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

“I admire your astuteness.”

“As you are travelling with two large trunks, I knew that you did not want to stay in Lüttich either. Your large pieces of luggage indicated that you wanted to travel to a place where the necessities of life are not always easily available. As you were not going by boat, but by train, I knew you were travelling somewhere inland. And as you are an expert on military equipment, the most likely destination was a place with a need for military equipment. The area with the greatest unrest on the continent is currently the Balkan.”

“But how did you know I would go to Sarajevo?”

“Again, simple. Your visit in Herstal had nothing to do with a larger arms order. Such orders are usually submitted by post. You bought weapons that can be easily stored in a travelling case. That eliminates rifles. Which means you bought pistols. FN produces one of the best pistols in the world, the Browning.”

I confirmed that I had indeed bought Brownings.

“Now, the Balkan has seen a number of wars in recent times, but it seems that the era of wars is currently taking a break. However, the territories occupied by Austro-Hungary are in a state of upheaval. Bosnia, for example. And at the heart of all the unrest is, logically, the capital of Bosnia: Sarajevo.”

“You followed me after all.”

Holmes shook his head. “I travelled ahead. As I knew your destination, I took the shortest connection via Paris and waited here at the hotel for you. I was sure that you, too, are no friend of bedbugs and lice and that you would therefore stay at the best hotel in the city.”

“Perfect deduction, as usual. But why are you here? Surely not to show off your superior wit?”

“I am here to remind you of our agreement. Our aim is to ensure stability. Peace. We both signed a contract. But what you are doing here will not bring peace. You are supporting terrorists, murderers. You are playing with fire, Moriarty. If the assassination attempt succeeds, there will be war.”

“Yes, probably. But we are well armed, thanks to your and my relentless work. And if war does indeed come, we will win. Don’t forget that. And a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.”

Holmes shook his head. “That is cynical. There could be thousands of deaths.”

“Thousands? Hundreds of thousands, my dear Holmes! But the higher the number of victims, the greater the deterrent effect for the following generations. This will be the greatest war the world has seen, but at the same time this will be the last war ever. This is the war to end all wars.”

It was clear that Sherlock Holmes did not believe me.

“You are a pessimist,” I said.

Holmes threatened to sabotage the attack. But of course he had no chance. Me included, there were seven men who wanted to start a war. And just one man who wanted to stop it.

“What do you want to do?” I asked. “We have positioned six men in different places. Each one has a bomb and a gun.”

“They are inexperienced men.”

“That does not matter. If each of them fires their six shots, there are thirty-six bullets flying at the Archduke. And then there are the bombs. Don’t you, too, dear Holmes, believe that even the most resistant Archduke will be finished after thirty-six shots and six bombs?”

Holmes shook his head. “You may have worked out the dynamics of an asteroid, but you have no idea of the dynamics of an assassination attempt.”

I hate to admit it, but Holmes was right. The first assassin did nothing. He simply let the motorcade pass. The second assassin threw his bomb wide. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth assassin did nothing at all when the Archduke passed them on his way to the town hall. The chance was lost. The peace remained intact. Most unfortunate.

After lunch, I sat in front of the delicatessen Moritz Schiller near the Latin Bridge, brooding over the morning’s events. At the table next to mine sat Princip, drinking a cup of coffee. The failed assassin was lost in thought and did not recognise me. And then, something unexpected happened.

“They are coming,” someone shouted.

I looked up. Indeed. The motorcade was returning from the town hall, and they were turning into our street. There was the archduke, there was his wife, and there was Holmes on the footboard of the car. I looked at Princip. He sat as if paralysed in his chair and stared at the archduke. And then the archduke’s chauffeur stopped. The motorcade had taken a wrong turning and needed to go back. The car had to be turned and had halted right in front of us. Finally, Princip reacted. He suddenly sprang to his feet, tore his pistol from his pocket, ran towards the car and fired at close range. There was nothing Holmes could have done to stop him. But Princip had missed and hit the archduke’s wife instead. Everybody jumped up. As did I. But, while most people just screamed and ran away or scrambled towards the dying woman, I simply stepped on to my chair, calmly drew my Browning and fired a shot over the heads of the crowd. My shot fell simultaneously with Princip’s second shot. I hit, whereas Princip’s bullet went wide. I pocketed my pistol again. No one had noticed me. I paid for my coffee and walked away unchallenged.

We don’t know what happened then. Fact is that my grandfather travelled back to London via Paris the following day. Sherlock Holmes also returned to England. He was last seen alive on 2 August 1914, when he was able to arrest the German spy von Borck together with Watson. Shortly after that, the great detective must have died. After this date, James Moriarty was also never seen again. Maybe they killed each other during their last encounter in Sussex or Sheffield. Today, there are over 1,500 Moriartys in Great Britain, but none of them is a direct descendant of my grandfather.

But if Sherlock Holmes was right and my grandfather was indeed the mysterious Basil Zaharoff, of whom there is no photograph, then he must have survived the war. He did excellent business and was even made Grand-Officier de la Légion by the French president. He was also awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Oxford and lived happily and in good health until his end on 27 November 1936.

As we all know, my grandfather’s dream of a terrible war to end all wars did not come true. After this spectacular failure, my father thought it prudent to change our family name. So, don’t be surprised when this article’s author is not called Moriarty. Or indeed Zaharoff. Us Moriartys / Zaharoffs are everywhere, even if we sometimes go by a different name.

Of course we also moved to a different address. We always go where there is good business. For example, in Germany. Germany is the world’s third largest arms exporter. So, if you are in need of tanks, submarines or helicopters, please do not hesitate to contact us. We would be happy to help you get the necessary export papers. If you want peace, you need to be strong. And you do want peace, don’t you?

My first and most intriguing adventure with Professor Moriarty was – in more than one respect – an elaborate dance.

Shortly after the affair I note Dr Watson refers to as a ‘scandal’, although it had been nothing of the kind from my perspective, I found myself travelling the Continent. It was a pleasure to do so, and enabled me to put the unfortunate fire in my London lodgings far in the past. On the occasion the professor entered my awareness, I had dabbled in reprising my position at the Imperial Opera of Warsaw. Although I declared myself perfectly content with minor roles and chorus parts, I had been coaxed into accepting first a single solo aria, and then a full prima donna position. Indeed, by the time a grand tour took me back to London and Moriarty sought me out, it had become rather difficult to enter my dressing room for the sheer density of roses. Such is the life of a performer of my calibre.