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

“Ah, the younger generation!” the bearded man said, and laughed. “Welcome.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Martin said. “Apologies if I have kept you waiting.”

“No apology is needed,” said the clean-shaven man, in a voice that was higher-pitched than Moriarty expected. “Who do you have with you this week?”

“This young man was recommended to me by an acquaintance,” Martin lied smoothly. “I did not ask his name, nor did he offer it. I told him of our game, and of our need for a watchman, and he agreed to assist.”

“He has no … shall we say, qualms about gambling?” the bearded man asked.

“None,” Martin said. “I promised him a small fee for his time, and—”

“As long as I get my money,” Moriarty growled, “I don’t care what you do here.”

“Splendid,” said the man with the moustache. “Shall we play?”

The others murmured in agreement, and sat down at the table, Martin stepping quickly to the chair with its back to the window.

Moriarty went to his position by the window. It was boarded up in places and blackened with candle smoke in others, but by perching sideways on the windowsill he could see out into the street and by turning his head also see over Martin’s shoulder. He sniffed as the first cards were dealt.

“You must excuse our watchman,” Martin said, with a vague gesture. “He has a cough and a cold. But he assured me he will not breathe his bad air in our direction.”

The three men laughed, and the game began.

Moriarty watched the first rounds without making any attempt to assist Martin, being careful to cough and sneeze only when the other men were making their plays.

After the first six rounds were complete, an impressive number of florins lay on the table in front of the men. Even without assist ance, Martin was playing well, and appeared to be breaking even, though the bearded man had lost much of his money, and was attempting to distract the other players with a limerick he claimed to have heard the previous evening.

“… told her when needs and seeds must, a man must go and sow – though his very first may be in Baker Street, and his last, Bow!”

No one thought this either clever or amusing, and the cards were dealt again.

Moriarty watched carefully, and could see over Martin’s shoulder that he had a two and an eight for a total of ten. Moriarty had kept track of the number of jacks and tens in play, and assessed that there were more of these yet undealt than any other cards – as well as two aces – and so he coughed, and looked out of the window.

Martin took another card, the other players made their choices, and the round ended. Moriarty heard Martin laugh and the sound of florins being pulled across the table to be added to his pile. Only then did Moriarty look back at the game.

The bearded man looked to have been comprehensively bearded, as he had a single florin in front of him, and a scowl on his face. The clean-shaven man had what appeared to be two coins in front of him, and Martin and the man with the moustache looked to have equal piles of coins before them.

The mood in the room was tense and, not wishing to draw attention to himself and a possible connection between his presence and Martin’s good fortune, Moriarty looked out of the window again, seeing no policemen.

The cards were dealt in silence. Moriarty glanced over Martin’s shoulder. He had two tens, which was so close to twenty-one that taking no more cards might have seemed the wisest option, but the combination of these two cards and the tens that the other players had drawn in the previous round left, Moriarty knew, two aces yet to be dealt, and so he coughed, and then peered out of the window.

At the table, Martin hesitated, but took another card. The others made their decisions and, as the round ended, Martin laughed triumphantly, and Moriarty heard the sound of coins being drawn across the table, accompanied by muttering from the other players. A quick glance revealed to Moriarty that both the bearded man and the clean-shaven man had no coins left, and the man with the moustache had one single florin left. Martin, for his part, had a large, uneven pile of money in front of him.

“I think I shall move these out of the way,” Martin said, with undisguised amusement, and swept a heavy handful of the coins off the table into the pocket of his coat, where they clinked loudly. “Shall we play one last round?”

The moustached man paused for a moment, then Moriarty heard him grunt in unhappy agreement. Moriarty, looking out of the window, frowned at Martin’s insistence on playing on. The pile of cards to be dealt was too small to make a round now, so the moustached man, dealing, shuffled the discarded cards with those yet to be dealt, effectively meaning the two players were being dealt from a fresh deck of fifty-two cards. Moriarty was now unable to derive any benefit from counting, but this fact only appeared to occur to Martin when his cards had been dealt, and Moriarty heard him shift awkwardly in his chair.

Moriarty glanced at Martin’s hand: two eights for a total of sixteen, arguably the worst hand he could have in his uncertain position. Martin hesitated.

“Well?” the moustached man prompted. “Another card?”

“I …” Martin muttered, and then forgot himself, for one critical moment. He glanced over his shoulder at Moriarty, his eyes wide and pleading. This did not go unobserved by the other players.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the bearded man.

“Nothing,” Martin replied, unconvincingly.

“Why did you look to the watchman?” the clean-shaven man asked.

“I was making sure he was still keeping guard,” Martin said, casually. “He had been so quiet – none of his usual sniffs or coughs – and I was afraid he had fallen asleep.”

“Do you not think one of us would have noticed that, if it had happened?” the bearded man snarled. “We may be unfortunate with cards, but we are not blind.”

“Of course not,” Martin said, smiling warmly. “I did not mean—”

“You looked at him as if asking him a question,” the moustached man said, firmly. “As if seeking some kind of information.”

“Not at all,” Martin replied. “As I said, I—”

“What information could the watchman have?” the bearded man asked.

“Nothing, I assure you—” Martin started to say, but he was cut off by the clean-shaven man asking a question.

“Are you two confederates? Is that what is going on here? Is the watchman monitoring the cards as well as the street outside, to ensure your victory and his fee?”

Martin said nothing.

“Well?” the moustached man said, his hand going to his last florin. “Are you two—”

Martin’s nerve deserted him, and he jumped from his chair and ran towards the door. Moriarty was taken aback for a second, but then followed him, and the two of them ran out of the room and down the hallway of the house, with the three men in close pursuit, yelling threats.

Martin and Moriarty sprinted down the pockmarked Farringdon Road. The three men gave chase and, though the clean-shaven man was held back by his corpulence, the others seemed about to catch up with them, until Martin suddenly scrambled down one of the holes in the surface of the road. Without pausing to consider, Moriarty followed.

It was like being in a cave system, but it smelled like a sewer; the stench was nauseating, and Moriarty’s senses revolted from it.

He took a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness and, when he could see properly, he realised Martin was a short distance ahead of him, the florins clinking noisily as he moved.

“Are they following?” Martin demanded, breathlessly.

His heart racing, Moriarty glanced up and back at the way they had come, and could see no one behind them. He could hear voices, shouting, but no sounds of approach.