The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

FOURTY TWO M's Private Parlor

Moving with all the stealth they could manage, Quatermain and Sawyer left the dirty, industrial floors of the fortress and entered brighter, well-lit corridors with fine furnishings and clean white walls. It was in this area that the two men expected to find M.

They approached a set of opulent doors. The daring young American tested the scrolled golden handles and found the doors unlocked. With barely a click, they opened and quietly swung inward. Sawyer poked his head inside and stared in astonishment.

His sumptuous boudoir contained a vast bed, paintings, vases, a red crushed-velvet divan, and fresh flowers and fruit that must have been worth more than gold here in this isolated winter landscape. In the boudoir's adjoining templelike bathing area, a warm-flowing fountain bath spilled a steaming cascade into a marble tub.

Quatermain waved his companion to utter silence as the two men entered, guns leading, alert for anything. The young man wrinkled his nose at the perfumes in the air. The hideous masked "Fantom" had not seemed like a man to enjoy a long scented bath....

A human-shaped shadow flitted behind a painted silk screen in an adjacent side chamber. Quatermain froze, but the figure did not come closer. The two men hadn't been seen, and the sloshing of the waterfall bath muffled the sound of their approach. Together, they advanced toward the chamber door.

As the old adventurer reached for the door of the side chamber, the handle turned before he could touch it. He and Sawyer ducked into an alcove and flattened themselves against the wall.

The door opened, and a lovely young woman stepped out, her gaze fixed forward. She had long straw-blond hair that hung straight and limp, as if she no longer cared for it. Her loose gown was pale blue and should have been beautiful, but she wore it like a burial shroud. Like a wraith or a sleepwalker, she drifted wide-eyed and dazed past the two men in the alcove.

Quatermain recognized her from a sepia-toned photograph in the files M himself had provided, ostensibly to help them track down the heinous Fantom. How arrogant of the man! But Quatermain did not doubt the truth of the information. He knew who this young woman was: Eva Draper, the daughter of kidnapped architectural engineer, who had been abducted from the Valkyrie Zeppelin Works near Hamburg.

When she had gone, the two men slipped out of their hiding place and ducked into his parlor to look around, ready for anything. Sawyer held his Winchester in a tight grip, eager to start shooting.

The Fantom's silver mask lay on a table, reflecting the candlelight.

Quatermain heard a noise, low conversation, movement from across the room in an antechamber. He hesitated, then crept forward so that he could see the angled reflection of an ornate dressing mirror. He got Sawyer's attention, and both of them watched.

The mirror's image showed the antechamber, where a fastidiously dressed valet was calmly shaving the cadaverous M, who lounged back in a chair. M seemed completely relaxed as the fastidious man stroked his cheek and neck with the gleaming silver razor, removing white cream. The man scraped away another swath, knowing it would mean his death if he so much as nicked the leader's skin. The valet had already helped M into his clothing, leaving only the black jacket and gloves on the vanity. It looked as if the evil mastermind were preparing to go to the opera.

The Fantom's lieutenant Dante strode into the parlor, carrying a bulky leather case similar to a doctor's satchel. Quatermain and Sawyer pressed themselves further into thfe shadows as the man walked past, but Dante was intent on M.

As the valet continued his work, Dante set the leather satchel on a table. "James here's your box of tricks, as you asked. I think you'll find everything you need inside." He opened the case, tilting it to show M the contents.

M sat up, his close-set eyes vulturelike in the flickering candlelight. The lieutenant displayed each item, like a snake-oil salesman demonstrating his wares. "The brutes potion, the vampires blood, the Indian's science, and mounted samples of invisible skin." He lifted liquid-filled vials, a scrap of bloodstained fabric, bits of ceramic, daguerreotypes, microscope slides, and rolled-up technical plans on thin paper. "No matter what else happens, you will have the most important components, sir."

With quick, confident strokes, the valet finished shaving M's upper lip. Though it was none of his business, the valet mused, "So much, and yet it seems like nothing. You're expecting trouble, sir?"

"Always." M regarded the kit with satisfaction. It amazed him that the future of the world could fit inside such a small bag. The valet wiped the last specks of cream from M's face and removed the moist towels. M ran a hand over his smooth chin and upper lip with pleasure, then sent the valet away with his shaving paraphernalia.

Before Dante could depart as well, a ragged-looking guard burst in. "Intruders! An Indian and a monster!" He reeled, holding his head as if he had just awakened from a bad dream, or groggy unconsciousness. "The prisoners are escaping!"

M groaned. "How many times must I kill these cretins?" He knew that if Nemo and Hyde were here causing trouble, the rest of the League would, in all likelihood, be inside the fortress, too. He turned to Dante, who could already see annoyance building to rage on the leaders face. The threat in his cold voice seemed directed as much at Dante as at the intended victims. "Make this the last time. Be certain of it."

Leaving the leather satchel behind, Dante rushed out as the first shouts and sounds of battle echoed from the factory levels far below.

Alone now, the freshly shaved M moved to the table, pulled on his jacket, and reached for his silver Fantoms' mask, ready for the show. He picked up the metal covering and glimpsed a distorted, moving reflection. He froze as a long gun barrel pressed against the back of his head.

"Don't move, M," Quatermain said from behind him.

Tom Sawyer stepped around the corner, also leveling his Winchester at the mastermind. He looked ready to use it. "You killed Huck Finn."

Caught in the line of fire, M froze, looking at both men as if they were large sewer rats that had found their way into a garden party. "Huck? Who?"

"Agent Huck Finn of the American Secret Service."

M shrugged. "I've killed so many people. I can't be expected to remember them all."

"Perhaps we can offer you a reminder, M." Quatermain stepped around, leaning closer and holding the cadaverous man in his hunters gaze. "Or would you prefer that we call you… Professor? Professor James Moriarty."

Sawyer caught a breath, recognizing the name. "You mean… the man who killed Sherlock Holmes?"

M was shocked and inwardly furious that Quatermain had figured out his real identity. "Holmes, yes — I suppose you would have wanted him as part of your League, as well. As if even Holmes could have helped you!"

When he turned to look at them, the mastermind showed them a feral, calculating personality. Wanton. Spiteful. Professor James Moriarty.

Moriarty thought back to the rush of water like deadly white hammers, pounding over the sheer rocky walls. Reichenbach Falls, in Switzerland. A narrow path, slippery with spray, wound up the side of a cliff to the edge of the thundering cascade.

His archenemy Holmes had gotten there first — had been lured there — and stood just upslope wearing his dark green jacket, yellow vest, starched collar, and trademark deerstalker cap. He carried an alpenstock walking stick but no other weapon, though he must have known he would be in for the fight of his life. He seemed not at all surprised to see Moriarty there.

"Well, here we are then," Moriarty had said, facing his nemesis. His red-lined black cape flapped in the cold, wet breezes from the roaring waterfall.

Holmes had agreed. "Indeed. As closing acts go, I'll allow the scenery is more than adequate."

"Why, sir, it is Olympian! We tread the very borders of mythology!"

"I think you flatter both of us." Holmes had not been impressed. As usual, he had cut to the chase. "I'm tired with talk, Professor. So, then. To the death?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, absolutely."

They had struggled on the edge of the falls, Moriarty with a gold-hiked dagger, Holmes with his bare hands. But Holmes, damnable Holmes, had caught his wrist, knocked the dagger free, and thrown him over the ledge, where the professor had tumbled into the torrent of smothering spray… taking a long, wrenching plunge that had ended in sucking whirlpools, surging water, and hard bone-breaking rocks—

But he had emerged alive after all… irrevocably changed.

"You name me James Moriarty? The so-called Napoleon of Crime?" M took a step closer to Quatermain, who did not move. Sawyer loudly cocked his Winchester; M ignored him. "No, Mr. Quatermam— that man died at the Reichenbach Falls. He died, and I was reborn. M. The Fantom. More than mere Moriarty ever was… more than you'll ever be." He gave a sneering sniff. "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen! Ha!"

"He does like the sound of his own voice," Quatermain said to Sawyer.

At that moment, Eva Draper rushed into the room, blond hair in disarray, and charged at Moriarty. Her robe flapped around her, and she gripped a dagger in her hand. "Monster!" she cried in German.

Sawyer swung his Winchester aside, startled. Quatermain lifted a hand to stop the young woman's attack. "Its all right. We have him—"

But Eva threw herself on her captor. Grateful for the distraction, Moriarty knocked Eva aside and snatched up his box of tricks. Quatermain lunged after him, giving chase, but when Moriarty reached the door, he whirled and hurled a stiletto. The blade flashed through the air.

Sawyer tackled Quatermain to the floor, saving his life as the slim knife stuck into the wall. He grinned at the astonished expression on the hunter's face. "Eyes open, old boy. I can't protect you all the time."