He leaned back in his chair, content now to await Duke Leofric’s arrival.
Moriarty had many reasons for remaining so long in Berlin. He had wished to observe the fruits of his deed at close quarters, and it had been necessary to enact certain precautions. After the successful completion of the contract, he considered it unwise to quit the country whilst the health of anyone who might later bear witness against him continued in a robust manner. He did not imagine Eisenerz to be such a fool that he could not solve the equation, and his respective share within it. And even though Moriarty did not consider the Serb to be any form of threat, the man had swiftly deleted himself from the balance: killed in a drunken brawl with two Austrians.
Eisenerz’s eradication was neither so casual nor straightforward, for he was by nature and experience discreet and circumspect. Nevertheless, for all his caution, Eisenerz died under the wheels of a runaway dray on the Königgrätzer Strasse, less than four hours before the kaiser drew his final breath. Moriarty had arranged for an anonymous wreath to be laid during the man’s funeral; after all, in the days before his accident, Eisenerz had arranged introductions between Heinrich Schiffersohn and many of the more ambitious businessmen from German society. Moriarty saw it as a gesture of heartfelt thanks.
As expected, even though terminally ill, Wilhelm’s son had been invested as the Emperor Friedrich III; and equally expected, as Moriarty sat in his study awaiting Duke Leofric, it was clear that Friedrich was only days away from joining his father. Even though it had been no more complex than the simplest subtraction, the professor still felt pride in his achievement. That he was present added a certain piquancy to the affair.
There was a knock on his door. “The Duke Leofric is here, sir,” announced Hawes.
Moriarty glanced up, frowning. He had been lost in rêverie; most regrettable. “Show him in,” he said, closing both books and piling them neatly on his right. Leofric swept into the study, an air of brash confidence roiling in his wake. He dropped his hat on to the desk and sat without an invitation, one hand resting on his walking stick. Moriarty lay back in his chair, retreating into the dimness behind the sunlight streaming through his window.
“The news from Germany seems to agree with you, Your Grace.”
Leofric’s pale face spread in a wide grin. “And why should it not? Soon we shall have another kaiser – a fresher, more invigorated one. Through which the Fatherland may finally realise its destiny.”
“Is there anything more ephemeral than political certainty?” Moriarty tapped the leather binding of his ledger. “You have come to settle your account?”
Leofric withdrew one his infernal cigarettes and lit it. He crossed his legs and relaxed against the chair. “Not at all, Herr Professor. I think I do not owe you so much as a farthing.”
“Indeed? And by what route did you reach this conclusion?”
“You were engaged to despatch the late kaiser to his eternal reward, but he died of natural causes. It is in all of the newspapers.”
Moriarty tapped his fingertips together. “Ah, then I must have misunderstood Your Grace. I did not realise that His Imperial Majesty’s death was to be a sensational and obvious murder.”
A little of the duke’s élan dissolved in the wash of the professor’s chill demeanour. “Is this how your reputation was gained, Professor? By the taking of credit for the inevitable?”
“I admit to usually working through intermediaries, but I will only claim the dues that are rightfully mine.” He tapped the ledger again, a little harder. “I would advise Your Grace to settle this particular debt, and with alacrity. At our first meeting you said that you knew me; if that claim was – as I trust – not simply the boast of a spoiled prince then you also know I will not be gainsaid. It is a dangerous practice.”
“No.” Leofric extinguished his cigarette and stood, taking up his hat. “I shall not pay, mein herr, for I do not believe you have satisfactorily completed the contract. You will not pursue the debt; in this the courts are closed to you. So I will bid you auf wiedersehen.” He opened the study door, not waiting for the vigilant Hawes.
Moriarty stood slowly, straightening his coat. He crossed to the open study door, signalling the astonished porter standing beyond with the briefest shake of his head, and closed it. Retracing his steps, he opened the study window and left it ajar by six inches before sitting himself behind his desk once more. He slid the ledger towards him, opening it at the page listing the calculations for the duke’s contract. Beyond the window, he heard a woman’s abrupt screech, the horrified cries of men and the screams of an injured horse. Ten seconds later, Hawes opened the study door and peered through.
“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident, sir. It appears that German gentleman stepped out in front of a speeding cab …”
Moriarty opened his notebook to the line of figures he had jotted down whilst returning across the Channel. He swiftly compared them with the ledger’s numbers, nodding to himself as he mentally reconciled both columns. Taking up a fresh pen, the professor dipped it in ink and carefully inscribed three red words across the ledger page: PAID IN FULL.
The Perfect Crime
G. H. Finn
Sunday, 8 August 1937
While the spires of Oxford may not have been dreaming, they did seem to slumber lazily as they basked in the sunshine. Edwin Fitzackerly, sticky and rather hot about the face as he pedalled his bicycle toward the university, was firmly wishing he hadn’t habitually followed his mother’s parting advice to always wear a vest, but it was too late to worry about that now. He was already perilously close to missing his appointment and undergraduates did not keep senior lecturers waiting – at least, not if they hoped one day to become faculty members themselves. Steering his bicycle one-handed, Edwin glanced at his watch. He grimaced and muttered, “I’m late!”, feeling more than a little like the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Then he couldn’t help but smile, as it struck him this was remarkably apt considering he was currently on his way to examine some effects of the late Charles Dodgson, better known as Lewis Carroll, author of the “Alice” books.
It tended to annoy Edwin that among the general public Lewis Carroll was often regarded as merely a writer of whimsical nonsense for children. At least in the cloisters of Oxford University, Charles Dodgson – who had died in 1898, almost forty years previously – was still respected and admired for his consummate skills as both a mathematician and a logician. As a child in his nursery, Edwin had been very fond of Alice’s adventures but as a young man he also had developed a love for Dodgson’s works on logic. Edwin considered himself very lucky to have been asked to write a biographical article about a man he regarded as something of a hero, even if it was only for his college’s student newspaper. It was perhaps even more fortunate that one of the more doddering of the elderly Masters at the college had by chance remarked that he possessed a jumble of Dodgson’s old effects and papers, stored for posterity but for many years forgotten, mouldering away in his attic. Apparently these papers included some private correspondence with another professor of mathematics, but Edwin’s informant could remember no further details.
To his great delight, Edwin had been given permission to come and sort through these relics of Dodgson to decide for himself if any might be helpful in writing his article. While he knew that in all likelihood he would find nothing more exciting than a ledger of household accounts, secretly he hoped he might stumble across some unpublished mathematical theorem, or perhaps even the manuscript of a third Alice adventure!
Arriving at his destination several minutes later than the firmly stipulated two o’clock (and amidst a steady stream of perspiration), Edwin was unsure whether to be worried or relieved that his octogenarian benefactor had not bothered to wait for his arrival. Placed under the brass knocker of the front door was a sheet of paper bearing the words “Punctuality is the politeness of kings. Louis XVIII”, beneath which was written “I see no reason why your late
ness should be the cause of my own. You are welcome to use my house to conduct your researches in my absence. It being the Sabbath, my servants have been granted a day of rest thus you must be prepared to fend for yourself. The chest is in the drawing room. Let yourself in and try not to make too much mess.” The note was signed with an entirely indecipherable flourish that seemed to have more in common with a hieroglyph than a signature.
A short while later, Edwin was seated at a table, steadily unpacking the contents of a battered leather trunk that had been recovered from the bottom of a large tea chest. He had begun by carefully removing one item at a time and attempting to devise some system for cataloguing his finds, but he quickly gave up on this idea. He realised he first had to work out what it was he was trying to examine. There were a few books, which he stacked neatly at one end of the table. There were also many sepia-tinted photographs, most probably taken by Dodgson himself, which Edwin placed carefully in a pile of their own. There were batches of handwritten notes, which Edwin was sure would warrant closer attention but which for now he began to assemble into a heap in front of him. And then there were letters, private correspondence, mostly between Dodgson and someone who might have been a colleague of his – judging by a quick glance, it was indeed some professor of mathematics – but whether one who had taught at Oxford or elsewhere Edwin could not judge. The letters bore no address and for the most part were signed simply “M.”
Finally, there was a most singular item. At the bottom of the case, Edwin found a heavy, clear glass bottle. Curious, thought Edwin, for while the bottle held no liquid, on careful inspection it had been most thoroughly stoppered, and sealed both with lead foil and wax. More and more curious, thought Edwin, who had had the bitter lessons of accepted grammar beaten into him while at prep school. Looking through the glass, inside the bottle, Edwin could very easily see a sealed paper envelope, inscribed with the simple instruction “Read Me”.
Not being at all sure what to make of the mystery bottle, Edwin stood it on the table and stroked his chin. While, unsurprisingly, the items arranged before him did not seem overly likely to conceal a hitherto unknown novel about the amazing Alice, they still might contain many deep insights into Dodgson’s life and works. But there really was only one way to be sure whether any of them may have any use at all. And so Edwin resolved to work his way through his finds, one by one. He was tempted to start with the photographs, as he felt they could perhaps be examined more swiftly than the various writings, but Edwin rejected the notion on the grounds that they were also less likely to shed any light on either Dodgson’s mathematical research or his literary endeavours. At first glance, the notes seemed rather unclear, if not decidedly cryptic. They would require quite some time to study properly. Nodding to himself, Edwin resolved to begin by reading the letters from Professor M.
While Edwin was not always the most organised of men, he was reasonably diligent and methodical. He began by sorting the professor’s letters into date order. Then, with the earliest first, he began to read. It quickly became apparent that Charles Dodgson and the professor must have held each other in high regard, either academically or intellectually, and it seemed they may perhaps have been good friends, for in the course of the correspondence, M. had suggested Dodgson might like to play a game of logic and deduction with him. The professor would pose a problem, the solution to which, if Dodgson were to solve it, would lead Dodgson to the location of the next clue.
What a jolly old fellow, thought Edwin. I wish more professors were like him. In Edwin’s own experience, most members of the university staff not only did not possess a sense of humour, they vehemently objected to their students doing anything that might be considered enjoyable under any circumstances.
Reading further, it was obvious Dodgson must have accepted this amusing challenge, for the next few letters each contained complex riddles, mathematical puzzles, codes, cyphers and perplexing problems of the most baffling nature. How Dodgson had unriddled these mysteries remained unknown. Unless … thought Edwin, perhaps the handwritten notes might shed some light on this? But regardless of the methods he had employed, clearly Dodgson had indeed solved M.’s enigmas – and Edwin suspected he would have thoroughly enjoyed the process of doing so. He also wondered whether the professor had been pleased to have his conundrums picked apart so easily, or whether M. would have felt annoyed that an intellect existed to rival his own? Judging by the letters, the professor certainly was something of a genius when it came to plotting out cunning mental tricks and traps. At times his writing suggested a hint of intellectual arrogance. Yet it seemed Dodgson had always been able to best M. in this game of wits.
At last, Edwin began to read the last of the letters from the mysterious Professor M.
In it, M. congratulated Dodgson on how well he had played their game thus far, and then, rather than immediately present another puzzle, Professor M. began to expound upon a somewhat disturbing subject. At least, it would have been unsettling were it not so obviously a joke. It had to have been a light-hearted addition to the game. Surely it must …
At that moment, Edwin was distracted by a pencilled addition to the inked writing of the letter. The professor’s habitual “M.” had been circled on this particular sheet, a line drawn from it, and in the margins, in what looked very much like Dodgson’s handwriting, was a question mark and the comment “Why does M. never sign his name?” This meant very little to Edwin, although for some reason he had a nagging feeling that maybe he should know the identity of Professor M … Then again, Oxford was always awash with so many doctors and professors, it probably wasn’t of any particular significance.
M. had introduced a new topic into this last letter. It would have been scandalous if it were not framed purely as an exercise in logic. The professor had begun by asking a question.
“Have you given any consideration to the problem of how one might commit the perfect crime? From the standpoint of the logician, it is a most interesting subject upon which to formulate an analysis.”
While Edwin would admit that, from an entirely abstract perspective, the question was harmless enough and might be interesting to idly speculate upon, nevertheless there was something about the change in the tone of the writing that subtly disturbed him. The professor continued, expanding on his theme and offering a few hints as to his thoughts on how a “perfect crime” might be constructed – from a purely logical and hypothetical standpoint, of course. As ethically questionable as the subject may have been, Edwin did find M.’s suggestions compelling – but there was a far more startling revelation to come. Having once introduced the subject, within a few paragraphs the professor went on to state that he had, theoretically, devised a method for committing such a “perfect” crime, but then he stopped short of explaining the details of his theorem. There was a trace of sardonic mockery in M.’s writing as he all but boasted of this artfully crafted master plan, constructed upon simple logical premises yet which he also described more than a little challengingly as being “an unsolvable enigma”.
Edwin frowned and again wondered where he had heard of a Professor M. before. He shook his head and returned to read the closing paragraph of the letter:
“Would you like to know the details of my perfect crime? Would you really? The question in my mind remains, are you worthy to know this secret? I propose a final round to our game of logic and deduction. If you solve my greatest riddle (and with this you will either sink or swim) then you will be led to a message in a bottle – you will most certainly recognise this if you are clever enough to find it. In my final letter I shall withhold no secrets, rather I will lay all information before you, demonstrating exactly how a man might commit a perfect crime and yet despite this I most decidedly assure you, the crime is of such a nature that even with evidence fully provided it will never be solved. Here is your puzzle.”
The rest of the sheet of paper had been torn off, but Edwin was not overly interested to know what the professor’s last riddle may have
been. Whatever it was, it was perfectly obvious that Dodgson had solved it – the proof was standing on the table before him. Edwin sat, staring at the strange sealed bottle with its enigmatic envelope nestling inside it.
And then another mystery occurred to Edwin. Having deduced the solution to M.’s final puzzle, why then had Charles Dodgson not opened the bottle?
The young man frowned and stared at the letter. All he could see was “Read Me”.
And then he decided that he would.
Somewhat hesitantly, he broke the scarlet wax seal around the top of the bottle, removed the cork and vainly attempted to reach the envelope inside. A strange but not altogether unpleasant fragrance emanated from the bottle, filling his nostrils and almost making him sneeze. It had a heavy note of perfume. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if the letter inside the bottle had been written by a lady, for surely a gentleman would not have scented his writing materials in such a fashion? Unless perhaps he was a foreigner? Edwin was sure there were plenty of European professors with a surname beginning with “M” … Maybe a Professor Medici or a Professor Machiavelli or somesuch? A hint of the Orient had seemed to suggest itself amid the pungent miasma that assailed his nose. A Professor Ming or perhaps a Professor Manchu? It seemed unlikely … After a few moments spent in a fruitless attempt to reach the envelope by alternately inserting a finger into the neck of the bottle and then, abandoning this approach, turning the bottle upside down and shaking it, he eventually decided that the simplest course of action would be to break the bottle. He reached for a heavy candlestick that had been conveniently left upon the table. Remembering that he had been instructed to avoid making a mess, he first carefully wrapped the bottle in a fold of the tablecloth then struck it sharply with the base of the candlestick. Nothing happened, but a second harder blow produced a satisfying splintered cracking sound. Cautiously, Edwin placed the open top of the tea chest under the table, unfolded the tablecloth from around the bottle and let the combination of broken glass and sealed envelope fall into the otherwise empty tea chest. Then he reached carefully inside and retrieved the envelope, which he found was held shut by a blob of black sealing wax bearing the imprint of a skull, with the word “memento” and a larger ornate “M” embossed beneath.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 50
