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

The routine was the same each day and the canvas was taking shape. Without the preliminary drawings, the task would have been considerably harder and the artist found himself admiring the work of his predecessor – and wondering why he hadn’t finished what he had started so well. However, he had learned to keep his curiosity to himself. The professor didn’t welcome inquisitive minds.

Two weeks after the work was started, the artist was surprised to hear the key turn in the lock soon after he’d arrived in the morning. He looked up from his work and saw the professor standing in the doorway, arms behind his back, his skinny frame blocking out the light.

‘I wish to ascertain your progress,’ he said in perfect German, before striding across the room to examine the canvas. At first it was hard to read his expression, but after a while his features became animated.

‘See what power the soldier conducting the interrogation has over the helpless child, like a cat torturing a small creature for its pleasure. And the soldier with his arm around the crying sister. How easily he could take out a dagger and finish her pathetic life. See the women cowering in the corner. Feel their terror at what the child is about to reveal. And why do they wish to know the whereabouts of the father? Imagine what they will do to him when they find him. This picture is a study in cruelty, do you not think? A masterpiece.’

‘Do you think my efforts match the original?’ the artist asked nervously.

‘It will suit my purpose. You have done well.’

‘It is almost finished. When will I be paid?’

‘When you exchange it for the genuine Yeames in the gallery. You will receive your payment when the original is hanging upon my dining-room wall. Cruelty is so good for the digestion, do you not agree?’

The young man looked at the professor and felt a thrill of realisation. He was right. Cruelty was invigorating. Power over the weak endowed the strong with energy, with life. He himself had been powerless once, but he would never return to that state again. There was another way.

‘How will I exchange it for the original?’

‘It is not difficult to gain access to the gallery. I have detailed plans of the building … and the death of a night watchman will be a small price to pay for my pleasure.’ The professor looked his companion in the eye. ‘Several young artists have accepted my commissions, but you are the first in whom I recognise something of myself.’

‘What happened to the others? Where are they?’

The professor smiled. ‘Their mortal remains are in the grounds. But where their souls are depends on whether you believe all that nonsense about heaven and hell. I myself believe they have been returned to nature, providing nutrition for the earth.’

‘What about me?’

Unexpectedly, the professor put a bony arm around the young man’s shoulder. ‘I am an old man and I need young blood. I think I shall make you my protégé.’

‘You live alone?’

The professor thought for a few moments. ‘My associate, Colonel Moran, lived with me for a while but since his unfortunate death I have become lonely.’ He withdrew his arm quickly. ‘You remind me so much of myself when I was young.’ He sighed. ‘You live with your brother, you say?’

‘And my sister-in-law and their baby. I came to Liverpool to make a new start.’

‘And so you shall.’ He took out his pocket watch. ‘The picture will be finished very soon, will it not?’

The young man nodded eagerly. ‘Two days at the most. And then … ?’

‘We shall see.’

The young Austrian had not been told how the precise replica of the frame surrounding the original painting had been obtained. Nor did he know how the professor had gained such detailed knowledge of the workings of the Walker Art Gallery. And he knew better than to ask. The professor had methods known only to himself; methods that even his protégé was unaware of.

He delighted in the thought of being the professor’s protégé; perhaps eventually taking over his grand house and his art collection when the inevitable happened to the old man. From now on, life would be good. He would no longer be mocked as a useless idler by his brother, Alois, and be forced to live with him, his nagging Irish wife and their screaming baby in their meagre flat. He would show them his true worth. They would soon see what he was capable of.

He hoped the professor would invite him to come and live with him; treat him as a surrogate son. Perhaps, the young artist thought, he was waiting to see how he performed on the night the paintings were exchanged. If he did well, he was sure he would receive his just reward.

The appointed date for the operation soon arrived. That night the young man did not return to his brother’s flat in Upper Stanhope Street. Instead, he was shown to a lavishly decorated chamber with silk wallpaper and rich silk hangings around the bed. A fine linen nightshirt had been laid out for him. This was the night everything would change and the riches of the world would be his.

But first there was work to do. The carriage was too small to accommodate the finished forgery so they travelled in a horse-drawn van, sitting up beside the driver, wrapped up against the April chill. The artist knew better than to ask how such a vehicle had been obtained. The professor seemed to have the ability to conjure anything he needed. Such power.

They set off at midnight and the young man was able to note the route they took. Out of the drive and past a fine church, then through prosperous suburban streets and past parkland before driving down the wide boulevard that led ultimately to the centre of Liverpool. He recognised the grand houses of Toxteth and the poor side streets that had become so familiar during his stay in the town. When they reached William Brown Street they drove round to the rear of the art gallery. There was a door at the back and the professor had somehow obtained the key. He felt excitement course through his body and realised how much he desired the professor’s power. He longed to be feared like those soldiers in the painting. He wanted the respect he’d never had.

The professor kept watch while he helped the driver lift the canvas out of the van. Adrenaline made his burden light as they carried it into the building. He had memorised the plan the professor had shown him and he knew where the night watchman would be stationed. It would be up to him to deal with this obstacle to their success because the professor wanted no witnesses. The watchman would have to be eliminated and, for the first time, the artist would hold the power of life and death over another human being. The prospect thrilled him more than he’d expected.

They moved silently, the professor leading the way with a flashlight, and, in the corner of the room where the painting was displayed, they found the night watchman snoozing in a chair, emitting regular soft snores. So far they’d made no noise, but the young man knew that it would be impossible to make the exchange without waking him. The professor switched off his flashlight, but in the light of the full moon trickling in through the gallery skylight, the artist could see that his victim was a small man in late middle age, who wore an ill-fitting dark uniform and a peaked cap. A harmless man. An insignificant man. The professor gave the signal. It was time.

He took the man by surprise, creeping up beside him and clamping a cloth over his nose and mouth. It was important not to leave a mark on his body. The man struggled for a while, but he was unfit and lacked the strength of youth. The artist clung on with determination until the thrashing limbs stilled. Then, with the help of the coachman, he arranged the body carefully so that it would appear that the man had died suddenly in his sleep. Hopefully, the museum authorities would assume a weak heart; a small tragedy or, more likely, an inconvenience.