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

“Indeed.” The duke drew an ashtray closer, stubbing out his spent cigarette.

“Indeed.” Moriarty recharged his pen. “And you are of the belief that I should be able, in some ways, to effect this?”

Leofric’s beard was twitched by a crooked smile. “I thought we spoke plainly, Herr Professor. You pride yourself on being one of the few outside my homeland who might recognise me; I pride myself in having an information network as extensive as your own. Perhaps greater. I recognise you, Moriarty; I know you.”

“Indeed.” The professor wrote a further line before rotating the ledger and sliding it towards the duke. The written page was caught in the full glow of the lamp. “Read carefully what I have transcribed. If you are in agreement as to the figures, kindly sign here and we shall consider – how may I say it? – that your account has been opened.”

The duke glanced at the book and then up at Moriarty’s shadowed face. “You will put this in writing?”

“You say you know me. Then you will know that I am a careful man. I commit to no cause until I am sure of it. And I will trust no man who is not willing to put a name to his own enterprise.”

The duke paused a while longer, reluctant. Eventually, however, Leofric took up the pen and signed his name with a flourish. Moriarty slid the ledger back towards himself, casting his eyes over the signature before slamming the book closed.

“We understand one another, Your Grace. And as gentlemen, we need not say another word upon the subject.” He reached a thin hand across the desk; after a moment, the duke took it. They shook solemnly.

“When may I expect to hear from you?” asked Leofric, standing.

“You may not. The event of which we speak cannot pass un noticed: it will feature in every newspaper within the civilised world. Then you may wish for another audience, and, at such a time, we will discuss the termination of the account.”

Leofric bowed with a click of his heels. Hawes appeared once more with hat and stick as though he had heard every word spoken in the study. The duke took them and, with another curt bow, left Moriarty and the porter alone. Hawes closed the door on the duke’s back.

“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.”