The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

The Adventure of The Lost Theorem Julie Novakova

Prague, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, 187–

A gunshot resonated through the narrow alley. In the quiet streets of the Old Town long after midnight, no other sound would be more shocking and out of place.

If any of the inhabitants of the old houses opened their window and looked out, they would see a young man running fast through the streets. He was wearing no hat or overcoat, though it was freezing and the pavement was covered in snow. If the accidental observer saw lamplight illuminate his face, they’d wonder if they hadn’t seen a ghost: so pale and thin had it seemed.

Had they been at the Franz Joseph railway station three days ago, they would have met him under very different circumstances and probably wouldn’t have remembered the encounter. They would see a rather thin, tall young man in an impeccable if somewhat boring clothing, with a simple yet elegant ebony walking cane. He had one of these unexceptional, hard-to-recall faces. Except for the eyes. A more astute observer would surely notice the slightly sunken grey eyes and their piercing stare. They would pigeonhole him as a high clerk or a man of learning – and in this they wouldn’t be wrong, as he’d been a mathematics professor at a small yet renowned English university.

What casual observers wouldn’t see was the blade concealed in the man’s cane, the small derringer resting between two shirts in his case and the Sheffield switchblade in his coat’s pocket. Those who would have seen any of these items probably wouldn’t be inclined to tell others about them, if only for the impracticality of conversing if you’re dead.

The man’s name was James Moriarty and, at this moment, his main concern would be avoiding this impracticality himself.

There was a quiet knock on the door. “Do you wish any refreshments, sir? Today’s newspapers?”

Moriarty shook his head and the salesman left for another train car, searching for other compartments with lights on to offer his goods.

The sun hadn’t risen yet but James was up habitually early. A lot of his business tended to go on in the wee small hours of the morning, if not in the middle of the night. Luckily, he never felt the need for much sleep. Sleeping only kept you from more thinking – and thinking was what James Moriarty valued most of all.

He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket for a small folded piece of paper. This had been the reason he was sitting in a train going to Prague after all.

Little could be derived from the letter. It had been sent from Prague and written in the plainest black ink on a plain paper, put in a completely plain envelope. The handwriting had apparently been altered, though if he were to secure a sample of a suspected author’s usual handwriting, he would surely recognize it. Otherwise, he had nothing except for one important fact. That someone had been very careful. Moriarty, in fact, expected that the letter had not been written by its real author, merely transcribed by someone else.

As for the self-described identity of the author: James Moriarty had no friends and did not believe in benefactors. Everyone followed their own agendas in the end. The secret of gaining power over others lay in knowing exactly what theirs were.

Now someone thought he’d known his agenda. Moriarty would gladly let them think that.

As soon as he found a decent hotel and checked the exit routes from his room, James Moriarty went to introduce himself to the Prague academic society.

After his university’s small town and London, Prague was a pleasant change. It was a smallish city by a Londoner’s standards but impressive nonetheless, much more interesting than the town he’d been living in these days. Under the city’s famous thousand spires, he walked toward the mathematics wing of the Faculty of Philosophy of the Charles-Ferdinand University. To get to Zimmermann’s office, he used an alias from a colleague from Edinburgh, certain that no one would know the Scot personally here, and a story remarkably close to the truth – that he heard the professor had been compiling Bernard Bolzano’s work and he’s interested in it. He had sent Zimmermann the note about his arrival yesterday, apologizing for such a quick notice. One day was still passable for an eccentric professor and not long enough for Zimmermann to start making serious enquiries, should it come to that.

Moriarty had developed a custom of not forming assumptions before having acquired the facts, but the first encounter with the renowned scholar surpassed his expectation nevertheless.

First glance into his office: a disorderly mess everywhere. Books lay open on the floor, table and spare chairs. A mug of what presumably had once been tea fulfilled the role of a paperweight. The papers beneath – full of sweeping handwriting not remotely resembling the anonymous friend’s letter – looked an incarnation of chaos.

Robert Zimmermann himself was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of dark hair greying at the temples, clad in what may have been fashionable here at least a decade ago. He spoke in fairly good English, albeit with a strong Teutonic accent: “Ah, Professor Galbraith, is it so? I received your note! I’ve heard a lot about you!”

I doubt it, Moriarty thought. Aloud he said: “And I’ve heard a lot about your work, Professor Zimmermann. Your accomplishments in both philosophy and mathematics are astounding and your work on uncovering Herr Bolzano’s manuscripts is commendable. I have been studying his Grössenlehre because some of my own work centers on the binomial theorem that he mentions there, albeit briefly, not having published possible other manuscripts on it …”

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 …

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?

The prospect of going through the disordered pile again did not attract him, but hard work often bore fruit … He would try tomorrow.

But tonight he’d try to make use of other sources as well.

“Professor Galbraith! You look a little tired today. I hope you slept well.”

“I slept quite soundly, thank you. It must still be the travel,” Moriarty answered smoothly. He poured himself a cup of what they dared to call tea here.

In truth, he’d slept barely two hours. His excursion into the Prague criminal underworld, however, brought forth at least some results. There was a recent shift of status quo, some other player had entered the game and seized it firmly. The new king remained unseen, pulling the strings through his minions. His actions had made quite a splash, as the previously rival worlds of German and Czech criminals merged in some areas. What he’d heard that night truly left him wondering. Czech and Germans working together for a common goal. Efficiently, even, from what he’d learned. So moving. Had Moriarty been more inclined to displays of emotion, he might have shed some tears. Maybe state officials should consider building criminal enterprises as a way to bring together the ever-quarreling nations.

As it happened, he was not inclined to displays of emotion. Therefore, he only frowned slightly and noted the fact for later use.

It surprised Moriarty that there hadn’t even been any rumors about the new king’s identity. Was it possible that this mysterious figure had been the one to lure him here? But then he’d need to have access to Bolzano’s documents and at least a partial understanding of them …

Anyone from Zimmermann’s university department or with access to it could have gotten to the manuscripts. And Moriarty had a suspicion that Zimmermann, being as lax as he was, may have taken the precious papers home as well. His servants could have seen them too.

But who would find the signs he had spotted as well, and recognize their meaning?

He returned to going through the manuscripts, remembering where the spotted indications had been and trying to make more sense of them. When Zimmermann asked him to lunch, he politely declined.

He was left alone in the office.

Going towards Zimmermann’s despicable desk, Moriarty produced a set of small lock picks from his pocket. Chaotic as he may have been, Zimmermann didn’t leave most correspondence lying around, but, Moriarty noticed, put it in a desk drawer.

Click. The drawer opened readily.

He flipped through the correspondence. After a few letters, he understood why the otherwise reckless Zimmermann had paid attention to locking the drawer. He and a certain Josephine would undoubtedly find it most humiliating if their exchanges were made public. That would also explain his distractedness at the opera.

But petty human concerns like this were of no interest to Moriarty. He focused on the academic correspondence, notes from colleagues – and there was no match for the writing from his note, even taking deliberate alterations into account.

He closed the drawer and looked at the desk again. Could something have been left here? Ah, that pile: a few newer notices from colleagues, a note from sister, letters from Brünn and Vienna …

He almost failed to notice the approaching quiet steps. A second before the door opened, he put the pile back as it was and made a leap into the other room.

Just in time.

Eva Zimmermann entered, bearing a small basket. She stopped when she saw him through the open door between the rooms. “Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt your work, Professor Galbraith. I thought you were lunching with my brother. I … I brought him a snack for the afternoon.”

“Waiting for the moment he wouldn’t be here.” He nodded calmly.

A panicky expression flickered through her face. “Well, I … I meant to …”

He got up and walked slowly to her. “Just tell me the truth.”

She gave him a hopeless glance. He noticed she was wearing perfume and her day dress and jewelry were unusually ostentatious.

“H-Herr Galbraith, I d-don’t …” she stuttered.

“You thought you would find me here alone, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, her gaze firmly fixed on her toes.

“Well, I find this kind of attention very flattering from a beautiful and respectable young lady like you, but think of what others would say if they heard. You are a remarkable woman, Fräulein Zimmermann. Don’t let pointless rumor ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Now she was blushing to the roots of her hair. “Thank you, Herr Galbraith,” she managed. “That – that’s very wise of you. If you’ll excuse me now.”

She almost ran through the door.

Moriarty allowed himself a little chuckle and went back to work.

In spite of skipping lunch, he felt more energized than before. Absorbed in his search, he didn’t notice Zimmermann returning from lunch.

“Did anything happen while I was away?”

“Nothing at all,” Moriarty murmured, not taking his eyes off the old texts. Thus he spent the next hour, and the next …

… the theorem in reference … praying my work brings peace and understanding but so uncertain about this … pure mathematics, yet what others may do … if one prays to God, true and pure, where the Lord can see him, then he may know …

He stopped and almost broke into laughter. “I’m famished,” he said to the surprised professor. “Are you going to dinner?”

“Ahem, I’m very sorry, I have other plans for the evening though I could—”

“Do not worry, Professor. I will see you tomorrow!”

Or not, if I’m right, he added to himself.

Moriarty’s steps resonated in the empty church. It was long closed by now; however, he had means to enter places. He walked to the first carved bench, then knelt down as if to pray.

Where the Lord can see him …

There was a large statue of the Christ gazing down at his lambs. Moriarty moved a little to the right – yes, here. The statue seemed to stare right at him at this spot.

He began to fumble around the bench, hoping it hadn’t been replaced in several decades.

At the beginning of the century, Bernard Bolzano worked as a preacher at the St Salvator’s Church by the Clementinum. He’d been there for nearly fifteen years and remained a very pious man throughout his whole life. Where else would he turn to when hiding a work he considered dangerous in the hands of someone not as devout as himself?

Moriarty’s fingers found a strange shape under one of the carved ornaments, something that didn’t quite belong. He palpated it, pulled and pushed and, after a couple of minutes, it finally gave in. A small leather sheath fell out into his awaiting palms.

Yes! He hid it here, this is it …

Once safely outside, he couldn’t resist opening the sheath and unwrapping the frail paper. There it was, before his own eyes: the lost theorem!

He had already packed, all that was left to do was to take his belongings and catch the late night train to Berlin, from where he would continue to England.

He took a little detour and then returned to his hotel. The door didn’t look as if it had been tampered with. It should be safe to retrieve his possessions. He unlocked the door, entered the dark room—

The door suddenly closed behind him and the light went on. “Stay where you are. Hands up and turn around slowly.”

He obeyed, and saw Eva Zimmermann, clad in a dark grey practical dress and aiming a Webley pocket revolver at him. “You don’t look surprised to see me.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

She smiled coldly. “What gave me away?”

“A simple mistake, truly. You left a note in your handwriting lying on your brother’s desk. It was most likely that someone close to your brother – or he himself – had sent me the note that had brought me here. Why would I fail to check on you, so deep in the circle of suspects? Just because you’re a woman? I never underestimate anyone based on superficial characteristics. But it surprises me you didn’t use someone else to write the letter.”

“This is my doing only. Who else would understand the importance of it? I cannot let anyone think I’m entertaining myself with useless pursuits. I worked hard to attain my current position.”

“So why risk it for an old document?”

“An old document?” she exclaimed. “I would never have expected to hear these words from you. Don’t you see its significance? Oh … I see. You just wanted to see my reaction, didn’t you? Good. Now hand it over.”

“I don’t have it on me. I hid it in the lining of my suitcase just after I found it earlier. I have to tear it again. If you’d allow me to use my knife …”

“Good try. First, give me your coat, slowly … And you may do what you propose – without any blades.” Still holding the gun firmly and pointing it at him without ever wavering, she fumbled in her purse with her other hand and then threw him some small nail clippers. “These should suffice. And hands where I can see them.”

While she was searching his coat, finding he hadn’t been lying about not having the manuscript on him, he began to work on the tough lining. It was slow going with the clippers. While he was working at it, he spoke: “You are the new king of the local underworld, aren’t you? Let me pay you my proper respects. But how have you come to it? And why Bolzano?”

“My brother is not a bad philosopher but he’s a hopeless mathematician. He doesn’t understand most of his mentor’s legacy and cares not for classifying and publishing it. He kept it at home for a while. I used to read it, work through the theorems … It was I who helped him with homework and essays when I was still a child and he a student; who taught him so much – and what for? Though I loved the brain-work, I was expected to stay home and devote my time to searching for a prospective husband! I would have loved to become a mathematician, yet you cannot do that covertly if you want to succeed in the academic world. So I found myself another hobby.”

“I understand you saw the importance of the lost manuscript for your … hobby as well as your original passion, but what made you think I would retrieve it?”

“Get on with it,” she said harshly, observing his efforts with her nail clippers with dissatisfaction. “And don’t pretend you’re just a mathematics professor. Your reputation precedes you, Moriarty. Or have you not gained much of your current standing by … let’s say, very unofficial ways? It may have started as a means to pursue your academic career, but it has become much more since then, has it not? You and I seem to have a lot in common.”

The lining was almost done now. “So that’s why you pretended to take a different kind of interest in me? Not just to observe my work, but to get closer to the fellow mathematical criminal, is it so? And may I just say, you need to work on that yet. You were overacting. It was all too obvious.” He shook his head. “You really overdid it today at your brother’s office. You went there to check on my work – whether I had found it already, yes? The excuse itself was believable, but your behavior … I don’t think any lady outside romantic novels would act that way.”

The lady in question sneered in a very un-ladylike way. “Remind me to act properly ambivalently the next time. Oh, wait – you won’t be there for any next time.”

He stopped, hands just above the torn lining. “Are you going to dispose of me? I cannot quite believe you’ve lured me here all the way from England just for one manuscript and then to kill me. That doesn’t make sense if you add the benefits, risks and costs.”

“If you only found the manuscript and learned nothing more, you would return home freely. You must admit you’ve brought this fate upon yourself.”

“But still – I could be a useful asset for your expansion abroad. If you had so high a regard of me and my ability to find the document, why stop with that?”

Eva produced a sad little smile. “We both know the rules of this game. Or, rather, their lack. Sooner or later, one of us would betray the other. Knowing this, we’d both be compelled to be the first to do so. Our collaboration would be brief and unfruitful, if I’m anticipating this right. Well – give me the paper. Let’s not prolong this any more.”

Moriarty opened the lining. There was nothing inside.

Eva’s cheeks reddened with anger. “Fine! Should I shoot you in the knee first for you to suffer?”

“If I tell you where it is, you’ll kill me. If I refuse to do so, you’ll kill me as well, if more slowly and painfully. It seems that if I cared about my well-being in my final moments, I should give you the document. But that would be in case I haven’t anticipated the possibility of this outcome and taken some precautions.”

Given my note got delivered and he would come at this hour …

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Moriarty risked a glance at his pocket watch. “We should be—”

A knock on the door interrupted his sentence.

“—expecting company,” he finished. “Come in!”

Robert Zimmermann entered and froze just by the door. “Eva?! What’s going on?”

The gun in her hand must have truly shocked him. Moriarty allowed himself a dash of relief that his assumption based on the facts known about them, namely that Herr Zimmermann knew nothing of his sister’s enterprises, had proven correct.

“Auf Wiedersehen,” he mumbled as he made a run for the door. Or better not.

She did not shoot; one step and he was behind her brother and then outside the room. He could hear shouts and a hollow thud from there while he was running hard through the corridor and downstairs. An instant later, he heard her running after him. He only gained an opportunity to escape and a very small advance, but he would have to calculate with that.

He burst out of the door. All contingency plans, all calculations of his precise mind suddenly seemed out of reach. He just ran.

A gunshot barked behind him, loud and shocking in the quiet night.

Moriarty urged himself to run faster. He had to, for himself and the work as well …

He had thoroughly familiarized himself with the map of Prague, but now he found himself uncertain where he was heading.

Another shot resonated through the empty street. He ran harder, almost out of breath now. She was a more capable pursuer than he’d anticipated …

Ah, I know it here! There’s the way to the riverbank …

He made a quick turn.

Faster now, faster …

The black water opened before him. On the very edge of the river, Moriarty turned around and ran quickly forward.

Eva Zimmermann was right there, he could almost glimpse her finger closing on the trigger, and then he dodged, less than a second before it was too late …

A shriek cut through the night a fraction before the loud splash.

Moriarty staggered back to the riverbank but could see nothing on the black surface.

Could she swim? Did she resurface somewhere? He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see …

Two days later, sitting safely on a train approaching London, James Moriarty was reading the newest issue of Prager Tagblatt, a certain valuable manuscript safely tucked inside his jacket’s inner pocket, and a faint smile flickering across his lips. A capable observer would nevertheless notice traces of sadness in his expression.

The very night of the unfortunate pursuit, he retrieved the manuscript from the cache near the railway station where he’d hidden it, and caught the first westbound train. He changed his startling unkempt appearance in Leipzig, and traveled further still to the British Isles without any incidents. In Hamburg, he managed to find and purchase a copy of Prager Tagblatt, and found some news of interest. The disappearance of a young lady and a strange attack on her brother, who claimed to have lost all memory of it, made quite a splash in Prague society. The sudden confusion in the criminal community was less apparent but noticeable from the news if one knew what to look for.

He had a lot to think about. Especially Eva Zimmermann. He had to admire the woman, even though she had tried to kill him. No other woman had ever tried before … I wonder if she survived. Shall we meet again in that case?

She had built a truly remarkable little empire, albeit a short-lived one. He always thought that if he attempted something like that, he’d wait until he had more experience and money – yet her example refuted these concerns.

But Eva Zimmermann did not wrap herself in enough shadows to remain at a safe distance. He should consider it a cautionary tale – not the usual moralistic kind, but a practical one. The fact that she’d heard about him also disturbed him greatly. He should be even more careful from now on. Who knew who else might have got some idea concerning him …

I should remain truly unseen, my hands clean and reputation impeccable. But if I engage in any kind of criminal activity, I’m still taking the risk of exposure. How can I avoid that? It’s not like I could advise others in crime and stay clean myself …

He froze.

That’s true, there is perhaps no specialized criminal adviser in the world … An empty niche.

Safe and profitable. Ideal for my equations.

Consulting criminal.

The corners of his mouth twitched in an amused smile.

Yes; this sounds good.