Moriarty and the Massacre of Mammon

Moriarty and the Massacre of Mammon

  by Nyla Nox

  Copyright © 2016 Nyla Nox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Edition, 2016.

  Published by Noxbox

  Moriarty and the Massacre of Mammon

  by Nyla Nox

  This story begins in the summer of 1915, when one of its main characters was purported to have been a whole continent away from London. However, appearances can be deceptive and history looks a little different as preserved in the archives of Moriarty, ‘Napoleon of Crime’…

  A certain insignificant private detective, whose fame is a soap bubble that will burst all too soon, took it upon himself to call me the ‘Napoleon of Crime’.

  I spit on that.

  It’s the kind of backhanded compliment the British upper classes excel at. Needless to say the little headline hogger is himself the product of those classes who, equally needless to say, admire him fervently and anticipate his final victory over me any time now. Ha!

  Napoleon, firstly, is the arch villain of the British soul. Well, he is the arch villain of the whole of Europe but what do the British care about that? He is the British arch villain not because of the death and devastation he brought to millions through his wars and occupations. Most of these millions were not British. In fact, the most long lasting damage he did was to France herself where even now, Emmeline informs me, there is such a dire shortage of males that the population is steadily declining.

  But the real reason why Napoleon has become the British arch villain is because he was defeated by them. Well, by them and many other nations, but that is rather swept under the carpet. Napoleon devastated Europe and was defeated by the British. That’s the national myth.

  And that is exactly why the little detective compared me to him.

  (Lest anyone question the legitimacy of my birth, I do hold a British passport. But then, I hold many such documents, issued by many nations…)

  It is also a well-known fact that Napoleon was not only very short but also lacked a certain, shall we say, capability in the bedroom which, rumour has it, was the root cause of all his villainy. Just the kind of nasty insinuation I expect from the little detective. Ad hominem, always, in the end.

  Of course, I am nothing like Napoleon, certainly not in appearance.

  I am tall and thin. Not so very much unlike the detective himself.

  And as for the intimated deficiencies in the bedroom – well, just let me say that I have bedded more women than most men I have met, and certainly a lot more than the detective himself who, now that I come to think of it, rather resembles the notorious French Emperor in that respect. Of course he will say that in his case, it is from choice. But unlike Napoleon, who tried most valiantly and persistently, it seems that the little detective chooses to avoid the company of women altogether, for what reason I do not know and refuse to speculate upon.

  But if I am to be the arch villain, I will be the arch villain in my very own way, not cast in anyone else’s likeness. And unlike Napoleon whom I obviously resemble not at all, I will not be defeated.

  ***

  1915, Winter.

  The picture I am looking at is highly prized, both as a work of art and as a historic document. It fully deserves to be. If the artist was still alive, he would be highly prized and famous, too.

  Alas, he rests now nameless in a muddy field – or whatever was left of him to rest after the shrapnel. He died for his country.

  And he died for me.

  ***

  1915, earlier in the year.

  A glorious summer warms the brick and mortar bones of London, if not her fickle hearts, while just a few hundred miles away, over the Channel, the youth of a continent is being butchered in the trenches of a senseless war, run by incompetents over precisely nothing.

  The population of this island is kept unaware of those facts. But I am not. I know.

  Still, like most, I conduct my business as usual.

  ‘Five million’, says the familiar voice. ‘Five million. Best estimate.’

  The plump white hand shuffles the papers in the pure white ledger. A burning red sunset falls into the small dark room in a certain part of London that shall have to remain nameless. Not even the forbidding phalanx of filing cabinets can exclude this glorious season. I congratulate myself on the foresight of switching to my summer wardrobe as I keep my gaze fixed on that hand.

  ‘Overall?’ I say, to the hand.

  The fat fingers spread out to leaf through another sheet of figures. Neat, concise writing that will be legible for generations to come.

  ‘Yes’, I hear. ‘Both military and civilian deaths. Five million in twelve years of war.’ The fingers stop and I can feel that their owner is transfixing me with another glare.

  Quickly I look up. Long practice has helped me to navigate right to the eyes without taking in the territory in between. The eyes are light blue, large and oval shaped. Because they protrude, they look perpetually startled, like a small child’s.

  ‘Thank you, Emmeline’, I say. For the creature I avoid looking at as much as I can is indeed female.

  She nods. I lose focus for a moment and her many chins wobble into view.

  ‘It was an interesting task’, she volunteers. ‘The experts collected impressive evidence from very inadequate sources. After all, it is a hundred years since the Napoleonic wars have ended.’

  I am wondering whether Emmeline has guessed my reasons for having her undertake this work, when she continues.

  ‘This present war will never surpass it’, she says with a calm certitude that infuriates me. I remember it all too well from my childhood.

  Yes, loath as I am to admit it, Emmeline is my sister. She was left under my protection when we were orphaned, a long time ago, and although she was briefly married, she returned to me swiftly after her husband’s untimely demise. It is at moments like this one when I can’t help wondering why her own demise was not effected at the same time. Emmeline is very fortunate that I am in such perfect control of my emotions.

  But right now my sister is one step ahead of me. She puts the white ledger away and waddles over to the large drawer in the corner. My anger subsides. I remember why I kept her.

  Mine is a business that, by its very nature, precludes trust. And while I employ, of course, several sets of accountants of varying degrees of proficiency as well as secrecy, there is only one person who both knows and tells me the truth about our finances. And that person is Emmeline. She is utterly loyal. Well, her life depends on it.

  Meanwhile, she has opened the new ledger and pushes it towards me. The room is almost dark now, and the perpetually burning gas light comes into its own, flickering over the page as if to highlight our predicament.

  ‘We must diversify, my dear James’, says Emmeline. It is not the first time I have heard such words from her and they irritate me more every time she utters them. My operations are already the most diversified in the kingdom. We cover the whole range from digestives to petty cash to tanks. We never
shrink from innovation. Ours is not the kind of business that cannot rest on the laurels of yesteryear.

  But Emmeline will not be stilled.

  ‘You don’t understand, dear brother’, she says, assuming a professorial air that ill becomes her, 'your enterprise is threatened with imminent collapse under profit.’ She pauses, and waddles around her lectern to poke her finger in my direction. ‘Frankly, James, we no longer know where to stuff it.’

  I stare at her, speechless for a moment.

  ‘Emmeline’, I then say slowly, ‘we have been over this many times. We are doing what we can. Tanks and artillery are being destroyed at an unexpected rate, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  ‘But it is not enough’, my sister continues, unabashed.

  ‘Emmeline’, I say, ‘contain yourself. I know it is difficult for you…’

  ‘If only we could get at the War Loans themselves’ she says. ‘Those would gobble up the income from our unconventional operations with endless appetite.’

  I cannot conceal a shudder. Emmeline is looking quite demented.

  You were always such a dramatic child...’ I say mildly, and prepare to leave.

  ‘But now, just in the nick of time’, she continues, ‘and due to my cultivation of certain sources, an opportunity may present itself.’

  ‘I give you two minutes, dearest Emmeline’, I say. I sit down on one of the high accountants’ chairs on which I imagine she perches when I am not here. Since she was widowed, I have never seen her sit.

  ‘Of course you know the Bank of Mar. M’, she says. I incline my head in agreement. Who has not heard of The Other Mar. M, as I shall call him here? He is a giant of commerce (and fine arts connoisseur) both overseas and right here in London. And his operation is completely legal – which irks me greatly. Anyone would wash his money, all day long.

  ‘But what you may not know’, says Emmeline, ‘is that he is right now secretly in London, just until tomorrow night. Looking for investors.’ She pauses, breathing heavily. All that standing up can’t be good for her poor knees. ‘I have tried to arrange a rendezvous with him.’

  ‘You?’ I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.

  Emmeline lowers her head. I have also never seen her cry.

  Emmeline never leaves the house. She doesn’t have a key. Most of her correspondence is with obscure historians and other accountants which I allow, under strict supervision, of course. Most of them are under the impression that the E. M. they write to is male, anyway.

  Most of her correspondence. Because, much as my sister would be baffled to provide for her very humblest needs outside these four walls, she has been able, through her friends in the more obscure branches of accountancy, to forge contacts that run through rarefied channels, channels that go all the way to the heart of the real seats of power in this modern world.

  And it is these channels who have kept her abreast (and I shudder to think how much breast there may be under her liberty bodice – a garment I forbade when she was young but which she has sneaked in over the years – or perhaps there simply are not corsets to be had at her size) of this latest opportunity.

  I easily hide my rising anticipation.

  ‘The rendezvous, dear James, was intended not for me but for you’, she says. ‘I merely tried to arrange it.’

  ‘When do you say this will be?’

  Emmeline looks into her ledger. I see a dark red blush suffuse her cheeks.

  ‘I said I tried, my dear James’, she says. ‘But I failed. The Other Mr M will have nothing to do with us.’

  So for all her superior airs and her secret channels, dearest Emmeline has failed. I feel a renewed vigour run through my veins.

  I rise and approach. While Emmeline is still looking down, I take the opportunity to pat her hair. In the bright gas light I notice it is streaked with grey.

  ‘I will have to make my own arrangements then. Thank you for your help, dearest Emmeline’, I say with a slight bow. ‘I will let you know when I succeed.’

  ‘I will book it under recreation’, she answers and turns away.

  ‘Book yourself a box of those Belgian chocolates while you’re at it’, I say. ‘I know the Belgians still deliver, in spite of everything.’

  From the doorway, already searching out the keys to the house in my pocket, so that I can lock her in again, I hear Emmeline mumble over the shuffling of her papers.

  ‘Five million’, I hear, ‘five million’. When I shoot her a glance over my shoulder, she is seemingly immersed in her figures.

  But I am not deceived. We know each other all too well.

  ***

  It is fascinating, as a certain self-styled private detective would say, that when people think of crime, they always think of the gory end, so to speak. Well, perhaps that is fitting when it comes to private or, as it invariably then turns out to be, amateur crime. The gory end IS the end, you might say.

  But when it comes to professional crime, the part that is the real test of ingenuity is what to do with the proceeds.

  In this, I find myself in a somewhat ironic position: I, Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, have been able to establish a organisation that operates completely outside the legal framework. And yet there is one institution that even I cannot avoid, and must bow to.

  It is not the police (laughable thought!), nor the courts, nor the army and neither Kings, Queens or their new-fangled successors, elected Presidents, who control the world to such an extent that no one can escape them. No. The power that trumps everything is the power of the banks.

  On my way to what may be considered my home, if not my residence, since I am unfortunately not able to indulge in officially residing anywhere for reasons of operational flexibility, I meet with two of my lieutenants who unobtrusively slip up to me in the street.

  The part of London we are now entering is somewhat notorious and I believe has featured prominently in lurid tales of the unlikeliest kind, some of them even purporting to involve royalty, a royalty portrayed as corrupted and rotten to the core. Much as the British love their Kings and Princes, they love even more to see them brought down and dragged through the mud. It makes one wonder about the true nature of their patriotism.

  I hear the puny detective boasts of having moved about around here in various different disguises, as an old tramp, a rich decadent, a washerwoman even (or was that the notorious Mr Toad?), always able to fool the uneducated and unsuspecting locals. Let me assure you, no one in the immediate neighbourhood of the establishment I am now approaching would fall for his schemes, not even for a minute. The livelihoods, if not the very lives of my locals depend on their sharpness of observation. And on my satisfaction with their services.

  Walking and mingling unobtrusively with the population of London a large number of whom seems to have business here tonight, we discuss strategies. Time is not on our side.

  In the first instance I, like Emmeline, will extend an invitation to the Eminent Banker, and mine will be a little more persuasive. But just in case that invitation is not readily accepted, I set in motion a second line of attack. Let’s add some of urgency to the dynamics of this transaction.

  Popular imagination paints unconventional men of business as rough, harsh individuals, always ready to pounce, to strike and inflict physical harm.

  But in reality an enterprise like mine has need of all sorts of different specialists. I wouldn’t expect dearest Emmeline to rush out and bury a knife in someone’s bosom (except perhaps her own – sometimes I have wondered what I will find up in that chamber once I unlock the door) and neither would I expect this of the young man who will carry out tonight’s offensive. Young Spencer’s weapon of choice is a delicate brush and the only trigger he is going to pull is that which operates his sophisticated photographic equipment.

  ***

  The amount of negotiation necessary to attempt a meeting between me and the Eminent Banker visiting London wou
ld have defied all the ambassadors of all the powers now fighting it out on the bloody fields of Europe.

  Needless to say, a direct approach, however persuasively conducted, leads us nowhere. The great man simply ignores us. My hapless contacts are regretful, dejected and increasingly agitated. I don’t blame them. It is never advantageous to fail me.

  So, as the night progresses, we have to rely on the plan involving young Spencer and a team of extremely unobtrusive removal specialists.

  Our efforts, I am happy to say, are rewarded with success, and within a reasonably short time period.

  Our great banker is, of course, also a famous patron of the arts. His collection, housed in a room with red silk walls, is the envy of the world, and he is courted by art dealers wherever he goes.

  A painting of the highest value, both artistic and monetary, depicting this world as a voluptuous garden resplendent with multi-layered colours, has just tonight become his newest, most precious property.

  Until it mysteriously disappeared, an hour ago.

  The telephone rings almost immediately. Negotiations, it seems, are suddenly forging ahead. All courtesy of our very fine Fine Arts Department. A well deserved salute to Young Spencer and his delicate brush!

  Still, the lieutenants on the side of the Other Mr M seem to stall. I detect a certain rising hysteria on their part, combined with an inability to make decisions.

  Are they reluctant to take it to the man up top?

  Or is something more sinister afoot?

  Sadly, we don’t have the luxury of time. Will I need to amplify the urgency? Will the thugs have to step in?

  But just as I am about to aid the cogitation process with a fine French wine from a region well worth defending with the blood of a thousand men, my housekeeper, Mrs Mackenzie, enters with a note.

  In this establishment whose address must alas be forever hidden from prying eyes, this is quite a rare occurrence and can only mean one thing: something has gone wrong in the House of Velvet.