It was New Year’s Eve 1884. The whole of London was
in a festive mood. Yet a storm was brewing in my mind. It was nearly six months
since I first set foot on London soil. Breaking the bond with Hindustan was
tough. I missed my colleagues. I missed the climate, the food and the people.
But most of all, I missed the man eaters of Himalayas. The thrill of the hunt. Waiting
day in and day out for the striped yellow beasts to take their bait. It was my
opium. It helped me forget my pains and sorrows. Now all of a sudden, I found
myself in a cage. A cage called civilization. Yesterday, I was the king of the
jungle doing what I pleased, when I pleased, where I pleased. Today, I was just
a creature for exhibition. An old war veteran. A Sahib. Dancing to the tunes of
civilization and its etiquettes. Civilized London had handcuffed me. Robbed me
of my freedom. The beast within me wanted to break free. I wanted to be me
again. Colonel Sebastian Moran. The greatest hunter there ever was. I wanted to
kill a tiger, walk out to the local pub and boast about my deeds.
There were no beasts in London. There were no big
game to hunt. But I was a desperate man and I was ready to settle for the next
best thing. Humans. Yes, I would make London my jungle. Of course I am no
psychopath. I did not intend to kill people for fun. Now who would do that? A
hunt was only good when you got a reward for your efforts. And that was how I
found myself strapped to a chair playing whist with a group of aristocrats in The
Anglo-Indian Club.
For those of you who are not familiar with the
criminal underworld of London, let me give you a small tip. While all the
muscle power and guns came from the slums, the money and brains came from
London’s finest. The London poor had the courage and strength to commit daring
crimes. Yet they lacked the resources to pull off a giant heist. On the
contrary, the upper classes had the connections and the information that was
essential to organize crimes. Now these men needed a meeting place. One which
would not evoke much suspicion. And so one day a devious mind came up with the
idea of the club. Now clubs were so common in London that it would not raise
any suspicion for a few well-bred men to meet in them occasionally . The
Anglo-Indian Club was one such meeting place.
It was the first of its kind, owned by the very devious mind which came
up with the plan. An aristocratic gentleman who went by the name of the Professor.
It was to meet this man that I had been visiting
this Club for the past two months. I was pretty sure that a rendezvous with
this mysterious figure would help me achieve my goal. The Professor was the
kingpin of crime in London. He had brought together the divided criminal
community under one umbrella and made it a force that could outsmart even the
Scotland Yard. It was said that not a crime took place in London without the
knowledge of the Professor. Now where else would you go for the post of a
mercenary?
Why didn’t I go and ask for it directly? Well, in
matters like this a bit of caution is necessary. You should never show undue
haste. Or they may mistake you for a police informant and you would end up in
the Thames. Better late than never.
So for two months I had waited at my table, playing
cards with a bunch of fools, hoping that he would come. Yet I couldn’t even
catch a glimpse of this man. I had almost given up. But fate had other plans
for me. For right at that moment, the Professor made an entrance.
It was the first time that I saw him. The Professor.
The most feared man in London. I would
say he was in his mid-fifties. He wore a suit which befitted his stature. He
had a regal air around him. The gentlemen in the room got up in unison like
obedient courtiers. All eyes were on him. No one was anxious to invoke the
wrath of the Professor. Right then I decided that this was the man I would
serve for the rest of my life.
“What has London come to? Can’t a gentleman have a
peaceful sleep at his own home?” The Professor asked a stunned audience “Where
are the law enforcers in this town?”
Coming from the man who orchestrated most of the
crimes in the city this was big.
“What’s the matter?” enquired Lord Benington.
“Didn’t you here? Thomas Morton was found shot dead
in his home today morning.” whispered Lord Henry. “The police have pushed it
aside as a burglary attempt gone wrong.”
“A burglary?” asked Ben with a chuckle.
Thomas Morton’s house would be the last choice for
any burglar in London. Who was Thomas Morton? He was the chief advisor of the
Professor. His right hand man. The criminal circles had a name for him. The
Architect. While the Professor organized the crimes, it was the Architect who
meticulously planned and executed them. Thomas was known for his devotion to
the task and the perfection of his crimes. A crime executed by Thomas Morton
could never be solved. The police could never find enough evidence to make an
arrest. That was the skill of Mortan. It must be one of life’s ironies. A great
planner murdered because a burglar didn’t plan his crime well.
“Attention, everyone.” said the Professor. “As you
all know, our friend Sir Thomas Morton is no longer with us. He was a good
friend of mine. A genius in his own right. Let me offer a toast in his homage.
To the greatest criminal there ever was.”
“To Thomas Morton. Greatest criminal ever.” said the
crowd in unison. Not exactly in unison. Just when the toast was over, a chuckle
was heard. A chuckle filled with contempt. The room fell into pin drop silence.
All eyes were on the owner of that chuckle. The man who had laughed at the late
Thomas Morton.
He was a young man in his early twenties. The
arrogance of youth emanating from his whole body. He had had the audacity to
remain seated in front of the Professor and now he had looked down at Morton
with disdain. Needless to say, all eyes shifted from the young man to the
Professor. Death seemed to hang in the air.
The Professor looked at the young man sternly. “Do
you have anything to say?”he asked in a tone which would have sent a chill down
any man’s spine.
“With all due respect, Thomas Morton was a good
criminal. But calling him ‘the greatest criminal there ever was’ is an
overstatement.”
“Really? What makes you think so?”
“A good criminal can commit a crime and go
unpunished. But the crimes of the greatest go unnoticed.”
“What do you mean?”
“To commit a crime and go unpunished is easy. If you
have the money and the muscle power you can get away with anything. In most of
the crimes of Thomas Morton there has been scapegoats. Though the police could
never arrest Morton or charge him with murder, they were quiet sure he did it.”
Now, I do accept that what this kid said made sense
but his timing was poor. You do not dishonor a dead man on his funeral day and
that too among his friend. The Professor’s face hardened.
“So you think committing a crime and getting away
with it is easy? Then why don’t you commit one? Let’s see how you fare.”
“If I were to commit a crime, I would aim for
perfection. No one would even know that the crime had taken place.”
“So, when are you going to commit this perfect crime
of yours?”
“I would have loved to commit a crime. But you see,
I have no motives to do one. If I kill a random person, it would be an unfair
advantage to me. After all, Thomas Morton was given a contract to kill.” said
the young man unflinchingly. At this moment, I was wondering whether this guy
was as clever as he seemed or just a plain idiot.
“Well, I will give you a contract. Meet me at my
mansion, 10 o’clock in the morning or the next contract I will be giving will
be yours.” So saying the Professor stormed out of the hall. The young man continued
reading his newspaper as if nothing had happened. The rest of the room erupted
into lively chatter. The center of the conversation was of course the young man
who wanted to commit suicide.
From the look of it, he had never committed a crime
in his whole life. Let alone murder. Either he thought that being a criminal
was interesting or he had some serious mental issues. I, for my part, decided
to offer the young man some sane advice.
“Have you ever held a gun?” I asked him.
He looked up at me for a moment. I thought I saw a
faint smile. He shook his head and decided to read his evening paper.
“How do you intend to kill someone without a gun?”
He was too lean to be any good in a physical encounter.
“You don’t need guns to kill someone. You need
brains.”
“Listen son, all this brain talk is good. But at the
end of the day you need a steady hand to do the job for you.”
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“Old man, the age of brute force is over. This is
the age of the brain. Hit me on the face if you dare.” Shouted the kid. Now all
the eyes in the room was turned towards
me. I had no option now. I decided that the kid needed a punch to get
his senses back. It was time someone brought an end to his insolence. So I
raised my fist to hit him but what he did next came as a blot from the blue. He
didn’t fight. No. He didn’t make a move. Instead he stood still and whispered.
“Colonel Moran, I see you have a few tricks up your
sleeves. If you punch me, you will only be revealing your ace in the hole.”
Those words may have meant nothing to the men in the
room. But it meant a lot to me. When my pension was not enough to sustain my
lifestyle, I had decided to take up cards as a revenue option. I had earned a
steady income by using methods that were not exactly ‘noble’. ‘The ace in the
hole’ and ‘tricks up your sleeves’ meant this kid was aware about my deeds. So
I had two options before me. First was to knockout the kid with one blow. I was
capable of doing it but if the kid babbled about my deeds the next day, then
the next contract the Professor would give would be for me. So, I chose the
second option. I swallowed my pride and walked out of the room knowing very
well that I could never enter the club again. I would be known as ‘the old man
who was afraid of hitting the kid’.
It was 11 o’clock when the kid finally left the
club. One hour for the New Year. He should have celebrated it in the club. Then
he would have had a New Year. I felt my pistol in my pocket. By refraining from
exposing me at the club, the kid had signed his death warrant. I could have
spared him till tomorrow. He would have met his death at the hands of the
Professor. But he had insulted me. So he was mine.
I followed him quietly to his quarters. The time was
a quarter to twelve when the lights went off in his room. The lock to his room
yielded without protest. Slowly I climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom.
His sleeping figure could be made out in the moon light. This was the guy who
wanted to commit the perfect crime. Let me show him how to do one, I thought to
myself. Maybe he was my entry ticket to meet the Professor. I took a pillow and
pressed it on his head and at that very moment I was aware of the mistake I had
made. The kid’s head was too soft. Too soft to be a head. Something hard
touched the base of my neck. I knew my game was up. The hunter had become the
hunted.
“I may not be a good shot. But I ain’t gonna miss
from this range. Now drop your gun.”
I dropped the gun. Struggling was of no use. I had
made a beginner’s mistake. I had underestimated my prey. I had lowered my
guard. Now I was to pay for it with my life. All of a sudden all the pieces of
the puzzle came together. The veiled threat. It was an invitation of death
designed to make me follow him.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“You.”
“Who sent you?”
“No one.”
“Before I die, I want to know why you want to kill
me. Was it for murdering Colonel Stevens or are you Roxane’s brother?”
“Who said I wanted to kill you?”
I was puzzled. Why else would someone hatch such an
elaborate plan? What else did he want?
“I want you to be my partner.”
“What?”
“You were right. I am not good with the gun. I need
a steady hand. Someone like you,
Colonel. An expert hunter.”
“And if I refuse?”
“What’s the time, Moran?”
“11:57”
“Good. Merry Last Year.”
“Wait. What are your terms if I join you?”
“We split the share equally.”
“Agreed.”
He extended
his hand. I gladly shook it. Till then I had thought him as an arrogant kid.
But now I saw him for what he really was. A cold calculating brain. Always one
step ahead of his enemies.
“The name is Moriarty. James Moriarty.”
In the distance the Big Ben chimed. The New Year had
begun and a new partnership with it. A partnership which would change the
criminal landscape of London forever and ever. Amen
