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

In criminal enterprises, one could learn a lot from mathematics, even where hardly anyone would expect it. The binomial theorem, while interesting, was becoming a child’s exercise. Even its applications in combinatorics and various distribution functions, the principal points of Moriarty’s earlier academic work, were about as surprising for a professional as the statement that the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening for any layman.

So why try so hard to get one’s hands on a work presumably concerning the theorem? Moreover, work a few decades old and in all likelihood outdated?

One would need a unique kind of imagination to see the possible implications. Such as James Moriarty undoubtedly possessed.

The signs scattered through Bolzano’s documents suggested the existence of an ambitious extension of the good old binomial theorem, such that would make complicated and hardly attainable operations like accounting for all crime in a big city at least feasible if not easy or reliable. But the specifics … Moriarty longed to see the theorem more than anything else.

I wonder if Bolzano saw this implication too and therefore hid this particular manuscript of his. He surely wouldn’t destroy his own work, but hiding it would explain the rumors and indications and yet the absence of the document itself , Moriarty mused. It would become him. He seems to have been a very … honest man.

Honesty. It usually made for a good variable. It tended to be quite predictable.

A hired carriage, already bearing Zimmermann and his sister, stopped in front of the hotel just on time. The professor seemed a little distracted, while his sister gave “Herr Galbraith” her full attention. She had exchanged her previous dull dress for a blue evening gown, which suited her very well. Clad in it, she seemed a different woman. Even the wittiness of her conversation on the way to the theater managed to surprise Moriarty.

Sweet yet sophisticated perfume. Expertly applied face paint. Her behavior and movements – all balanced on the edge of appropriate and enticing. Hmm.

If he needed to get even closer to the siblings, he would know the way. For now, he always replied politely and laughed at her jokes, but made no sign of an advance whatsoever. Her brother didn’t seem to notice a thing. Moriarty felt a little relief when the opera finally started.

The performers were good and practiced, but mostly unremarkable. Only one of the chorus girls, almost still a child, caught the attention of his ear. He skimmed through the program to see her name. Hmm, Adler. Let’s hope to see more of her in theaters in the future.

The opera itself was good albeit not at all innovative. The Faustian legend seemed an infinitely deep well of inspiration for multitudes of artists. Their efforts amused Moriarty greatly. They were like crows picking at an especially fat corpse. But he had to admit the legend had had a certain appeal. Revealing the mysteries of nature and history – that was an admirable undertaking. So what if there had been a bit of devilish help? Moriarty fully approved of that; he only detested the awful moralistic ending.

He shot a brief glance to the Zimmermanns. The professor looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. In contrast, Eva seemed fully absorbed in the play. Her eyes gleamed as she stared at the singers.

Moriarty could imagine the music broken down to its frequencies and individual tunes, translated into equations; but the passion onstage and in the auditorium was something he understood from observation only. His passion lay far elsewhere.

When the final applause died down, Eva exclaimed: “Wasn’t it exciting?”

“A true masterpiece,” Moriarty agreed, with an awed expression. Though he felt that should he act like this much longer, his face muscles would start to twitch.

Eva gave him a long look, too long to be comfortable. He was already preparing some innocent reply when Zimmermann spoke. “Allow us to invite you for a glass of wine, Professor Galbraith. I’m sure you’re thirsty after the long performance.”

“Please forgive me but I won’t accompany you. I still have some work to do tonight.”

“If we get a carriage, we can at least take you to your hotel,” Zimmermann offered.

“You’re very kind, but I think I’ll walk. It is not too cold tonight and it’s the perfect opportunity to see the beautiful city at night.”

Eva looked disappointed that they would part already but said nothing.

The night truly was quite mild, given that it was late winter. At first, Moriarty considered going on a previously planned mission, despite his not ideal appearance. But, as he walked through the city as it was growing quiet, he soon noticed a strange presence behind him.

Am I being trailed?

He stopped in the middle of a bridge, seemingly looking at the panorama of the Prague Castle, only just noticeable in the dark but still magnificent. Actually he threw a sideways glance towards where he suspected his pursuer to be.

There: a shadow of a statue, and a part of it just a shade deeper than the rest. Now he was sure he was being followed.

He hadn’t taken his gun to the opera, only his walking cane with a blade inside. Perfectly sufficient, provided his opponent would not have a gun.

Should he confront the pursuer? He could gain much information from it – but he’d also give some away. No, he had better wait. He would give whomever was following him an innocent story to tell: how the man walked from the opera house back to the hotel and did not emerge until morning.

And so it would seem to any unsuspecting observer.

A shadowy figure emerged from the hotel kitchen’s window into an empty street plunged in darkness. When faint moonlight finally fell upon it, it revealed a gruff man in worker’s clothes and a shabby hat, which concealed most of his face. What could be glimpsed were a short unkempt beard and a large nose.

The figure walked swiftly through the city, like someone who knew every inch of it, and stopped before an old house in Mala Strana.

The face turned upwards. Moonlight reflected briefly from its bright piercing eyes.

Moriarty concluded that his surroundings really were deserted, and started working on the house door’s lock. It took his skilled hands only a couple of minutes to open it. He slipped inside and closed the door quietly.

The rooms he was interested in were on the third floor. A small office had resided here for many years now; he’d checked on it before he decided on this small escapade.

The lock on the office’s door was even more ridiculous than the one downstairs. He entered and saw that Professor Bolzano’s old home had become a place of dereliction and decay. The office that occupied it now cared not for the crumbling plaster, creaking floor or draught coming from the old windows. No wonder, judging from the state of their own affairs: the desks and cabinets seemed about as tidy as Herr Zimmermann’s room at the university.

It was unlikely that the manuscript would remain hidden here, but he had nowhere else to start. He would check every loose brick, every plank in the floor, if he must.

He spent a few demanding hours turning the office upside down – and found nothing.

Despite telling himself that it was to be expected, that he only had to eliminate the most obvious possibility, James Moriarty felt the rage coming to him once again.

He looked around the room. He was certainly in no mood to tidy up after himself.

At least it may teach them to organize their work in some sort of system – even if only they would understand it, better than nothing.

Then it struck him. A system. A code .

Was it possible that he had missed something in Bolzano’s documents? Was he looking too superficially?