people just screamed and ran away or scrambled towards the dying woman, I simply stepped on to my chair, calmly drew my Browning and fired a shot over the heads of the crowd. My shot fell simultaneously with Princip’s second shot. I hit, whereas Princip’s bullet went wide. I pocketed my pistol again. No one had noticed me. I paid for my coffee and walked away unchallenged.
We don’t know what happened then. Fact is that my grandfather travelled back to London via Paris the following day. Sherlock Holmes also returned to England. He was last seen alive on 2 August 1914, when he was able to arrest the German spy von Borck together with Watson. Shortly after that, the great detective must have died. After this date, James Moriarty was also never seen again. Maybe they killed each other during their last encounter in Sussex or Sheffield. Today, there are over 1,500 Moriartys in Great Britain, but none of them is a direct descendant of my grandfather.
But if Sherlock Holmes was right and my grandfather was indeed the mysterious Basil Zaharoff, of whom there is no photograph, then he must have survived the war. He did excellent business and was even made Grand-Officier de la Légion by the French president. He was also awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Oxford and lived happily and in good health until his end on 27 November 1936.
As we all know, my grandfather’s dream of a terrible war to end all wars did not come true. After this spectacular failure, my father thought it prudent to change our family name. So, don’t be surprised when this article’s author is not called Moriarty. Or indeed Zaharoff. Us Moriartys / Zaharoffs are everywhere, even if we sometimes go by a different name.
Of course we also moved to a different address. We always go where there is good business. For example, in Germany. Germany is the world’s third largest arms exporter. So, if you are in need of tanks, submarines or helicopters, please do not hesitate to contact us. We would be happy to help you get the necessary export papers. If you want peace, you need to be strong. And you do want peace, don’t you?
Translated by Ann-Kathrin Ehlers
The Modjeska Waltz
Rose Biggin
From the private papers of Irene Adler. Undated; from its tone, possibly intended for posthumous publication. It is in that hope, in any case, that we reproduce it here.
My first and most intriguing adventure with Professor Moriarty was – in more than one respect – an elaborate dance.
Shortly after the affair I note Dr Watson refers to as a ‘scandal’, although it had been nothing of the kind from my perspective, I found myself travelling the Continent. It was a pleasure to do so, and enabled me to put the unfortunate fire in my London lodgings far in the past. On the occasion the professor entered my awareness, I had dabbled in reprising my position at the Imperial Opera of Warsaw. Although I declared myself perfectly content with minor roles and chorus parts, I had been coaxed into accepting first a single solo aria, and then a full prima donna position. Indeed, by the time a grand tour took me back to London and Moriarty sought me out, it had become rather difficult to enter my dressing room for the sheer density of roses. Such is the life of a performer of my calibre.
It came to me via the usual routes for society gossip, tipping out of the opera boxes down to the ‘merely players’ on the stage below, the news that the King of B— was organising a ball for his son, to be held in the city; and it was perhaps due to my prominence as the Countess of Figaro that season that I was presented with a gilt-edged invitation. I make no claims on my vanity as an actress (or, indeed, as a dancer) as to why the professor called upon me. Neither did he wish to accompany me to the ball for the chance to dabble in society. He hinted towards the fact that he and I were the only two minds ever to best our mutual friend, and that this was the reason for seeking me out, and not attempting to gain entry to the ball another way. This did flatter me, I confess. But I have reason to believe, in the cold mist of dawn, that even this was only a front for obtaining an invitation.
I was in my dressing room shortly after a performance of Mimi, given to great acclaim, although La Bohème does not, artistically, stretch me. A boy brought me a visitor’s card – and although I have thought at length upon it since, I cannot now remember why I chose to pay attention to this card in particular, as so many came my way. Perhaps it was the lack of embarrassing praise, confessions of love, poetic follies, amateur drawings. No, only a request to meet, the naming of a respectable tea house in a fashionable part of London quite far from the theatre, a table number (most intriguing!) and a time. And a coat of arms, which I did not at first recognise. I was curious – perhaps the first moves of the dance between us were being felt out, even then. I told the boy to return to the giver of the card with the news that I agreed to the meeting. After that I was preoccupied with rehearsals and fending off would-be paramours until the appointed date.
The tea house my mysterious companion had chosen was one known for its discretion. Young men hovered around the edges ready for any reason they might be needed, while remaining distant enough that the diners could maintain their privacy. I arrived approximately seven and a half minutes late (as is my wont) only to find the reserved table empty, but, as soon as I had announced my name to the maître d’ and been seated by the window, a cream tea was set before me.
‘I do apologise for the mistake,’ I said, ‘but I have not placed an order.’ I did not wish to deprive the cream tea’s true owners of their afternoon delicacy.
‘No, ’s definitely for this table, miss,’ said the serving boy, as he placed the jam and milk down. ‘Sir says you are welcome to start, miss.’ Only a slight quiver to his hands betrayed his nervousness; new to the role, perhaps. ‘He said to say he’ll b-be with you anon.’ I recognised the stutter over a learnt line.
I thanked the boy – my companion’s impudence was not his fault – and decided to pour my tea. A moment passed which I spent gazing out of the window, before a silver-topped cane passed by my place and, within another moment, a gentleman was sitting opposite me.
He wore a topcoat whose slight shabbiness belied its original expense, and when he removed it I noticed that his grey suit, as fine as it was, was fraying at the edges. The chain of a pocket watch glinted from his velvet waistcoat, and the silver-topped cane was placed gently down, against his chair, frequently toyed with and never out of his reach. The overall impression was of a man who rarely attended such a social event as afternoon tea, although he could afford to do much more.
‘Do I have the pleasure of sitting opposite the great Irene Adler?’ he cried. I nodded, and any nervous tension he was carrying disappeared to be replaced by an eager courtesy that belied his years. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I do beg your pardon for my lateness; a measure to determine that I would not be surprised by … any unexpected guests.’ As I was not fully acquainted with the professor’s criminal reputation at this point, this struck me as only mildly eccentric – not justifiably cautious!
‘And you are?’
‘Oh! I do beg your pardon.’ He stood and leaned over awkwardly to shake my hand across the table – thus compiling a baffling set of social inadequacies that m
arked him out as a professor more readily than the chalk marks on his lapel ever would. ‘James Moriarty, at your service,’ he said.
‘And what brings you to request the pleasure of a cream tea in this particular establishment?’ I said. ‘It is beyond the salary of a poor actress. I imagine also that it is outside of the usual range of experience for a scholar.’
‘I am attempting to establish a social life,’ he said, and gave a nervous laugh that showed he recognised – and respected – my correct deduction of his profession. (Although it was, of course, only half correct.) He then contradicted his stated desire for sociability: ‘Madam, I shall get straight to the point.
‘I have a great interest in the musico-social event that has been recently announced in honour of the Prince of B—. An impudent whelp, by my reckoning, to require his father to throw a ball so that he might reveal himself before everyone like a society debutante.’ He checked his annoyance, and continued. ‘In any case, the event is to be hosted by George Frederick St Clare, the King of B—, one month from today. I do not need to outline these facts to you, of course, as from what I have seen of the society pages, you will be gracing the occasion yourself.’
I nodded. It was a novelty for a man to be so forthright about the extent of his prior research.
He continued: ‘I have invited you here, then, if I may put it bluntly, to beg you to attend with me as your guest.’
This surprised me – I have rarely known such bluntness, and was not expecting such an assertion from a man who seemed to be all elbows, and visibly desperate to return to his inkwells, or his abacus, or some such environment, not a ball for the highest of society. (I still had the man in mind as a shuffling, shy academic at this point, I confess.)
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 58