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

“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.