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

That much was true. But he had always taken an unusual approach to problems, unlike the real Galbraith or the present Herr Zimmermann. Their intellect, however impressive for most people, had been limited, short-sighted. Bernard Bolzano defied this stereotype, even though in matters of philosophy Moriarty disagreed with him without having to apply himself too much.

“Um, I cannot say I recall this particular area of your work,” Zimmermann began.

Moriarty just smiled indulgently and went on describing his alias’s fictional study while they drank tea – not what they would call tea in England, though. He took care to notice Herr Professor’s expression throughout the whole time and tweak the story accordingly. He saw that he had captured Zimmermann’s interest.

So very little is needed to beguile someone. Add a dash of appeal to their pride, a spoonful of shared interests, two slices of engaging questions …

“… but if I could see the original work, it would be such an honor for me—”

His version of Professor Galbraith was excited by the mere thought. Unfortunately, before Zimmermann could answer – and Moriarty was certain he would offer him to go through the documents – a knock on the door interrupted them.

“Come in,” Zimmermann said in German.

A young woman entered: a nondescript dark blonde in a nondescript greyish dress. Moriarty would presume her likely to be a secretary, but her manner suggested otherwise. Before he could read her more thoroughly, she spoke: “Oh, I’m sorry, Robert. I didn’t realize you had a visitor.”

“Don’t apologize, I announced my arrival rather late,” Moriarty said in deliberately badly-accented German.

Zimmermann recalled his manners. “Professor, this is my sister Eva. Eva, meet Professor Galbraith. He traveled here all the way from Edinburgh to learn more about my work on classifying my late mentor’s legacy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Eva chirped.

“Likewise.” He produced another one of his wide repertoire of carefully practiced smiles: crafted for young ladies in polite society, garden variety.

She blushed a little. He looked down for a second, then his smile widened. He might need to get closer to the Zimmermanns later. Eva could be useful for that.

Her gaze lingered a second too long on him before turning to her brother. “I came because Josephine took ill and cannot go with us to the opera the day after tomorrow. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home and was nearby anyway, so …”

Late nights at the office, with this detestable tea and philosophical papers? Or does something else keep Herr Zimmermann?

“Thank you, dear. I’m sure I’ll think of someone else—” The professor suddenly looked at Moriarty. “Would you like to visit the opera with us? It would be my pleasure to show you our city’s culture as well as its intellectual enticements. They’re having Faust , it’s a truly good work, if you haven’t seen it yet. I would prefer to take you to Mozart, as is traditional, but we could always do that later if you’re staying in Prague for some time.”

Eva’s eyes shined. “Oh, Herr Galbraith, you must come!”

Moriarty waged quickly. He would miss an opportunity for a certain mission he’d been planning; on the other hand, it would do no harm to get to know the Zimmermanns better.

“It would be my honor.” He nodded.

His move may have earned him even more trust from Robert Zimmermann than the previous academic discussion. Practically without any encouragement, he offered Moriarty to come the next day and look through every piece of Bernard Bolzano’s unpublished manuscripts, provided he would discuss his findings with him without delay.

The filing of the documents was nearly as chaotic as Zimmermann’s office. Moriarty detested disorderliness. Just finding some sort of system in the papers took him a while. He could consider himself lucky he was a fast and observant reader with a keen memory.

But in the end, there was nothing . After two whole days of careful shifting through the fragments and unpublished manuscripts from dawn to well after dusk, not a thing even remotely resembling what he had hoped for. He found many indications that the presumed work had existed – most likely the information his unknown benefactor had mentioned. Yet nothing at all pointed at its fate now!

James Moriarty had been an ice-cold man for most of the time: rational, calculating, self-controlled. But, occasionally, he gave in to his temper. And when he did, he was capable of showing more fury than one would think imaginable.

Such a moment almost came now. But Moriarty would take the anger and melt it down to cold determination to find out : whether the manuscript in question had really existed, who was playing games with him and why.

Emotion was not the enemy of reason; one just had to learn to work with it properly.

He would go to the opera with the Zimmermanns tonight and apply himself to learn more about them. Had the professor been hiding something, playing some game? Or had he been what he seemed: the harmless little philosopher, unable to comprehend the true impact of his long-dead tutor’s works?

I feel like a chess piece on somebody else’s board , he thought derisively. He would find a way to look at the game as a whole. Then we shall see who wins.

What do mathematics and crime have in common?

A more fitting question would be what they don’t .

Hard work, self-control and a brilliant mind are necessary assets in both, should you be successful. Most people couldn’t even understand a simple derivative of a function. Most attempted crimes failed. Not spectacularly, not even a little bit interestingly, because there was nothing spectacular or interesting about them. They were as dull, small-minded and stupid as a child’s tantrum. Not thought through at all.

But that much could be said about many professional fields. No, there was more to this.

Others wouldn’t understand the unique connection , pondered Moriarty as he changed into evening dress. They wouldn’t see how beautiful it is.

The beauty lay in the slow revelation of the puzzle and the process of its solution; the careful evaluations of all components of the equation; solving one piece after another … It was a rigorous task, demanding patience and care. In applied mathematics, he would typically start with a problem, account for its variables and determine the outcome. Sometimes the work concerned numerous variables difficult to estimate, like his current work at the university. He had recently started working on a new task concerning the dynamics of an asteroid.

In crime, the procedure was a little different. He would start with the desired outcome and then determine the values of variables needed for it. They were much more complex to account for but it was feasible if he picked the problem carefully. He loved the process of thinking it all through, moving the invisible pieces on his imagined board. There it was – a passion stronger than for pure mathematics, stronger than anything else the world could offer.

Usually, he was the one to determine the parameters of the equation to his needs. Then, though with certain degrees of freedom, the result was the one he’d anticipated.

Not so now. He was a variable in someone else’s equation, a state he very much despised.

Patience, now. I’ll be playing their game a little while longer and then, when I deem it most useful, my variable shall become truly unpredictable. Then I’ll make it my equation.

He could learn a lot from it. And the sweet, sweet reward awaiting him if he succeeded …