sounded somehow foreign.
Rather than calming him, this statement made him panic. If they didn’t want his money, then they wanted to kill him. He tried to struggle to his feet while at the same time crying out at the top of his voice, “Help! Murder!”
He felt a blow to the side of the head. Something heavy, like the butt of a revolver, connected with his temple. Further cries for help died in his throat and he slumped back to the floor, dazed and gasping for breath.
Briefly, light flared in the cab as one of the men lit a cigarette, andthrough bleary eyes Jones saw his abductors. There was the stout man who had first approached him and who had just hit him, judging by the gun he held in his hand. The other man, who reclined in the corner of the cab with his cigarette, was a good-looking black man.
“Relax, Mr Jones, we mean you no harm.”
“Like the devil, you do! You’ve just nearly knocked my brains out!”
“A simple matter of restraint. We have a favour to ask of you, one for which we will gladly pay you.”
At the mention of money, Ambrose Jones’ pulse quickened all the more.
“Favour? What favour? Why not come to see me in my office in Montague Street? Why abduct me, if all you want to do is ask me a favour?”
“We have our methods, Mr Jones,” the voice purred in the darkness. “This way, you know what to expect if you do not agree to our offer.”
“What to expect...?”
“I think you know what we mean.”
Jones felt the barrel of the cold revolver press hard against his forehead. His mouth was now so parched with fear that he could hardly croak a response.
“What do you want of me?”
“It concerns a lodger of yours. In Montague Street.”
“A lodger?”
“Yes, a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Six
F ROM T HE J OURNAL O F J OHN W ALKER
“I am easily bored, Doctor Walker. You see, I am very successful at what I do, and with success comes a certain security, which is tedious. I abhor the dull routine of existence. Sometimes I long for the excitement and frustration of failure, so that I can rise to the challenge of overcoming it. For a man of my intellectual capacity, I am in constant need of such challenges, something to stimulate me, to strive for. Give me danger, give me risks, give me a puzzle, and I am in my element.’
Professor Moriarty leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire. Although he was talking to me, his expression and demeanour indicated that he was in essence merely using my presence to express thoughts that had been bound up within him for some time. Much of what he was telling me was a kind of confession, and who better to confess to than a stranger whose very existence you hold in your power? Strangely, I began to feel sorry for this man, trapped, as he seemed to believe, atop his own unique, rarefied ivory tower.
“Please do not think me arrogant when I refer to my intellectual capacity. I speak merely the truth. As I mentioned earlier, I am a strongadvocate of the truth in the appropriate circumstances. That I have a refined intelligence is not a brag or boast; it is fact. I am not one of those who rate modesty amongst the virtues.”
He paused again and then suddenly his eyes narrowed, focused, and lost their dreamlike quality. He took a cigarette-case from his pocket and offered it to me. I declined with a shake of the head.
“Pity. They are a special Ukrainian blend. An excellent smoke.” He lit the cigarette and took a deep breath, and then allowed the grey tendrils to drift slowly from his mouth.
“So, you see, Walker,” he said at length, “my life is a continual search for stimulation, that sense of danger, that unique entertainment. Something to keep me from going mad. After all, madness is akin to genius. That lack of fear for the consequences that allows one to dare — and then do. Certainly, that is part of my genius.”
Moriarty drew on the cigarette again and smiled a secret smile to himself. “Something to keep me from
Rather than calming him, this statement made him panic. If they didn’t want his money, then they wanted to kill him. He tried to struggle to his feet while at the same time crying out at the top of his voice, “Help! Murder!”
He felt a blow to the side of the head. Something heavy, like the butt of a revolver, connected with his temple. Further cries for help died in his throat and he slumped back to the floor, dazed and gasping for breath.
Briefly, light flared in the cab as one of the men lit a cigarette, andthrough bleary eyes Jones saw his abductors. There was the stout man who had first approached him and who had just hit him, judging by the gun he held in his hand. The other man, who reclined in the corner of the cab with his cigarette, was a good-looking black man.
“Relax, Mr Jones, we mean you no harm.”
“Like the devil, you do! You’ve just nearly knocked my brains out!”
“A simple matter of restraint. We have a favour to ask of you, one for which we will gladly pay you.”
At the mention of money, Ambrose Jones’ pulse quickened all the more.
“Favour? What favour? Why not come to see me in my office in Montague Street? Why abduct me, if all you want to do is ask me a favour?”
“We have our methods, Mr Jones,” the voice purred in the darkness. “This way, you know what to expect if you do not agree to our offer.”
“What to expect...?”
“I think you know what we mean.”
Jones felt the barrel of the cold revolver press hard against his forehead. His mouth was now so parched with fear that he could hardly croak a response.
“What do you want of me?”
“It concerns a lodger of yours. In Montague Street.”
“A lodger?”
“Yes, a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Six
F ROM T HE J OURNAL O F J OHN W ALKER
“I am easily bored, Doctor Walker. You see, I am very successful at what I do, and with success comes a certain security, which is tedious. I abhor the dull routine of existence. Sometimes I long for the excitement and frustration of failure, so that I can rise to the challenge of overcoming it. For a man of my intellectual capacity, I am in constant need of such challenges, something to stimulate me, to strive for. Give me danger, give me risks, give me a puzzle, and I am in my element.’
Professor Moriarty leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire. Although he was talking to me, his expression and demeanour indicated that he was in essence merely using my presence to express thoughts that had been bound up within him for some time. Much of what he was telling me was a kind of confession, and who better to confess to than a stranger whose very existence you hold in your power? Strangely, I began to feel sorry for this man, trapped, as he seemed to believe, atop his own unique, rarefied ivory tower.
“Please do not think me arrogant when I refer to my intellectual capacity. I speak merely the truth. As I mentioned earlier, I am a strongadvocate of the truth in the appropriate circumstances. That I have a refined intelligence is not a brag or boast; it is fact. I am not one of those who rate modesty amongst the virtues.”
He paused again and then suddenly his eyes narrowed, focused, and lost their dreamlike quality. He took a cigarette-case from his pocket and offered it to me. I declined with a shake of the head.
“Pity. They are a special Ukrainian blend. An excellent smoke.” He lit the cigarette and took a deep breath, and then allowed the grey tendrils to drift slowly from his mouth.
“So, you see, Walker,” he said at length, “my life is a continual search for stimulation, that sense of danger, that unique entertainment. Something to keep me from going mad. After all, madness is akin to genius. That lack of fear for the consequences that allows one to dare — and then do. Certainly, that is part of my genius.”
Moriarty drew on the cigarette again and smiled a secret smile to himself. “Something to keep me from
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