Free Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles by Kim Newman Page A

tumble, and Black Michael would like to paint himself as the more responsible, conscientious brother. He hopes, for some bizarre reason, to appeal to the people and be acclaimed a worthy sovereign if Rudolf trips up a few more times and does something silly like not arriving at his own coronation. Sapt is loyal to Rudolf, and dead set against Michael. Lord knows why, but there you are. Some people are like that. He’s also a keen appreciator of the aesthetic worth of a fine photo.’
    ‘I see,’ I said, ‘this Sapt thinks to blacken Michael’s name – further blacken, I suppose – so the duke will never be king.’
    Irene Adler looked at me with something like contemptuous pity.
    ‘Horse feathers, Colonel of the Nuts. If those pics were seen, Black Mike’d be the envy of Europe. He’d be crowned in a wave of popularity. Everyone loves a randy royal. Look at Vicky’s brood. No, Sapt wants the photographs off the market, so Mikey can be nagged into marriage by Antoinette de Mauban, his persistently pestering mistress. Which would scupper any chance he might have with Flavourless Flavia.’
    ‘You said Rudolf was engaged to the princess?’
    She made a gesture, suggesting the matter was in the balance. ‘Whichever Elphberg marries Flavia is a cert to be king. She’s second in line. Black Michael is scheming to cut his half-brother out. Are you following this?’ [4]
    Moriarty acknowledged that he was.
    ‘Why do you want those photographs?’
    ‘Sentimental value. I come off especially well in Study No. 3, where the light catches the fall of my hair as I lower my... No? Not convinced? Rats, I must work on this acting lark. Obviously, I want to blackmail everyone – Colonel Sapt, Black Mike, Red Rudi, Mademoiselle Toni, the princess... With half of Ruritania paying me to keep quiet and the other half to speak up, I should be able to milk the racket for a good few years – at least, until succession is settled – and secure my comfortable old age.’
    She could not have been more than twenty-five.
    ‘And where might these “artistic studies” be found?’ Moriarty asked.
    She dug into her reticule and produced a paper with a map drawn on it.
    ‘The Ruritanian Embassy in Belgravia,’ she said. ‘I have a collector’s interest in floorplans, schedules of guards, and the like.’
    ‘What’s this?’ the Professor indicated a detail marked with a red circle.
    ‘A safe, hidden behind the portrait of Rudolf III, in the private office of Colonel Sapt. If I had the key, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve been driven to associate with criminals by the need for skills in cracksmanship. You come highly recommended by Scotland Yard.’
    Moriarty sniffed haughtily. ‘Scotland Yard have never heard of Professor Moriarty.’
    ‘For someone as crooked as you, I call that a recommendation.’
    Moriarty’s head started bobbing again. He was thinking the thing through, which meant I had to look after practicalities.
    ‘What’s in it for us, missy?’ I asked.
    ‘A quarter of what I can screw from the Elphbergs.’
    ‘Half.’
    ‘That’s extortion!’
    ‘Yes,’ I admitted with a wink. ‘We’re extortion men, you might say. Half.’
    She had a little sulk, made a practiced moue, shimmied her chest again, and bestowed a magnificent smile which warmed my insides. At some point in this business, I knew the old BMS would be required.
    ‘Deal,’ she said, sticking out a tiny paw to be shaken.
    I should have shot her then and there.

II
    The Ruritanian Embassy is a mansion in Boscobel Place. Belgravia fairly crawls with embassies, legates and consulates. The streets throng with gussied-up krauts strapped into fancy uniforms, tripping over swords they wouldn’t know what to do with if a herd of buffalo charged them. I’ve no love for your average Johnny Native, but he bests any Frenchy, Sausage-Eater or Dutchman who ever drew breath. ‘Never go into the jungle with a Belgian,’ that’s my motto.
    If Irene Adler had