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

‘Indeed, you show great promise,’ continued the man with enthusiasm. ‘We were so impressed that we have a proposition, which we feel will enable you to demonstrate fully and indeed develop your thespian talents.’

‘You are theatrical agents? Producers perhaps?’ enquired Coombs, his heart skipping a beat.

The man smiled and cast an amused glance at his companion whose face remained immobile.

‘Not exactly,’ said the man.

‘Then … then what is this all about?’

The woman moved forward, the rustle of her costume filling his ears.

‘We are offering you a unique role, one that will bring you a certain notoriety and significant remuneration.’ Her voice was low and mellifluous and Coombs, who was something of an expert on accents, thought he could trace a faint Irish lilt. The words ‘significant remuneration’ excited him.

‘What is the role?’

The woman gave a hint of a smile for the first time. ‘It is that of a certain mathematical professor. A creation of my own.’

Sherlock Holmes flopped down in a chair in Inspector Patterson’s office in Scotland Yard. He sighed heavily.

‘I reckon you could do with a brandy,’ observed the inspector with a wink, withdrawing a bottle and two glasses from the bottom drawer of his desk.

‘I’ll take a nip, thank you, Patterson,’ said Holmes wearily, ‘but I don’t think brandy will solve our problems.’

‘You got nothing more out of Barney Southwell then?’ said the policeman gloomily, passing over a glass of brandy.

Holmes shook his head. ‘I reckon Southwell told me as much as he knew or was allowed to know.’ He banged his fist down hard on the desk in frustration. ‘This is happening now on a regular basis: a number of robberies in the city carried out by small-time professionals who individually would have neither the wit nor the foresight to organise these projects. They are mere puppets dangling on strings controlled by someone else. But they are part of a growing organisation, which in time I am convinced will, like rats in the sewers, overrun the city.’

‘That’s quite a dramatic claim.’

‘I am not given to exaggeration, Inspector. My theory is based on fact and evidence. Someone is organising the itinerant malefactors of the city into some kind of criminal association, no doubt utilising the safety-in-numbers principle. It is a masterstroke. The work of a genius and it is my task to track him down.’

Violet Carmichael laughed. It was a full-blown demonstration of her amusement and not a ladylike tinkle or a repressed chuckle. ‘It is all going brilliantly, Moran. The coffers are overflowing thanks to the success of our little mercenary exploits. This enterprise grows in importance. So much so that we have attracted the attention of no less a personage than Sherlock Holmes.’

‘As you thought you would,’ agreed Moran, lighting up a cigar.

‘As I knew I would.’ The eyes flashed arrogantly. ‘Now we need to take things further. I believe it is time to set out the birdlime to catch our fine-feathered friend. Is Coombs here?’

Moran strode to the door, opened it and, leaning forward, made a beckoning gesture. Alfred Coombs entered. His appearance was much altered and he seemed somewhat nervous and apprehensive as he approached the large desk behind which sat his new mistress, his new employer, Violet Carmichael.

She gazed at him and gave a nod of approval to her companion. ‘You have done an excellent job, Moran. The fellow looks every decrepit inch a mathematics professor. The shoulders slope nicely, features are pale and ascetic-looking. What about the voice? Come, sir. Give me a little dialogue.’

Coombs took a step forward and nodded gently, his head beginning to sway from side to side in a strange reptilian fashion. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, in a voice that resembled a creaking door, ‘you hope to beat me. I tell you, you will never beat me. I am your nemesis. I am your doom.’

Violet Carmichael clapped her hands together with pleasure. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Your transformation from Alfred Coombs into this … this creature is magnificent. I particularly like the movement of your head as though you were some venomous lizard seeking a fly.’

Coombs grinned. ‘Just a little touch of my own,’ he said. ‘I thought it gave the fellow a certain kind of danger.’

‘So it does. So it does. Well, Moran, I am more than ever convinced we are ready. Do you feel ready, Mr Coombs?’

‘I do, ma’am.’

‘Good. There is just one thing. You will no longer respond to the name Coombs. From this moment on you are Professor James Moriarty.’

‘Of course I am.’ The deep-set eyes glimmered brightly and the head shifted unnervingly from side to side.

Sherlock Holmes also had a great facility for disguise, although his friend Watson always secretly believed that he tended to overdo the theatrical touches. The characters that emerged from the detective’s bedroom ready to go out on to the streets of the city were always to Watson’s mind a little larger than life. He certainly thought so when Holmes presented himself as a rough labourer in readiness for his latest excursion. There was perhaps too much rouge around the cheeks and on the nose and was that amount of stomach padding really necessary? Certainly the straw-coloured wig could have been abandoned, but Holmes seemed particularly pleased with his transformation and even the good doctor had to admit that the creature before him looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes.

The detective’s destination that evening was the Rat and Raven, a shabby public house in the east end of the city which was the bolthole of a certain Percy Snaggles, a nasty little nark who had been of great service to Holmes in the past.

It was about ten at night when the detective entered this squalid establishment. The heat and the smoke were the first thing that assailed him, followed by the frenzied, raucous rattle of conversation. There were deep-throated oaths mixed with high-pitched female laughter from gaudy tarts, who were either having a respite from their labours or attempting to pick up new trade. Holmes made his way to the bar and in a rough cockney voice, typical of the other inmates of this alehouse, ordered a glass of porter. While he waited for his drink, he cast his keen gaze around the room. It did not take him long to spot Snaggles. He was slumped in a corner with a one-eyed man, apparently playing a game of cards. Holmes paid for his drink and, squeezing himself through the boozy throng of clients, approached the nark. On seeing this strange-looking cove bearing down on him, Snaggles pulled himself upright in his chair, his eyes wide in apprehension.

‘Need to talk,’ said Holmes, maintaining his cockney accent, while he made the secret sign with his hand that told Snaggles who he really was. The nark’s features quivered and he glanced over at his companion. ‘Half a mo, Wally, while I conduct a bit o’ business with this geezer here.’

The one-eyed man looked up from scrutinising his hand of cards. ‘You take your time ’cause when you get back I’m gonna fleece you rotten.’ He laughed, revealing a row of crooked, blackened teeth.

Holmes and Snaggles made their way through the crowd to the door and into the comparative quiet of the street.

‘His name is Moriarty. Professor Moriarty,’ said Snaggles breathlessly, his voice emerging as a harsh whisper. ‘He’s the one who sets up the jobs for us, organises things. We’re like members of his army and woe betide us if we don’t obey orders.’ He made a throat-slitting gesture.

‘Have you seen this Moriarty?’

‘Just the once. A funny-looking cove: very tall, large head, bent shoulders and moves funny.’

‘Moves funny?’