The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

by Maxim Jakubowski

  * * *

  Snaggles grinned nervously. ‘So then I says: “He’s a dangerous fellow, Mr Holmes. If I were you I’d steer clear of him.”’

  The man who had become Professor Moriarty nodded his head in appreciation. ‘You have done well, Snaggles. You have no doubt whetted Mr Holmes’s appetite for the game considerably – which was my intention.’ He slid a small bag of coins across the desk towards Snaggles. ‘A little reward for your efforts.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor.’

  ‘You may go now.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Snaggles retreated with haste from the room.

  Moriarty cast a questioning glance at Moran who had been standing in the shadows.

  ‘Yes,’ Moran assured him.

  Moriarty blew down the speaker tube on his desk. A voice responded.

  ‘Cartwright,’ said the professor, speaking into the tube. ‘Make sure that Mr Snaggles does not leave the building alive. Retrieve the bag of coins from his person and return them to my office as soon as possible, there’s a good fellow’.

  ‘I am getting there. Slowly. But it is hard work, Patterson. Far harder than I anticipated.’

  Sherlock Holmes slumped down in the swivel chair opposite the Scotland Yard man. He was dressed as a common workman, complete with copious side-whiskers and an earring dangling from his left lobe. His features were ruddy and lined and a clay pipe peeped out of the top pocket of his disreputable jacket. When he had entered Patterson’s office, much to the distress of the young constable in the corridor, Patterson had not batted an eyelid. He was used to Holmes visiting him in a whole range of disguises. Indeed, since he had taken up the Moriarty case, Patterson had not seen the detective in his usual ‘civilian’ clothes.

  ‘I tell you, this professor is the Napoleon of crime,’ Holmes was saying. ‘He commands the minor criminals in London like the Pied Piper. They dance to his tune all right. However I try, I can only get so close to him, but no closer. It is very frustrating.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Patterson, ‘but you have foiled many of his plans, upset his apple cart more than once in the last few months.’

  ‘Yes, but that does not seem to stop him. He rolls on like the sea and I am a feeble Canute. However, I am getting ever closer to him. My dossier on this master criminal is growing by the day. Soon I believe there will be enough evidence in there to incriminate him and all his minions.’

  ‘I will look forward to receiving it. I’ve never known you fail, Holmes. If anyone can bring this villain down, it is you.’

  Sherlock Holmes pursed his lips. ‘We shall see. I have it on good authority that he has a most ambitious bank job in the planning. If I can scupper that …’

  Violet Carmichael held the photograph of Sherlock Holmes in her hand and gently ran her long forefinger down the front of the picture, her sharp nails leaving a faint line across the features of the detective. She was barely containing her anger. ‘It is now time that he was stopped. Initially, I was amused by his arrogance, his brilliance. It entertained me to watch him grow in confidence and expertise and fall into our trap. But now he has become too dangerous. He is coming too close for comfort. My comfort. And the closer he comes, the more damaging intelligence he collects. The professor is the mask I have created to protect me. Holmes must never see beyond it. Fortunately, he has become obsessed by Moriarty as I hoped he would and so we must take advantage of this obsession and eliminate him.’ With a deft movement she crumpled up the photograph and threw it down on her desk. ‘It is time to have done with the man. Time for our little imposter to come into his own.’

  As Alfred Coombs – the man who had become Professor Moriarty – climbed up the seventeen steps to Sherlock Holmes’s sitting room at 221B Baker Street, he knew that he was about to give the performance of his life. His knees trembled as he reached the landing and his throat felt very dry. ‘Come on, old boy,’ he whispered in his normal voice, one that he had almost forgotten how to use.

  He tapped on the door and entered the room. Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair, his hand rammed into his dressing gown pocket where, Moriarty deduced, he was clutching a revolver. So, the great detective was that scared. The thought amused and relaxed Moriarty.

  ‘Certainly, Sherlock Holmes was rattled. He spoke with bravado, but an actor knows when another is acting,’ observed Coombs, before lighting the Havana cigar he had just been given.

  ‘Excellent.’ Violet Carmichael smiled. ‘I have arranged for a number of assassination attempts to be made on his life: sniper bullets, falling masonry – that sort of thing. None will be successful, of course. Such a death would only arouse suspicions with Scotland Yard. He will be dealt with later.’

  ‘What then is the purpose of these attacks?’

  ‘I need to prompt Mr Holmes to hand over his files to Patterson – who in turn will hand them over to me.’

  ‘He is your spy at the Yard.’

  ‘One of several.’

  ‘In the meantime, what about me?’

  Violet Carmichael gave Coombs a feline smile. ‘You must prepare yourself for a journey.’

  Watson gazed at his friend in the half-light of evening which filtered into his sitting room through the net curtains. The detective looked tired and ill but Watson observed that there was still that bright spark emanating from those fierce grey eyes.

  ‘My case against Moriarty is complete, old fellow, and the villain knows it. The proof being that I have been attacked several times today and only narrowly missed losing my life.’

  ‘Great heavens,’ Watson cried, shocked and alarmed at this statement, which was uttered so casually.

  ‘It is a very good omen. It shows that the master criminal is beginning to panic.’

  ‘And that your life is in danger.’

  ‘Always quick to making the obvious point, eh, Watson. Yes, indeed, London is too hot for me now. I have passed over the relevant papers to Inspector Patterson of the Yard and, within a few days, Moriarty and his gang will be rounded up. In the meantime, it would be judicious, I think, to absent myself from England for a while. A trip to Europe beckons and I was hoping that you would be my travelling companion. Would you come to the Continent with me? We could wander up the Valley of the Rhone, through the Gemmi Pass into Switzerland and on, via Interlaken, to Meiringen. And thence to Rosenlaui, not forgetting to make a stop at the magnificent Reichenbach Falls.

  ‘Of course. Anything you say, Holmes.’

  Holmes was now alone on the narrow path overlooking the Reichenbach Falls. Watson had departed in haste to attend to a sick English lady who was staying at the hotel in Meiringen. The detective knew that the summons was a ruse to draw his only companion away, leaving the field free for the appearance of his arch-enemy, Professor James Moriarty. And, indeed, through the mist of spray, there appeared a dark silhouette, which shimmered indistinctly at first then clearly materialised into the figure of his arch-enemy.

  The two men faced each other, the roar of the falls drumming in their ears.

  ‘At last, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘At last, Professor Moriarty.’

  Holmes prepared himself for what he believed would be a hand-to-hand struggle to the death. Moriarty smiled, his head slowly vacillating as he withdrew a revolver from the folds of his coat.

  ‘No one said we had to play fair.’ The professor smiled, pointing the gun at Holmes.

  This scene was being observed from a distance, higher up the steep incline overlooking the falls. Colonel Sebastian Moran adjusted the sights on his rifle and steadied his aim. As he saw Moriarty raise the pistol and aim it at Holmes, in quick succession he fired twice. Two bullets whizzed through the damp air towards their targets. Both figures below remained frozen like dark statues for a moment as the bullets tore into them. Death took them swiftly and silently. In an instant they both toppled over into the deep chasm of the creaming, boiling waters of the Reichenbach Falls.

  ‘Any attempts at recovering the bodies were
absolutely hopeless and there, deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam, will lie for all time the most dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law of his generation.’ Violet Carmichael put down the copy of The Strand Magazine and chuckled. ‘Brilliant,’ she exclaimed. ‘Quite brilliant.’

  Watson smiled. ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘Indeed, I do.’ Still smiling, she poured out two glasses of champagne. ‘John, your help has been invaluable in this matter. I look forward to you being more involved in my affairs now that the field is clear of all obstructions. I shall always need a good man close to me whom I can trust implicitly.’

  The good doctor smiled enigmatically and raised his glass of champagne.

  Fade To Black

  Michael Gregorio

  I took the opportunity to drop in on Sherlock Holmes after visiting a patient in the vicinity of Baker Street. I rang the bell and Mrs Hudson opened the door some moments later. She seemed pleased to see me, asking after my wife with an inquisitive twinkle in her eyes. On hearing that Mary was well – and nothing more than well – she led me up to the first-floor suite of rooms which I had once shared with my eminent friend.

  Holmes looked up from a letter that he was reading.

  “The married man returns,” he proclaimed in a measured, melodramatic drone, as if it were the title of some droll West End comedy. “And how, pray, is the dear sweet married lady?”

  Had Holmes and Mrs Hudson had the same thing in mind? Did both of them suppose that was I bringing news of the first in a line of prospective Watson juniors?

  “Mary is tip-top, thank you,” I said with all the politeness I could muster, hastening to excuse myself for my extended absence from Baker Street. “Married life is so time-consuming, Holmes. Would you believe it? We have still not finished furnishing the house to Mary’s … that is, to our satisfaction. And my practice keeps on growing, thanks to your endeavours and my more recent literary fame as your amanuensis. When a patient walks into the surgery these days, I am never sure if it is their own health, or the diseased workings of the criminal mind, which brings them there.” I decided it was wise to take a strategic step back into the not-toodistant past. “Why, I sometimes regret the carefree days of my former bachelor state in your most stimulating company.”

  Holmes stared at me, raised his eyebrows, then said, “Tosh.”

  “Here’s something that may interest you,” he said, holding out the letter to me.

  “It is written in French,” I said, as I glanced at the letter.

  “An accurate observation,” Holmes remarked. “I’ll sum it up for you. The French authorities are concerned about the increase in organised international crime, and the unhappy fact that the British police force seems to be doing nothing about it. Indeed, largely thanks to you, Watson, the French believe that Professor James Moriarty is behind it all.”

  “The elusive master-criminal—”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a loud rat-a-tat at the front door downstairs.

  Holmes glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. “My brother, Mycroft,” he said. “His knock is the true representation of himself. He means to be gentle, but bulls in glass factories do far less damage. A matter of national importance, I would say, yet not so pressingly urgent. Some notion has engaged his mind, though he has still not decided whether to let the Minister in on the secret. And that, Watson, is where you and I come into it.”

  I began to protest. I was far too busy to take time off to chronicle another adventure of England’s only private consulting detective, even if it did concern the Good of the Nation and the consulting detective’s elder brother.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, then a gentle tap on the sitting-room door was followed by the appearance of Mrs Hudson’s face.

  “An exotic gentleman to see you, sir,” she announced.

  Well, that did surprise me. Had Mrs Hudson never met the brother of the most famous private investigator in England? Apparently she had not, though I would have sworn in a court of law that she had, for she showed him into the sitting room without any further word of introduction.

  I stared at Mycroft Holmes for some moments. Despite his unusual height and bulk, I might not have recognised him myself. Was he going to a fancy-costume ball? And if so, why was he dressed for it so early in the afternoon?

  As Mrs Hudson left the room, the visitor threw off his unseasonable brown cloak, removed a high green fez from off the crown of his head, unhooked a bushy beard held with wire clips behind his ears, and lifted a black Bakelite pince-nez from off his large nose.

  “Voilà!” he said, depositing the accoutrements on a chair. Then he sank down on the sofa at my side, his steel-grey eyes shifting from me to his brother. “I am being followed, Sherlock,” he said.

  “I am not surprised,” said Holmes, “dressed up in that rig.”

  Though quite his younger brother’s equal in every mental faculty – superior, perhaps, in his mastery of the global implications of diplomacy – Mycroft Holmes had a tendency towards a careless belief in his own schemes.

  “It’s been going on for a month. As you probably know,” Mycroft said, then suddenly stopped and stared at me. “You read the newspapers, do you, Doctor Watson?”

  “The Telegraph,” I replied.

  Mycroft smiled for some reason. “You will have noticed, then, that London is currently enjoying the patronage of some of the most bizarre specimens of the internationally rich. That is, in almost every case, myself. I never leave the house or Whitehall in the same clothes twice. This week alone, I have been a Yankee railroad millionaire, a Turkish vice-regent, a Serbian ambassador, the Emir of Bukhara, and much more besides—”

  “Indeed,” his brother interrupted him. “I have been following your adventures in the columns of The Times. The Chimes is good for high society gossip, if nothing else. The thing that troubles me, Mycroft, is why it took you so long to consult me on the subject.”

  As everyone who knew him closely was aware, Sherlock Holmes was a maestro of disguise. I have seen him play every imaginable role, from drunken clergyman to sober chimney sweep, and admit that I have been taken in on every single occasion.

  A knock came at our door, and Mrs Hudson entered with a pot of tea. “I hope you’re feeling better now, sir,” she said to Mycroft. “You must have been uncomfortably hot in those unseasonable clothes.”

  Mycroft looked up at her in alarm. “Did you recognise me, ma’am?”

  “It’s the eyes, the nose, the mouth, sir. You can’t make a pig’s ear from a silk purse—”

  “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Holmes broke in upon this learned disquisition. “It is the opposite, I believe, despite the intended compliment. And yet, as you say, there are aspects of the human physiognomy that will always distinguish one individual from another, even one monozygotic twin from his identical fellow. Now, if you’d be so kind as to pour the tea.”

  Mrs Hudson did as she was asked, then left us alone.

  “Darned woman,” Mycroft said, breathing in deeply, then hissing out the words.

  “She is correct, however, as Doctor Watson, Thomas Carlyle or Charles Darwin would inform you, Mycroft. Genetikos. There’s no getting away from it. Each man is the sum of his constituent parts. That is the point of a disguise, by the way. You must appear to be what you are not by nature.”

  “What a strange world is this!” Mycroft laughed. “I came here with exactly the same thought in my head. I dressed to dissemble, as I was telling you, but how am I to know that the man, or men, who are watching me, are not equally cleverly disguised?”

  “Cleverly?” Holmes remarked. “In your case, Mycroft, I would dispute the adverb. Your talents are vast, but hiding your true self is not one of them.”

  At this point I decided to intervene. When the brothers Holmes began to dispute about the niceties of any subject, the argument was likely to be examined in all its multifarious aspects. In a word, we mig
ht have been there for many hours.

  “Why are you being followed?” I asked.

  Mycroft looked left and right, as if there might have been someone else in the room.

  “Foreign spies,” he said quietly. “They are literally everywhere since the signing of the Convention of Constantinople last March. Unchecked maritime passage through the Suez Canal may be all well and good in peacetime, Watson, but not during war. I was strongly opposed to the agreement, I can tell you.”

  “Is a war about to erupt?” I asked in alarm.

  Holmes stepped in before he could answer. “What have you to do with the Suez Canal?”

  Mycroft examined the tea tray, as if there might be spies lurking behind the sugar bowl. “Hush-hush, dear boy. Don’t ask, because I cannot tell. Of course, the only way to guarantee safe passage through the straits is to tighten up security. I have had a hundred thoughts about the best measures to be taken, then wondered whether a less conventional approach, such as yours, might help.”

  “Is there anything more conventional than logic?” Holmes fired back at him. “Forgive me, Mycroft, I know the crushing strain that working under the wheels of government occasions. You wish to identify some means of monitoring the passage of persons, as well as ships, through the Suez Canal. Very well, though there is, I believe, a more universal principle behind the specific case, with which I shall be happy to engage. I will need a couple of days. Shall we meet again towards the end of the week?”

  “Thursday next?” Mycroft replied, and so it was agreed.

  While Mycroft left the house in the guise of Sherlock Holmes, ten inches shorter without his towering fez, his large ears hidden beneath the flaps of an untied grey tweed deerstalker, his bulk constrained within a narrow-cut trench coat, his brother and I stepped into Baker Street but a short time afterwards.

  We made a strange pair, I am sure, myself ‘disguised’ as the doctor that I am with a bowler hat on my head and a brown leather surgical bag in my hand, while the man who accompanied me wore a large black beard that was evidently false, a fez that added greatly to his height, a Bakelite pince-nez that kept slipping down his aquiline nose, and a winged cloak like a Eurasian nomad’s tent, which might have accommodated a family of five.