by David Marcum
The first, a Mr. Jonathon March, a banker who had a case of sticky fingers and decided he’d wanted to start pocketing some of the money from his bank’s safe, had been found dead in his home. Nothing from his residence had been stolen, but a single bullet had pierced his chest, straight through his heart.
After March had neglected to show up for his appointment, Moriarty decided to pay him a visit, because people did not back out on their appointments with him without consequence. When he arrived, he saw a swarm of policemen at March’s residence and turned back, not wanting to get himself involved in a police matter in which he didn’t control all the players. In the evening paper, he read of the murder, and though such a thing could be discounted as a coincidence, after having just survived an attempt on his own life, it didn’t seem likely.
His assailant was clearly still on his tail and watching him close enough to know with whom Moriarty did business. Yet, why kill one of his clients? Beyond the minor inconvenience of it, Moriarty cared little for their lives, and the loss of money from March’s business was minimal.
He shrugged it off as a desperate attempt on the soldier’s behalf to rile him, and continued on as usual, instructing Turner to keep following him in case the soldier decided to show himself again.
Then, his next client was murdered three days later, and another two days after that. The papers started calling it the work of a deranged killer, though they were unable to find any connection between the murders. Each man was killed with a single shot through the heart, without any other assault or robbery of his person and an absolute lack of evidence as to who had done it.
It was starting to become... inconvenient. One murdered client didn’t bother Moriarty overmuch, but if the murders continued, it would be only a matter of time until a connection between the men led back to him, and word would get around that anyone who hired him wound up dead.
Not to mention that the police, even as incompetent as most of them were, would eventually find the connection, and while he had Turner in his pocket and didn’t doubt his ability to find weaknesses in the others to bend them to his will, it would take an amount of effort in which he did not wish to partake.
As ambitious as he was in things that interested him, he didn’t appreciate feeling as though someone else was forcing his hand, and as Turner was proving worse than useless as a tail, Moriarty decided to approach this from a different angle. It was about time he did something to draw the solider out.
First thing the next morning, he invited Turner in and gave him a rundown of their new goal, before walking him to his door to dismiss him. He waited until the Inspector was on his doorstep in plain view of the street before arranging his features into his a scowl; brows knitted together, dark eyes narrowed in cool dissatisfaction, mouth curled into a sneer, as he informed the Inspector in a clipped tone, “Since you’ve been unable to find the man who attacked me, I have no choice but to relieve you from your duty.”
Turner gave a nervous jerk of his head, Adam’s Apple once again bobbing as he swallowed reflexively in fear. The sheer terror on the man’s face amused Moriarty. Though this playacting was part of his plan, the Inspector looked genuinely terrified at Moriarty’s cold fury.
When Turner spoke, his voice was hesitant and wheedling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moriarty. I’ve been following you day and night as requested. I just haven’t seen anyone that I’d consider suspicious, I-”
“I’m not interested in your excuses,” Moriarty interrupted. “I made myself quite clear when I told you what I expected.”
Turner’s pallour faded almost to Moriarty’s own near paper white tones. “Yes, but-”
“No.” Moriarty gave a jerk of his head, cutting off any more excuses before they could issue from the Turner’s lips. “I believe I told you what the price would be for your failure.”
Turner’s eyes widened. “Please, sir, don’t hurt my family...”
Moriarty watched the man dispassionately, tilting his head to one side and then the other slowly, stretching his neck out. “Then catch my assailant, Inspector.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small leather-bound appointment book and handing it to the other man. “In here you’ll find the addresses of my clients and the dates of our appointments. Catch this man before he can kill another one of them. You have twenty-four hours.”
He watched Turner take the book and then continue standing there, gripping it so hard that his blunt nails left small indents in the leather.
“Well? Off you go,” Moriarty prompted, jerking Turner into action again.
He gave a start and then nodded, pocketing the book. “I won’t let you down again,” he promised, fitting his hat on and all but fleeing from the house.
“See that you don’t.” Moriarty smirked, watching him hurry off, before stepping back and shutting the door after him with a decisive click. Everything was going to plan so far. He’d just hoped the soldier had been lurking out of sight to witness that performance.
Most people’s motives, Moriarty found, were easy to suss out - greed, malice, simple stupidity - they all drove men to act in ways that were tiresomely predictable, and this soldier of his was no different, he assumed. Greedy, yes, as he’d likely been hired to do this job and was therefore motivated by money. Malicious? Perhaps. The pattern of the bullets made for a quick death, and the use of a rifle meant he preferred to work from a distance, though Moriarty assumed that to be from his military training more than from any preference to not get his hands dirty.
As for stupidity? There’d been a surprising lack of it, thus far. The man had been careful not to get himself caught by police, nor noticed by Turner, and he’d been patient enough not to fire off another shot at Moriarty too soon after his failed first time.
Truth be told, he was the sort of man who Moriarty wouldn’t mind having in his employ himself. Though Moriarty relished in his own intimidation tactics, usually needing little more than a few discrete, well- placed threats and a narrowing of his eyes, even he could admit that sometimes more drastic measures had to be taken. Having a trained muscle that was proficient with a gun had its advantages.
It really would be a pity for his assailant to be shot as Moriarty’s plan came to fruition, but sometimes these things couldn’t always be planned for. He was perfectly willing to pull the trigger if he deemed the man unreasonable after having a proper chat, but first he had to lure him in. Getting rid of Turner had only been the first step. Now to put the rest of the plan in motion
The soldier hadn’t shot a single person in public thus far, preferring to take them down in their homes. As his first long range attempt had failed, Moriarty could only assume this time it would be something a little more close and personal.
So, to give the man time, Moriarty left his home quickly as if he had business with which to attend, immediately setting off for Regent Street. In his purported haste he neglected to turn the lock on his front door. If this soldier were to break into his home to await his return, he’d much rather there be as little destruction upon his property as possible. He didn’t fancy another boarded up window.
Once on Regent Street, he allowed himself to get lost in the flow of pedestrians clamouring in and out of shops. His upper lip curled in distaste at the mass of swirling humanity around him; the cacophony of voices, the clomping of horses’ hooves as carriages passed by, and a squeaking out-of-tune piano-organ ground by a boy looking for change. The boy gained nothing but a withering look from Moriarty as the professor passed by him.
A glance to his pocket watch told him it was barely nine in the morning; if this soldier were any sort of criminal at all, he’d surely wait until nightfall to make his move. He had hours upon hours to waste before then.
While it had been his plan to lose himself in the press of bodies along Regent Street, making it impossible to murder him without someone seeing, he quickly found being amo
ng that many people intolerable.
Surely, risking a bullet to the chest would be preferable to being amongst that much constant braying humanity, and after barely an hour he’d returned to Conduit Street once more, heading for Saunders, Otley & Co., a circulating library not too far from his home.
In addition to frivolous dramas and works of poetry, the library also had a large collection of practical and scientific texts. The professor whiled away the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon reading up on the management and keeping of bees, while pondering just how many stings it would take to overload a man’s body, forcing it to shut down. It would be a waste for the bee to die as well, however inefficient insects that they were. He made a mental note to research the keeping of wasps instead.
When it was approaching dusk, he ate at a local pub before checking his pocket watch once again and meeting Turner outside. At precisely their agreed meeting time, Turner made his way through the crowd, a subdued expression making his cornflower blue eyes appear dull.
“Hello, Mr. Moriarty,” he inclined his head in greeting. Despite his many shortcomings, at least he was punctual. That was a trait Moriarty valued highly. Men who kept him waiting tended not to live long.
“Mr. Turner,” Moriarty answered, voice cool. “I take it you’ve brought the cuffs I requested?”
Turner nodded, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat to pull out a set of silver handcuffs. He produced a small revolver as well, which he dutifully handed over to Moriarty.
After a cursory glance, Moriarty slipped both items into the pocket of his own coat and then shrugged the garment off, handing it over to Turner along with his top hat. Turner followed suit and soon Moriarty pulled on the other man’s coat, looking down in brief distaste at the poor quality of the fabric compared to that which he was used to. He nodded for Turner to lead the way while he kept back at a discrete distance.
The plan was simple enough; Moriarty was banking on his assailant waiting for him in his home, and though Turner lacked Moriarty’s tall, slim stature, in the poor light, Moriarty assumed the soldier would mistake Turner for him. Once the solider made a move, Turner would disarm and cuff him. He had explicit instructions not to fire upon the soldier unless absolutely necessary, but it would be foolhardy to not at least have brought a gun in preparation.
Moriarty watched Turner’s back as they walked in silence toward his home; the professor taking care to keep well back and into the shadows. Turner walked up to his front door, opening it as if he were the owner of the place and stepped inside.
Moments later, Moriarty saw the light in his library shine through the curtains; Turner obviously had lit the gas lamp once he was inside. All was silent and he resolved to give the Inspector a few minutes before approaching the house himself to see how he was getting on. As soon as the thought had entered his mind, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot pierced the air.
Moriarty’s head snapped up in attention. He hurried toward the house, hoping that Turner had been wise enough to follow his instructions. Had he killed the soldier before Moriarty himself could get his hands on him, there would be consequences.
As Moriarty’s hand reached for the doorknob, he saw it turn before he could grasp it and the door was pulled open from the inside. The gestured revealed a man a bit shorter than himself but nearly twice as wide, compact with solid muscle. The man’s sandy blond hair was cut in a short military style and smoothed down with wax, and he had a bushy moustache the same colour; it twitched as his lips pulled up into a smile. The gesture of amusement didn’t reach the man’s hard green eyes.
“Professor,” he addressed Moriarty, stepping back so Moriarty could enter. “You’ve proven difficult to hunt down.”
The smell of gunpowder was pungent in the air. Behind the soldier laid Turner, a spreading red stain across the front of his vest, soaking into his white cotton shirt. He drew in a shallow breath, moaning as he exhaled.
Moriarty’s eyes slid from Turner’s body on the floor back to the solider and he stepped inside. The man was still holding his military issue Webley revolver, though Moriarty just tilted his chin up in defiance, unafraid.
“And you’ve proven a nuisance,” he answered dispassionately, stepping over Turner. “How disappointed you must be that you’ve still not taken me down. I’ll bet your employer is most displeased.”
The soldier laughed, raising his gun at Moriarty. “What makes you think I won’t shoot you right now and be done with it?”
Moriarty watched the silver muzzle of the revolver point directly at his chest, though if he felt any sliver of fear it didn’t show on his face. He just slowly tilted his head from one side to the other, stretching his neck out in his usual serpentine movement. “You could,” he agreed, “But then you’d never hear my business proposition, and you’d be the poorer for it.”
He watched the soldier cock his weapon, finger sliding to the trigger, though the man then hesitated a beat and Moriarty took advantage of the hesitation, adding, “I’m not sure what your employer has told you about me, but just by this brief meeting, I can gather a few things about you. Judging by your posture and the type of weapon you carry, you are a military man. Your skin is far too tan for someone who has spent much time recently in London, which means you’ve been abroad. Perhaps in Kabul, the Battle of Sherpur? Yet your decision to dabble in crime is a curious one. Maybe you’ve been recently discharged and found yourself unsuitable for a life which doesn’t include wielding a gun.”
As Moriarty spoke, the cruel, self-satisfied smile slid from the soldier’s face, to be replaced with a look that was first weary, then begrudgingly bordering on awe. “You’ve deciphered all that from just looking at me?”
Moriarty inclined his head in agreement. “I have. Yet I find one thing about your methods very curious.”
Despite the look of awe on the soldier’s face, his revolver didn’t waver from Moriarty’s chest. “And what’s that?”
“If you’ve been hired to kill me, what purpose did the murder of my clients serve?”
The soldier’s smile returned, and he let out a hearty laugh as though Moriarty had just told a particularly funny joke. “That, Professor, was just for my own amusement. You’ve proven more difficult to get to than I’d planned, and instead of trifling with the Inspector tailing you, it was far more entertaining to follow home the men you had meetings with and dispatch of them. I knew you’d eventually grow tired of the damage it was doing to your business and try to lure me out.”
He let out another small chuckle, shaking his head, “It was quite a nice touch with the Inspector wearing your overcoat as well. Perhaps a lesser man might’ve fallen for the gag, but I recognised his gait the moment he walked up to your house.”
As if on cue, another moan of pain issued from Turner on the floor. Without taking his eyes off Moriarty, the soldier turned his revolver on the Inspector, delivering a fatal shot.
The heartlessness of the action impressed Moriarty, as did the soldier’s cleverness. Though he clearly wasn’t as good at reading people as the professor himself, he was a great deal smarter than most men Moriarty employed. Moriarty could use someone skilled with a gun, since Turner was now no longer drawing breath.
“I have to commend you on your work,” Moriarty told him. “You’re far from the first man hired to take my life, but out of them all, you’ve got the closest.”
“Closest?” The solider echoed with a raise of his brows. “My good sir, between the two of us I’m the only one with a weapon in hand and I’ve just ended another man’s life. Whatever makes you think that I won’t be successful in ending yours?”
It was a fair point and a lesser man might’ve conceded defeat and started to beg for his life, but Moriarty was not a lesser man. He only watched the solider intently, reaching up to remove the top hat he’d not had the chance to divest himself of earlier, what
with the commotion he’d met upon entering his home. His overcoat was shed next and he took his time, drawing out the silence between them. He enjoyed the way the soldier’s attention never left him as he waited for Moriarty’s reply.
Whether the man realised it or not, he was already in Moriarty’s thrall, and when Moriarty felt the tension in the room increase to such a level that the solider was about to speak again, Moriarty opened his mouth to reply. “I suppose you would be successful in your objective, if that’s what you so choose, but you’ve just killed someone of use to me, and as such, a job opening has become available.
Whatever the solider had been expecting him to say, that clearly was far from the mark. He gaped at Moriarty, brows rising again this time nearly to his hairline. Slowly, he lowered his gun to his side. “Are you telling me you’re looking to hire me?”
“I am,” Moriarty confirmed.
“What makes you think I’d betray my boss to work for you?” he scoffed, though he didn’t raise the gun again.
This time, Moriarty didn’t even pretend to draw out the silence before answering. He already knew he’d won. The solider having lowered his gun was as good as a yes already. “It’s steady work, and whatever you’re currently being paid, I’ll double it.”
The solider stood motionless for a breath, thinking it over before slipping his gun back into its holster.
Moriarty added, “You can start by disposing of the Inspector’s body. Then pay a little visit to your boss and bring him to me. Do we have a deal?”
He put out his hand to shake on it, like the start of all gentlemanly agreements. The soldier’s brows knitted as he looked down at that hand, as though shaking it would be akin to making a pact with the devil.
“I’ll even triple your pay, if you manage to impress me,” Moriarty added, and the man’s hand met his in a firm grip.