The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “An interesting coincidence, sir.”

  Moriarty blinked slowly; clearly the porter’s thoughts ran along similar lines to his own. “Coincidence is but a function of probability, Hawes, not the workings of some supernatural agency.”

  “Indeed not, sir. But it chimes closely with your plans.”

  Moriarty turned the lampshade back to its regular position, partially releasing his face from its shadowy seclusion. “The voyage to Germany already booked for next week, you mean. Indeed, it is quite fortuitous.” Prior to their unification under the kaiser, the Germanic states had been little more than serfdoms ground under the boot of police oppression. Crime had been easy to uproot and crush. The burgeoning empire was, however, fresh-tilled soil for one with the right seed. A united country meant united criminality; the professor had long been planning an incursion into that nursery and cultivating his own peculiar vineyard.

  “Two birds with one stone, eh?” Hawes took up the portrait of the young woman from the floor.

  The professor grunted. “I have never considered it prudent to involve myself too directly with my contracts. From the lowest stews of London to the mandarins of government itself, I have agents at every level; agents upon whom I may call to act precisely as they are directed. But after last year’s Buckingham Palace humiliation, I wonder if I should not, on occasion, take upon myself direct leadership; especially when the prize is inordinate, the odds great.”

  “And the colonel?”

  “Moran has much ground to recover before I again entrust him with a major enterprise.” Moriarty allowed himself a dry chuckle. “Advise him of my imminent absence. He will recognise the opportunity to be once more reckoned an asset. And if he does not, well— Give him every assistance.”

  “You know that I will, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Moriarty glanced at the painting clutched in the porter’s hands. It was unfortunate that he must lose it, but the moment it became clear that ridiculous detective from London had recently gained access to his chambers, the item’s fate was irrevocable. It had been sheer hubris to hang the portrait in plain sight: any man with the slightest eye for art would know a Jean-Baptiste Greuze to be far beyond the plain income of a university professor. It was a rare error; one soon to be corrected – and never repeated.

  Moriarty sat with his untouched coffee pushed aside, carefully rechecking the column of figures in his notebook. It was a fine, cold day and outside the small kaffeehaus the Unter den Linden was sparsely populated. The professor was the shop’s only customer. He glanced up, eyes focused on something far beyond the window. To his right towered the Brandenburg Gate, but he was blind to its triumphalism.

  The shop’s door tinkled open, allowing in a breath of late winter air. Moriarty ignored the rotund, heavily swathed figure that entered, apparently oblivious to his presence even as he came to stand at the professor’s table.

  “A refreshing day.” The stranger spoke German in a dialect that suggested Vienna rather than Berlin. He removed his tall hat. “But not one for enjoying the boulevard, I think. The leaves of the Tilia are still little more than buds.”

  Moriarty took his gaze away from whatever he had been seeing, focusing instead upon the newcomer. The man’s round face was red from the breeze, framed by unfashionably long brown hair and a magnificent handlebar moustache. His black overcoat sported a thick astrakhan collar. He unbuttoned the coat, all the better to enjoy the kaffeehaus’s warmth.

  “It is certainly not a day to be abroad on frivolous matters,” replied Moriarty, his German flawless.

  “And the Kaiserreich is not the regime to encourage frivolity.”

  Moriarty closed his notebook, resting a hand upon its black cover. With his pencil he gestured for the newcomer to sit. “Thank you for coming, Herr Eisenerz.”

  “It is my pleasure, Herr Schiffersohn.” He summoned the waiter with a snap of fingers, ordering coffee, schnapps and a slice of chocolate cake. Drawing a large humidor from his coat he offered a cigar to Moriarty, who declined with a brief shake of the head. Once his smoke was lit to his satisfaction, Eisenerz asked: “So, what may I do for you?”

  “You have the reputation of being, shall we say … a facilitator.”

  Eisenerz smiled broadly and spoke around a vast plume of fragrant smoke. “I have contacts, if such is your meaning. It is true that I am able to—” he drew on his cigar “—ease introductions.”

  “Such was my understanding.” Moriarty recalled to mind an image of the column of numbers in his notebook. “My particular requirement is not an introduction, as such.”

  “Ask away.” Eisenerz’s order arrived. The segment of cake looked, to Moriarty’s eye, to encompass at least a forty-degree angle. “Ask away,” he repeated, feeding a generous forkful into his mouth. His eyes wrinkled in delight.

  “I require entrance into the Berliner Stadtschloss.”

  Eisenerz swallowed his morsel and washed it down with coffee. “My dear fellow, you may enter the Stadtschloss whenever you wish.” He took up his schnapps and drained the glass in one swallow, immediately signalling for another. He dabbed at his moustache, grin broadening. “But if I understand you, you will not wish to do so under normal circumstances.”

  “Your understanding is faultless, Herr Eisenerz.”

  The large man took another mouthful of rich gateau; Moriarty was content to let him play his game: he could be patient. “If you had come a little later in the year, this request would be so much easier. The Stadtschloss has been the Hohenzollern winter home for generations, and the kaiser is, in many respects, a man of tradition.” Eisenerz enjoyed another forkful. “Although with security understandably heightened it is still conceivable that a window may be accidentally left ajar or an open lock overlooked. I am certain that in such a place the staff are overworked and under-appreciated. Mistakes are inevitable.”

  “It is only human.” Moriarty opened his notebook at a fresh page and quickly wrote down a figure. Carefully he tore the page free and slid it across the table with a fingertip. Eisenerz glanced down, seeming to take little interest in what was inscribed there.

  “That is inordinately generous, Herr Schiffersohn.” He raised his coffee cup and some of the dark liquid splashed across the sheet, masking the numbers. “Ah. Clumsy of me.”

  Moriarty stifled a smirk, screwing up the wet paper and dropping it into the saucer of his own, now cold, coffee.

  Eisenerz’s second schnapps was delivered; this time the large man took his time, sipping thoughtfully. “I will not presume to ask why you need this done, Herr Schiffersohn, but I confess to being intrigued.”

  Moriarty relaxed against his chair. “There is an item I wish to procure.”

  Eisenerz devoured the last morsel of chocolate cake and drained his coffee. “That is no more than I expected.”

  For more than a decade, Moriarty had assiduously created a variety of aliases across the continent: names and reputations, costumes ready for him to don should the occasion arise. Let the vainglorious detective in London have his music hall disguises to complement the abductive reasoning upon which he so heavily relied. It was the price of the fame against which he so unconvincingly protested. The strongest disguise was anonymity. Just as in England Professor James Moriarty was a well-respected, if dull, professor of mathematics, in Germany Heinrich Schiffersohn was a less reputable but equally renowned collector of the strange and obtuse; a man for whom nothing might stand in the way of his desires. Already the European newspapers had reported the disappearances of eight priceless and outlandish objets d’art. All blamed on the mysterious Schiffersohn, and all equally fictitious. The professor had no intention of wasting time and resources on genuine thefts when a suitably outrageous lie would suffice.

  “The kaiser has come into the possession of a certain … item. His claim upon it is questionable. If the true owners became aware of this, the repercussions would echo across the globe. I intend to relieve His Imperial Majesty of the burden.”

>   Eisenerz smiled again. “And he can hardly report the theft of such a piece. I congratulate you: a masterly design.”

  “Thank you.” Moriarty noted that the man had failed to question how the fictitious Schiffersohn had been able to learn of this nonsensical item when the supposed owners had not.

  “But can you not wait until the kaiser is no longer in residence? It would be prudent.”

  “He takes it with him at all times. I must relieve him of it personally, as it were.”

  Eisenerz’s eyes grew as round as his face. “Audacious. Then I wish you luck, for I believe you will need it.”

  Moriarty’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “I am not an advocate of luck or chance, only probability and logic. All which is beautiful and noble is the result of reason and calculation.” On a fresh slip of notepaper he wrote an address. “This is the hotel at which I am staying.” He handed the page across. “The staff may be trusted. Once all of the arrangements are made, send word.”

  Eisenerz slipped the note into an overcoat pocket. He stood, taking up his hat and making a crisp bow. “A pleasure conducting business with you, Herr Schiffersohn.” Buttoning his coat as he went, Eisenerz left the kaffeehaus.

  “And you, sir.” Moriarty turned back to the page on which stood the column of figures. He crossed out the first number, delighted that he had predicted it so accurately.

  Although the hour was late, the household had not fully retired. Moriarty expected no less. As he strolled through the lowly quarters of the Stadtschloss – those dim and ignored corridors frequented only by the servants – he would occasionally pass a member of the night staff, hurrying by on some errand. He was rarely acknowledged, never challenged, perceived as just another dusty retainer going about his own business. The palace staff was numerous, frequently rotated with those from other state buildings; an unfamiliar face would not be unusual. Indeed he had been at greater risk of discovery beyond the building: both the Unter den Linden and Schlossplatz were still frequented by twowheeled droshkies and pedestrians enjoying the cold night air.

  It had taken Eisenerz a fortnight to report back, during which time Moriarty had surveyed the Stadtschloss and its environs at all hours and weathers, filling his notebook with figures, observations and timings. By the time the awaited message had been delivered, the professor was confident he knew the palace’s routine better even than the highest-placed member of the emperor’s household. A disaffected Serb agreed to leave a door unbolted, one far away from the streets and their attendant lighting. The man cared nothing for reasons – Germans were no better than Austro-Hungarians in his eyes, and deserving any ill that might befall them – only for the banknotes Eisenerz had pressed into his hand. It was a prudent and fortuitous choice: if chance should play a hidden trump, or the professor’s calculations contain an unlikely error, the Serb would be a convenient and logical scapegoat.

  Moriarty briefly consulted a map of the building, assuring himself of his position within its walls. He had to admit to a frisson of a kind he had not experienced since his formative years. Was this, he wondered, why that detective so frequently took what to the professor appeared to be foolish risks? Was he addicted to the excitement? The danger? Not for the first time, Moriarty regretted he had not himself attended to the disastrous Buckingham Palace contract: not only would his presence have likely ensured its success, he may even have enjoyed the hunt.

  The moment passed; he waved the thought away with an irritable flick of his hand and pocketed the map, lest another passing servant wonder why he should need it.

  The Emperor’s rooms were on the floor directly above him. Normal access was through a well-guarded corridor, but the palace had its own undisclosed, tangential world. Hidden from view within the palace’s very walls, a secret to the general staff, through which the most trusted servants might come and go, quietly and unhampered, almost invisible to their masters.

  Moriarty checked his watch: timing was of paramount importance. Wilhelm had been in poor health for many days; confined to his chambers and tended by his personal physician, the emperor’s person was checked with Prussian efficiency every hour. The next observation was forty-three minutes away. Enough time, the professor calculated, to enter the rooms via the secret access and guarantee the eventual succession of Wilhelm II.

  He paced silently along the corridor; a map of the palace’s hidden ways unrolling in his mind. There was only one physical plan detailing the concealed world: that of the architect Andreas Schlüter, who had overseen the reconstruction of the palace during the previous century. A plan the German authorities misguidedly believed safely hidden in a Nuremburg bank vault. The panel he sought was simple and unadorned, placed unobtrusively amidst a gallery of Hohenzollern portraiture. Even though he was actively seeking it, Moriarty passed by and walked on a further ten feet before realising his error. Retracing his steps, he made a thorough search of the spot where his mental diagram told him the hidden entrance must be. Marvelling at the artistry with which the panel was disguised, Moriarty eventually located the catch – placed high above a length of moulding, beyond where it might be accidentally triggered – and depressed it. The panel swung open no more than an inch, and with commendable silence. Checking that the corridor remained empty of observers, the professor stepped through the portal, easing it shut behind him.

  He lit a candle and surveyed his new surroundings. The space inside the walls was no wider than a yard, roughly plastered, the floor muffled by faded strips of carpeting; all immaculately clean. Those who knew of and used this maze had no intention of arriving at their destination covered in dust or shreds of cobweb – no matter how private or unheeded. Moriarty forged ahead. There would be narrow steps leading up to the next floor, and from his eidetic map he knew it was a mere dozen feet away, in the darkness beyond the candlelight.

  The steps loomed out of the blackness: half the width of the passage, constructed of smoothly rendered brick so that even the heaviest tread would be muffled. Moriarty ascended, admitting to himself that now his goal was but scant feet away he was experiencing a further quiver of anticipation.

  The steps ended at what appeared to be a blank wall. Raising his candle, Moriarty made out the outline of another disguised panel; one that, should Schlüter’s plans be accurate, must lead directly into the chambers where Wilhelm slumbered in blithe ignorance. There was a dark spot on the smooth panel at eye level. Moriarty leaned forward: it was a lens set into the panel, no bigger than his smallest fingernail. Pressing an eye to it, the professor saw a distorted view of the chamber beyond. A single candle flickered from a dresser in the furthest reach of the room, next to a wide doorway, casting a thin, uncertain light. Other than a figure bundled upon an opulent bed, the room appeared to be empty of human occupants.

  Moriarty snuffed his candle and left it upon the top step rather than risk even the smallest trace of dripped wax in the room beyond. After carefully easing the panel open, he stepped into the dim room and engaged in a second, more thorough visual search. The four-post bed had a single occupant; the walls were partly clad in a wood that looked black in the poor light, the rest papered by what Moriarty was surprised to recognise as either a William Morris design or a clever copy. The bed and windows were hung with drapes of a matching pattern. He found it repugnant.

  A swift glance at his watch told him there were twenty-eight minutes remaining. He removed a tiny paper bundle from a coat pocket, silently approaching the bed across a thick carpet. The emperor lay on his back, breathing slowly and with the faintest rattle. In the candlelight, his face, neat moustache and bristling side-whiskers were all a matching sallow shade. From the paper bundle, Moriarty removed a needle, careful not to graze himself on the sharp tip. Kneeling at the bedside he took the emperor’s left hand and slid it across the covers. The old man hitched a breath and the professor froze, not moving until the German’s breathing returned to its steady, soft rattle. Fitting a jeweller’s loupe to his left eye, Moriarty leaned close to
the hand, bringing the needle up to a fingernail. Gently, knowing a sudden, sharp prick might awaken the old man and all would be undone, he slid the needle under the nail, breaking the skin with a gentle scratch. Wilhelm coughed, but the professor held the hand steady. He allowed ten seconds to pass before removing the inoculating needle and packing it once more in the paper. There was a faint red mark under the nail where no one would think to look. The emperor was ill; if he should take a more serious turn and ultimately die, even the most suspicious of doctors could see nothing unusual in that.

  Moriarty stood, once again consulting his watch: there were eighteen minutes before the emperor would next be checked. He gazed at the sleeping man, awarding him a brief bow. “In Frieden ruhen, Herr Kaiser.” Then he left through the secret Morris-patterned panel.

  Hawes opened the study door and stood aside, allowing Moriarty entrance. “Welcome back, sir. I read in the newspapers that your journey was fruitful.” The porter tactfully failed to enquire why the professor had not returned immediately: it was almost three months since the passing of Emperor Wilhelm.

  Moriarty responded with a skeletal smile, placing a valise upon his writing desk. Hawes assisted with the removal of his overcoat, cradling it across an arm. “And that German gentleman has visited, sir. Five times.”

  Moriarty removed his notebook and ledger from his bag, placing both on the desk. “And I fancy he will be shortly dropping by a sixth time: his hired informants will have already passed on the news of my return to England.”

  “Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “You need only show in His Grace when he arrives.” Moriarty looked at his watch. “I anticipate his arrival within the half-hour.”

  “Very good, sir.” The porter closed the study door softly behind him.

  Moriarty breathed in the air of his venerable study. It was good to be home. The sun blazed through his window, lighting the room even as the rays left his writing desk in shadow. The only change was the painting hanging above his chair, replacing the Greuze: a bucolic scene of cloying sentimentality that he loathed instantly. It was perfect. He sat, opening both notebook and ledger. Taking up a pen, he began copying figures from the notebook into the larger volume, totalling them, and comparing it to the original figure he had presented for the duke’s approval. The numbers were gratifyingly close.