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“But,” continued Mycroft, “if you alter anything in the original manuscript!—”
“But that’s the point, isn’t it, my dear Mycroft,” said Hades, clasping one of Mycroft’s cheeks between finger and thumb and shaking gently. “That’s . . . the . . . point. What good is extortion unless you show everyone what massive damage you could do if you wanted? And anyway, where’s the fun in robbing banks? Bang, bang, give me the money? Besides, killing civilians is never any real fun. It’s a bit like shooting rabbits that have been pegged to the ground. Give me a SWAT platoon to deal with any day.”
“But the damage!—” continued Mycroft. “Are you mad!?”
Acheron’s eyes flashed angrily as he grasped Mycroft tightly by the throat.
“What? What did you say? Mad, did you say? Hmm? Eh? What? What?”
His fingers tightened on Mycroft’s windpipe; the professor could feel himself start to sweat in the cold panic of suffocation. Acheron was waiting for an answer that Mycroft was unable to utter.
“What? What did you say?”
Acheron’s pupils started to dilate as Mycroft felt a dark veil fall over his mind.
“Think it’s fun being christened with a name like mine? Having to live up to what is expected of one? Born with an intellect so vast that all other humans are cretins by comparison?”
Mycroft managed to give out a choke and Acheron slackened his grip. Mycroft fell to the floor, gulping for breath. Acheron stood over him and wagged a reproachful finger.
“Don’t ever call me mad, Mycroft. I’m not mad, I’m just . . . well, differently moraled, that’s all.”
Hades handed him Chuzzlewit again and Mycroft needed no second bidding. He placed the worms with the manuscript inside the heavy old book; within half an hour of feverish activity the device was primed and set.
“It is ready,” announced Mycroft miserably. “I have only to press this button and the door will open. It will stay open for ten seconds at most.”
He sighed deeply and shook his head.
“May God forgive me!—”
“I forgive you,” replied Acheron. “It’s the closest you’ll get!”
Hades walked across to Hobbes, who was now dressed in black combat gear. He wore a webbing harness around his waist upon which hung all sorts of items that might be of use on an unplanned armed robbery—a large torch, bolt cutters, rope, handcuffs and an automatic.
“You know who it is you are after?”
“Mr. Quaverley, sir.”
“Splendid. I feel a speech co
ming on.”
He climbed onto a carved oak table.
“My friends!” he began. “This is a very great day for science and a very bad one for Dickensian literature.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“Comrades, we stand on the very brink of an act of artistic barbarism so monstrous that I am almost ashamed of it myself. All of you have been my faithful servants for many years, and although none of you possesses a soul quite as squalid as mine, and the faces I see before me are both stupid and unappealing, I regard you all with no small measure of fondness.”
His four comrades mumbled their thanks.
“Silence! I think it is fair to say that I am the most debased individual on this planet and quite the most brilliant criminal mind this century. The plan that we embark upon now is easily the most diabolical ever devised by man, and will not only take you to the top of everyone’s most-wanted list but will also make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams of avarice.” He clapped his hands together. “So let the adventure begin, and here’s to the success of our finest criminal endeavor!”
“Sir?”
“What is it, Dr. Müller?”
“All that money. I’m not so sure. I’d settle for a Gainsborough. You know—that one of the kid in the blue suit.”
