Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

And the older boy was still there; he had produced a cap from a pocket somewhere about his person, and turned his collar up as if to protect him from the wind, but this was no disguise, and he was clearly following Moriarty. If this was some sort of game, the boy seemed intent on pursuing it. Moriarty had, however, played enough games to know that you stood a stronger chance of victory if you knew the rules. Or if you created them.

He nodded slightly to himself, then set off walking again, expecting the boy to follow; this expectation was met.

Moriarty walked at a casual pace until he reached a corner and knew he was out of sight, and then he broke into a half-run for a short distance, increasing the distance between them. As he passed through the crowds in Trafalgar Square, he paused near the base of Nelson’s Column, apparently looking at the two bronze reliefs at its base, and, yes, the older boy was still there.

He moved on, down towards Whitehall. Once more, other people seemed instinctively to clear a path for him, which gave him an advantage over his follower, and Moriarty was soon on Whitehall, just across from the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

He ducked into the doorway of a nearby building, and waited.

As he’d calculated, less than thirty seconds later, the older boy came along, frowning at the apparent disappearance of his quarry. He stopped and looked across the road, but when he saw Moriarty was not there either, he took off his cap and rubbed his head, as if to summon an explanation of the situation. He was staring at the police building when the voice came from the doorway behind him.

“If you’re going to keep following me,” Moriarty said, “maybe I should speak to the police about it. What do you think?”

The older boy turned round, looking both surprised and annoyed. As he struggled to form his response, Moriarty realised that the boy was tall, but not as old as he first appeared; he carried himself with an adult’s bearing, but his bright eyes suggested that childhood was not so far behind him.

“Don’t – look, no need for that,” the older boy said. “I was looking for someone to … someone to help me with something. There could be money in it.”

“You want me to help you?” Moriarty narrowed his eyes. This sounded unlikely, but he was willing to play along, and the other boy seemed sufficiently off guard that he’d struggle to formulate a lie. “Help with what?”

The older boy glanced over his shoulder at the police building, and then looked back at Moriarty, weighing up how he should answer the question.

In that instant, Moriarty deduced that the boy was telling the truth about having an enterprise in mind, and it was clearly one that, at the very least, pressed hard against the limits of activities permitted by the law.

“There’s a card game,” the boy said. “I’m part of it, but I need someone else to—”

“I don’t have money,” Moriarty cut in, “if that’s what you—”

“No, no,” the boy said firmly. “I have money, but I need someone else to be there, to help me, er …”

“To help you gain an advantage?”

“Something like that, yes,” the boy replied, looking serious. “Well?”

“I …” Moriarty paused. He had his own vague plans for the day, but was intrigued to see what the boy was talking about. It would, after all, give him first-hand experience of the world of gambling; and the money was an additional inducement.

He reached his decision, his gaze flicking across the road to the police building.

“What’s the game – and where is it?” All other considerations aside, Moriarty had to return to school before his absence was noticed.

“The game’s called Twenty-One,” the boy said, with a hint of a smile. “The Yanks are starting to call it Blackjack, I think. The aim is to—”

“To make twenty-one,” Moriarty said. “Or as close as possible to it. Yes, I’ve heard of it.” He’d read of it in Cervantes, where it was known as ventiuna .

“Good, good,” said the boy, and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well then, you’ll see how a player would have an advantage if someone was giving him clues as to the cards the other players were holding.”

“Yes,” Moriarty said, nodding. More than an advantage; it would make victory almost certain.

“So I need someone in the room with me.”

“And where is this game?” Moriarty asked again.

“Clerkenwell – do you know it?”

“Only slightly,” Moriarty said. “Which part?”

“The part with the building work.” The boy grinned. “Farringdon Street. You know it?”

“As I say, only slightly,” Moriarty replied, nodding. Farringdon Street was being created as they constructed tunnels to cover and divert the River Fleet, one of the city’s largest waterways. It seemed he might yet follow his intentions for the day, to an extent. “I’ve heard about it. What would I have to do?”

“Look, if you’re in , we can talk on the way there. Come on, we need to make our way east.” He put his cap back on his head, and looked at Moriarty expectantly.

“You mentioned money,” Moriarty said, not moving.

“I did,” the older boy said with a sigh. “I’ll share my winnings with you. A quarter for you, three-quarters for me.”

Moriarty hesitated for a moment and, taking this as a sign of reluctance, the boy rolled his eyes and tutted.

“Oh, very well – a third for you,” he said. “Is that good enough?”

“That will do,” Moriarty said, aware that his receiving anything was likely to be dependent on the success of the other boy’s plan, whatever it might be.

The two of them started walking towards the Strand.

“If we’re to be partners in this,” Moriarty said, “will you at least tell me your name?”

“Of course,” the boy said. “My name’s Martin, but they call me Smiler. What’s your name, then?”

“Moriarty. They call me—”

He hesitated. After his arrival at the school, the boys had taken less than a week to find a nickname for him, and it was the obvious one given his high forehead and solemn way of talking, but he had no intention of encouraging Martin to call him Professor .

“—they call me Moriarty,” he said firmly, and Martin smiled.

“Is that a Paddy name?” Martin asked, after a moment’s thought. “Did your family come over here because of the famine?”

“So, this game,” Moriarty said, allowing a hint of exasperation to his tone. “If you want me to help you, we should discuss how to do it. My family is of no importance.”

“Blimey, don’t get all worked up,” Martin said, clearly amused by this reaction. “So, about the game. I heard about it from a builder friend of mine who lives in Norwood. The men who are working on building the Farringdon Road often stop early and play Twenty-One, and they’re playing today. You need a good sum to buy into the game, but that means the winner can take home a good amount, too.”

“What kind of amounts do you mean?” Moriarty asked, glancing at the building they were just passing: Coutts Bank, known for the large sums it handled for its illustrious clients.

“Not those sorts of amounts,” Martin said, having followed Moriarty’s gaze, “but the builders are being paid well, and so the smallest wager a player can make is a florin.”

“A florin ?” Moriarty said in surprise, and Martin looked round to see if anyone had overheard him.

“Keep it quiet, will you?” Martin snapped. “Perhaps approaching you was a mistake.”

“No,” Moriarty said firmly. “No mistake. But that amount, it … do you have enough for more than one round of the game?”

Martin nodded, and Moriarty thought for a moment. A florin was not a small amount and, having only been introduced in recent times, the coin had a certain exotic novelty about it. If Martin was telling the truth, then there was much more to this enterprise – and indeed more to Martin himself – than one might initially have imagined.