The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

The Perfect Crime G. H. Finn

Sunday, 8 August 1937

While the spires of Oxford may not have been dreaming, they did seem to slumber lazily as they basked in the sunshine. Edwin Fitzackerly, sticky and rather hot about the face as he pedalled his bicycle toward the university, was firmly wishing he hadn’t habitually followed his mother’s parting advice to always wear a vest, but it was too late to worry about that now. He was already perilously close to missing his appointment and undergraduates did not keep senior lecturers waiting – at least, not if they hoped one day to become faculty members themselves. Steering his bicycle one-handed, Edwin glanced at his watch. He grimaced and muttered, “I’m late!”, feeling more than a little like the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Then he couldn’t help but smile, as it struck him this was remarkably apt considering he was currently on his way to examine some effects of the late Charles Dodgson, better known as Lewis Carroll, author of the “Alice” books.

It tended to annoy Edwin that among the general public Lewis Carroll was often regarded as merely a writer of whimsical nonsense for children. At least in the cloisters of Oxford University, Charles Dodgson – who had died in 1898, almost forty years previously – was still respected and admired for his consummate skills as both a mathematician and a logician. As a child in his nursery, Edwin had been very fond of Alice’s adventures but as a young man he also had developed a love for Dodgson’s works on logic. Edwin considered himself very lucky to have been asked to write a biographical article about a man he regarded as something of a hero, even if it was only for his college’s student newspaper. It was perhaps even more fortunate that one of the more doddering of the elderly Masters at the college had by chance remarked that he possessed a jumble of Dodgson’s old effects and papers, stored for posterity but for many years forgotten, mouldering away in his attic. Apparently these papers included some private correspondence with another professor of mathematics, but Edwin’s informant could remember no further details.

To his great delight, Edwin had been given permission to come and sort through these relics of Dodgson to decide for himself if any might be helpful in writing his article. While he knew that in all likelihood he would find nothing more exciting than a ledger of household accounts, secretly he hoped he might stumble across some unpublished mathematical theorem, or perhaps even the manuscript of a third Alice adventure!

Arriving at his destination several minutes later than the firmly stipulated two o’clock (and amidst a steady stream of perspiration), Edwin was unsure whether to be worried or relieved that his octogenarian benefactor had not bothered to wait for his arrival. Placed under the brass knocker of the front door was a sheet of paper bearing the words “Punctuality is the politeness of kings. Louis XVIII”, beneath which was written “I see no reason why your lateness should be the cause of my own. You are welcome to use my house to conduct your researches in my absence. It being the Sabbath, my servants have been granted a day of rest thus you must be prepared to fend for yourself. The chest is in the drawing room. Let yourself in and try not to make too much mess.” The note was signed with an entirely indecipherable flourish that seemed to have more in common with a hieroglyph than a signature.

A short while later, Edwin was seated at a table, steadily unpacking the contents of a battered leather trunk that had been recovered from the bottom of a large tea chest. He had begun by carefully removing one item at a time and attempting to devise some system for cataloguing his finds, but he quickly gave up on this idea. He realised he first had to work out what it was he was trying to examine. There were a few books, which he stacked neatly at one end of the table. There were also many sepia-tinted photographs, most probably taken by Dodgson himself, which Edwin placed carefully in a pile of their own. There were batches of handwritten notes, which Edwin was sure would warrant closer attention but which for now he began to assemble into a heap in front of him. And then there were letters, private correspondence, mostly between Dodgson and someone who might have been a colleague of his – judging by a quick glance, it was indeed some professor of mathematics – but whether one who had taught at Oxford or elsewhere Edwin could not judge. The letters bore no address and for the most part were signed simply “M.”

Finally, there was a most singular item. At the bottom of the case, Edwin found a heavy, clear glass bottle. Curious, thought Edwin, for while the bottle held no liquid, on careful inspection it had been most thoroughly stoppered, and sealed both with lead foil and wax. More and more curious, thought Edwin, who had had the bitter lessons of accepted grammar beaten into him while at prep school. Looking through the glass, inside the bottle, Edwin could very easily see a sealed paper envelope, inscribed with the simple instruction “Read Me”.

Not being at all sure what to make of the mystery bottle, Edwin stood it on the table and stroked his chin. While, unsurprisingly, the items arranged before him did not seem overly likely to conceal a hitherto unknown novel about the amazing Alice, they still might contain many deep insights into Dodgson’s life and works. But there really was only one way to be sure whether any of them may have any use at all. And so Edwin resolved to work his way through his finds, one by one. He was tempted to start with the photographs, as he felt they could perhaps be examined more swiftly than the various writings, but Edwin rejected the notion on the grounds that they were also less likely to shed any light on either Dodgson’s mathematical research or his literary endeavours. At first glance, the notes seemed rather unclear, if not decidedly cryptic. They would require quite some time to study properly. Nodding to himself, Edwin resolved to begin by reading the letters from Professor M.

While Edwin was not always the most organised of men, he was reasonably diligent and methodical. He began by sorting the professor’s letters into date order. Then, with the earliest first, he began to read. It quickly became apparent that Charles Dodgson and the professor must have held each other in high regard, either academically or intellectually, and it seemed they may perhaps have been good friends, for in the course of the correspondence, M. had suggested Dodgson might like to play a game of logic and deduction with him. The professor would pose a problem, the solution to which, if Dodgson were to solve it, would lead Dodgson to the location of the next clue.

What a jolly old fellow, thought Edwin. I wish more professors were like him. In Edwin’s own experience, most members of the university staff not only did not possess a sense of humour, they vehemently objected to their students doing anything that might be considered enjoyable under any circumstances.

Reading further, it was obvious Dodgson must have accepted this amusing challenge, for the next few letters each contained complex riddles, mathematical puzzles, codes, cyphers and perplexing problems of the most baffling nature. How Dodgson had unriddled these mysteries remained unknown. Unless … thought Edwin, perhaps the handwritten notes might shed some light on this? But regardless of the methods he had employed, clearly Dodgson had indeed solved M.’s enigmas – and Edwin suspected he would have thoroughly enjoyed the process of doing so. He also wondered whether the professor had been pleased to have his conundrums picked apart so easily, or whether M. would have felt annoyed that an intellect existed to rival his own? Judging by the letters, the professor certainly was something of a genius when it came to plotting out cunning mental tricks and traps. At times his writing suggested a hint of intellectual arrogance. Yet it seemed Dodgson had always been able to best M. in this game of wits.

At last, Edwin began to read the last of the letters from the mysterious Professor M.

In it, M. congratulated Dodgson on how well he had played their game thus far, and then, rather than immediately present another puzzle, Professor M. began to expound upon a somewhat disturbing subject. At least, it would have been unsettling were it not so obviously a joke. It had to have been a light-hearted addition to the game. Surely it must …

At that moment, Edwin was distracted by a pencilled addition to the inked writing of the letter. The professor’s habitual “M.” had been circled on this particular sheet, a line drawn from it, and in the margins, in what looked very much like Dodgson’s handwriting, was a question mark and the comment “Why does M. never sign his name?” This meant very little to Edwin, although for some reason he had a nagging feeling that maybe he should know the identity of Professor M … Then again, Oxford was always awash with so many doctors and professors, it probably wasn’t of any particular significance.

M. had introduced a new topic into this last letter. It would have been scandalous if it were not framed purely as an exercise in logic. The professor had begun by asking a question.

“Have you given any consideration to the problem of how one might commit the perfect crime? From the standpoint of the logician, it is a most interesting subject upon which to formulate an analysis.”

While Edwin would admit that, from an entirely abstract perspective, the question was harmless enough and might be interesting to idly speculate upon, nevertheless there was something about the change in the tone of the writing that subtly disturbed him. The professor continued, expanding on his theme and offering a few hints as to his thoughts on how a “perfect crime” might be constructed – from a purely logical and hypothetical standpoint, of course. As ethically questionable as the subject may have been, Edwin did find M.’s suggestions compelling – but there was a far more startling revelation to come. Having once introduced the subject, within a few paragraphs the professor went on to state that he had, theoretically, devised a method for committing such a “perfect” crime, but then he stopped short of explaining the details of his theorem. There was a trace of sardonic mockery in M.’s writing as he all but boasted of this artfully crafted master plan, constructed upon simple logical premises yet which he also described more than a little challengingly as being “an unsolvable enigma”.

Edwin frowned and again wondered where he had heard of a Professor M. before. He shook his head and returned to read the closing paragraph of the letter:

“Would you like to know the details of my perfect crime? Would you really? The question in my mind remains, are you worthy to know this secret? I propose a final round to our game of logic and deduction. If you solve my greatest riddle (and with this you will either sink or swim) then you will be led to a message in a bottle – you will most certainly recognise this if you are clever enough to find it. In my final letter I shall withhold no secrets, rather I will lay all information before you, demonstrating exactly how a man might commit a perfect crime and yet despite this I most decidedly assure you, the crime is of such a nature that even with evidence fully provided it will never be solved. Here is your puzzle.”

The rest of the sheet of paper had been torn off, but Edwin was not overly interested to know what the professor’s last riddle may have been. Whatever it was, it was perfectly obvious that Dodgson had solved it – the proof was standing on the table before him. Edwin sat, staring at the strange sealed bottle with its enigmatic envelope nestling inside it.

And then another mystery occurred to Edwin. Having deduced the solution to M.’s final puzzle, why then had Charles Dodgson not opened the bottle?

The young man frowned and stared at the letter. All he could see was “Read Me”.

And then he decided that he would.

Somewhat hesitantly, he broke the scarlet wax seal around the top of the bottle, removed the cork and vainly attempted to reach the envelope inside. A strange but not altogether unpleasant fragrance emanated from the bottle, filling his nostrils and almost making him sneeze. It had a heavy note of perfume. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if the letter inside the bottle had been written by a lady, for surely a gentleman would not have scented his writing materials in such a fashion? Unless perhaps he was a foreigner? Edwin was sure there were plenty of European professors with a surname beginning with “M” … Maybe a Professor Medici or a Professor Machiavelli or somesuch? A hint of the Orient had seemed to suggest itself amid the pungent miasma that assailed his nose. A Professor Ming or perhaps a Professor Manchu? It seemed unlikely … After a few moments spent in a fruitless attempt to reach the envelope by alternately inserting a finger into the neck of the bottle and then, abandoning this approach, turning the bottle upside down and shaking it, he eventually decided that the simplest course of action would be to break the bottle. He reached for a heavy candlestick that had been conveniently left upon the table. Remembering that he had been instructed to avoid making a mess, he first carefully wrapped the bottle in a fold of the tablecloth then struck it sharply with the base of the candlestick. Nothing happened, but a second harder blow produced a satisfying splintered cracking sound. Cautiously, Edwin placed the open top of the tea chest under the table, unfolded the tablecloth from around the bottle and let the combination of broken glass and sealed envelope fall into the otherwise empty tea chest. Then he reached carefully inside and retrieved the envelope, which he found was held shut by a blob of black sealing wax bearing the imprint of a skull, with the word “memento” and a larger ornate “M” embossed beneath.

Edwin’s curiosity could not be suppressed any longer. He swiftly broke the seal, opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper from within. Once again his nose was assaulted by a pungent aroma. He felt sure he could detect the scents of sandalwood, attar of roses, cinnamon, frankincense, patchouli, musk, and beneath these, some acrid cloying after-scent that he could not put a name to.

He began to read.

The paper bore a single word as its heading –“Martyrio”.

Edwin had no difficulty in recognising this as a Latin term for “testimony”, in particular that of a martyr about to be put to death. He considered absent-mindedly that the term was perhaps grammatically incorrect when used in this way, but he gave it no further thought and began reading.

“To Whomsoever is reading these words,

“Logic, that sweet sibling of mathematics, has long been an interest of mine. My fascination for the subject is due not only to its stimulation of the cerebral processes, but also to logic’s purity of form and its – oh so useful – practical application to the problems of the manifest world. As with mathematics, logic is pure in that it is entirely free from petty human illusions such as fashion, compassion, sentiment or morality. Rather it rests upon the application of laws greater than those found in either church or courtroom, laws that are rooted in intellect and science rather than in foolish faith or the judgement of twelve good mental weaklings on a jury.

“Moreover, logic can – as I shall demonstrate – be bent to serve the will and purpose of its master, regardless of whether such a purpose be deemed ‘moral’ or ‘immoral’ by the lesser intelligences of the general populace. To this end let me present to you a conundrum that has vexed me for some years: ‘How might one commit a perfect crime?’

“I suggest you make yourself comfortable and read on, as through the medium of this letter, I intend to show you.

“Before applying logic to solve this problem, let us first define and agree some terms and parameters.

i) For a crime to be perfect, it must be a crime recognised in law, or by some other self-inflating and objectively irrelevant authority such as religion – preferably it will be deemed a crime both by Church and state. For our purposes here, a crime is not a crime unless it be near universally accepted as such.

ii) The crime must have a manifest reality and the crime must actually occur – I therefore preclude from this discussion petty ‘crimes’ which have no tangible basis in the physical world (such as verbal blasphemy, treason or slander) and also any ‘crime’ which may be deemed to take place only in the heart and mind of the individual or in any other way to lack a concrete nature.

iii) For a crime to be ‘perfect’, it must be unsolved and must remain effectively unsolvable.

“It has been argued that ‘a perfect crime’ would be one that is undetected and undetectable. This I refute. Such a crime would certainly be agreeable, and fit with the concept of a ‘perfect crime’, were it not that it would be scientifically unverifiable. If a man claps his hands in an effort to frighten away lions, this we may consider to be logical. If no lions appear, logically the method may be a sound one. But should the man claim that his clapping drives away lions from his home in London, we should scoff at him and his method, rightly pointing out that an absence of lions does not prove that his clapping has driven them away. So too a man claiming to have developed a methodology for committing a perfect crime cannot simply state that he has done so and offer the lack of the detection of his crimes as proof of their perfection, otherwise he would run the risk of being considered either a simpleton or a lying fool.

“I therefore add further conditions to my definition of ‘a perfect crime’:

iv) At least one person besides the Master Criminal must be aware that the crime has been committed.

“This stipulation will help to ensure the scientific validity of the method. After all, one should hardly simply take the word of a self-proclaimed Mastermind of Crime as I, or rather they, may, of course, be lying. In a puzzle of logic, one must always be on one’s guard against statements which may later prove to be false.

v) It would further be desirable that in addition to at least one person knowing of the commission of the crime (whether by directly witnessing it or by deduction), ideally there should be undeniable physical evidence of the crime – yet naturally, this evidence must be such that it cannot be used to prove the identity of the perpetrator of the perfect crime, or as I might immodestly refer to him, the Perfect Criminal.

“Whilst in theory many crimes might be suitable for the purpose of our little experiment, let us not trifle with inconsequentialities. Let us set the stakes of this game high. Let us assume that the perfect crime must be at the apex of all criminality. Let us choose for our crime nothing less than murder.

“How then may our Perfect Criminal commit a murder and yet remain unfettered by any undue fear of detection?

“Let us first make a few assumptions about our Mastermind.

“Let us assume that he is no ham-fisted bungler apt to leave behind a mass of readily understood clues to his crimes. Let us assume he is a man of high intelligence and diligence, possessed of no small measure of guile. Let us assume he is educated to the highest degree, well placed in society and canny enough to work for the most part through intermediaries and that thus he is able to still further reduce the already limited risk of detection.

“Should then our Master Criminal be afraid of being caught in the perpetration of a crime? Should he fear that he might leave some unfortuitous item behind at the scene of his activities, such as a misplaced monogrammed glove or a carelessly dropped calling card bearing his address? No, for he has a veritable army of lesser criminals to carry out his orders while he, like any prudent general, remains far from the field of conflict and concerns himself primarily with strategy.

“Should he fear the risk of betrayal by one of his deputies? Not if he is canny enough to ensure very few men know his true identity, and also to arrange that those slender few who could identify either his name or his face are themselves in far greater fear of him than ever they would fear a hangman’s noose.

“If then our Master Criminal may justly feel himself safe from the risk of discovery by the victims of his crimes and if likewise he may understandably feel unendangered by the humdrum investigations of the denizens of Scotland Yard, who then should our Master Criminal guard himself against?

“In certain Chinese schools of thought, and likewise among the ancient Manichean philosophers, there exists a concept of a natural law of opposites. For there to be night, so then there must be day. For there to be darkness, so too there must be light. If there is such a person as a Master Criminal, so, inevitably, one day there must come a Master Detective.

“While our Master Criminal may justifiably fear no ordinary policeman, being himself of an extraordinary nature far beyond the reach of normal men, it would only be prudent for our Master Criminal to guard against the possibility of his discovery by an equally extraordinary detective, one who’s wit and knowledge, training and temperament, skills and powers of reasoning are close to being a match for my own. Such a Master Detective might yet see through any obfuscating fog I employed to baffle lesser minds. If he were to apply his superior abilities unceasingly, forgo food and sleep until he’d solved a problem, then he might eliminate six impossible things before breakfast and thus be left with the truth – no matter how improbable it might seem that anyone could truly be a threat to one such as myself.

“That such a Master Detective shall one day arise, I regard almost as an inevitability. Indeed, I feel it is likely I have already become aware his presence, exploring and investigating the outer strands of my web. While I am not entirely certain, it is my belief that the existence of a Mastermind of Crime – though not as yet my actual identity – may already have been deduced by some hidden nemesis. Thus I have taken steps to attempt to identify who among the brightest minds of our time might be disguising himself and hiding amongst my shadows? Who is it that may one day threaten me? Yes, I write ‘me’, for the time for all pretences has now passed.

“I have, thus far, considered eighty-seven potential threats to my continued operation as a Criminal Mastermind – people who I reasoned might, under certain circumstances, prove themselves capable of becoming a danger to my anonymity, or indeed to my very existence. I reasoned early on that I could not easily have so many prominent individuals killed – for most are doctors, lawyers, clergymen, scientists, authors, petty nobles and the like. I could not simply have them all killed, at least not without causing far too great a public outcry and arousing suspicion and interest where as yet there is none. I therefore began to test each of my suspects to determine which of these eighty-seven might truly become a poisoned thorn in my side. I watched them. I studied them. I devised tests. I set puzzles. Those who failed to solve my riddles, I let go. Like a benevolent fisherman throwing back the small fry, I removed the barbs of my hook from the throats of those of lesser intellect, reasoning that if they failed to solve the problems I had presented them with, they certainly could not succeed in outwitting me in games that were played for higher stakes. I whittled down my eighty-seven to forty-three. I reduced forty-three to seventeen. From seventeen I subtracted a further eleven. At last I had half a dozen firm suspects, six Napoleons of Detection who might potentially one day face me in the field. To my great surprise, one was a female. The woman I decided to treat as a special case. The other five men I determined to test still further. Each of these five had passed all my earlier trials so I determined to send each one a puzzle so intricately complex that I could but barely solve it myself. Should anyone decrypt this problem I would know that individual could undoubtedly pose a threat to me. I arranged that the solving of the problem would lead ultimately to the discovery of the bottle containing this letter.

“When I began to write, I addressed you, my dear reader, with the phrase ‘To Whomsoever is reading these words’. In truth, as I am writing this, I do not know which one of you has solved my most artful puzzle and claimed this letter as his prize. If no one has solved my greatest riddle, then I write these words to no one and I am at no risk at all. If you have opened the bottle and for some reason you have not immediately read these words then for reasons which will shortly become clear, I know I still am safe. Likewise, if by remote chance the hiding place of the bottle had been discovered accidentally and its letter has somehow fallen into unintended hands, again I need feel no concern and I am in no danger, as you will realise when you read further. But whoever you are, if you are now reading this, it is only fitting that I explain why I have no fear that you will use my words against me in any court of law.

“You may have wondered why I have set down this information in so rambling a manner? Why haven’t I as yet got to the point? Why do I seem to procrastinate and delay, taking my time in telling you of my plans, drawing out the moment when I will reveal my secrets? Indeed, you may wonder why I have set down any information at all?

“Before I answer that, let me offer some further data. I am well known as a mathematician. My training in the sciences is however both wide and deep. I have no small knowledge of chemistry. There exist certain substances which are described as being pyrophoric – a term stemming from the Greek πυροφόρος, pyrophoros, meaning ‘fire-bearing’. A chemical that is pyrophoric will ignite spontaneously when in air at normal room temperature. I have myself discovered that this reaction can be abated by storing the pyrophoric substance in an inert gas. No doubt others will also soon discover this and publish their findings. No matter. For now, however, I have kept my research and discovery a secret, for I have my own uses for this knowledge. The bottle that contained this letter was filled with such a gas. I trust that you did not imagine the gas was poisonous? I hope I did not give you any undue cause for concern on that account. I can assure you the gas was entirely harmless. Besides which, any poisonous gas would either be so strong as to have killed you instantly when you first opened the bottle or else would be so weak as to be easily dispersed in the air, thus becoming harmless. Now where was I?

“It was no particular difficulty for me to impregnate the paper upon which I have written these words with certain pyrophoric chemicals. It was a far greater task to mix them with a selection of other reagents in order to delay such a reaction so that the paper would not burn the moment it was exposed to air. Such chemicals can create quite an unpleasant smell so I took the precaution of disguising them with a liberal application of varied perfumes. By the time you have finished reading these words, the paper upon which they are written will almost certainly have begun to smoulder imperceptibly and then shortly afterwards will burst into flames, so I advise you to continue reading while you still have the opportunity. In case you are wondering, water will not stop the reaction, it may even hasten it. You have no way of preventing this paper from self-immolating within the next few minutes.

“You may now see why I feel confident that even though I present you with an explanation as to how I will perpetrate a Perfect Crime, I need have no fear of this evidence being used against me, for, within moments, it will no longer exist. By explaining all this in writing, I am presenting you with a full confession, but one that will shortly disappear before your eyes in an almost proverbial puff of smoke. My crime will have a witness, you yourself shall be that witness, but you will be quite unable to act upon your knowledge. I am doubly sure of this.

“I posed the question as to why I have written this letter in so protracted and circuitous a fashion? I will now answer that. I did so in order to increase the time it would take you to read my words. I wished to ensure ample time for the chemicals with which I have soaked and coated the paper you are now holding to do their work. I am sure that even if you read extremely quickly, by now their full absorption is utterly inevitable. I ensured that I coated the paper with a sufficient strength even to penetrate through cloth, in the highly unlikely event you are reading this whilst wearing gloves.

“As time draws irrevocably on, I feel I should however at last make a true confession. I have not as yet been entirely honest with you. Did you expect me to be? Did you think I would play this game by anyone’s rules but my own? In tests of logic one must always consider the possibility that any given statement may be false. Even so, I have not lied to you.

“Or have I?

“I will admit that I have withheld some information up until this point.

“You may have noticed a rather unusual odour emanating from the paper upon which my words are written, an unpleasant smell not fully hidden by the aromas of exotic scents that I applied to this letter. I told you that this was due to certain chemicals with which I had coated the paper. That was the truth.

“I implied that these chemicals were simply to delay the speed at which this letter will begin to combust. That was only partially true. Some of the chemicals I used were employed for this purpose. Others – well, there is no polite way of putting this and I’m afraid you may think me rather ill-mannered, – some of the other chemicals were employed solely for the purpose of poisoning you. This letter was thoroughly soaked in a mixture of some of the finest toxins that can be bought (or indeed, stolen). One I even isolated myself, from the bile ducts of the little known rodent Rattus Gigantus Sumatranus. But I digress, and, under the circumstances, that is rather rude and I hope you will forgive me for my lapse in manners.

“I have conducted rigorous tests of the poisons that have by now been thoroughly absorbed through your skin and are even at this moment coursing through your veins. I would estimate that at present you have probably already lost most motorneural functions, that you cannot stand and are effectively suffering a numbing paralysis in all your limbs— No, don’t try to get up, you will only fall and, besides which, it is quite pointless. Very soon this paralysis will spread to your heart and your lungs. Your pulse will slow and your breathing will become laboured. The toxins will not as yet have clouded your mind, which, being your greatest attribute, I have generously allowed you to retain as a functioning faculty for as long as possible, as I am sure such an enquiring soul as yourself will be interested to observe all the details of this experience.

“I feel that there is little more to write and, as you have such a short time left, I would not wish to waste it further.

“I bid you a fond farewell and hope that, in whatever moments remain to you, you will be assured that I remain your humble and obedient servant,

“Prof. Moriarty”

It was hard for Edwin to make out the name through the wisps of smoke spiralling up from the paper, which gently dropped from his now nerveless hands, falling on to the pile of letters arranged upon the table and swiftly setting them ablaze.