Fantastic Metropolis

Holmes triumphantly nodded his head, without waiting for me to finish my thought. In his eyes there was now that familiar gleam which accompanied the moments when great mysteries were unravelled.

“Masons? The Freemasons, I mean?” said I, finally completing my sentence.

Lightning-fast, he turned on his heel, so that his back was to me. The sound which he made reminded me more than anything of a snarl, so that I instinctively retreated a step. Obviously I had not guessed the signatory of the letter.

He remained thus turned for a few moments more, and then directed himself again at me. The previous gleam in his eyes had clouded over with the very essence of rage.

“Freemasons! That superior bunch of do-nothings and lazy-bones! Useless intriguers, utterly undeserving of…”

He bit his thin lower lip, as he always did when trying to fight back growing wrath. When he continued, his voice was lower, though it still shook with rage.

“Please, Watson, in the name of friendship, do not ever again mention that… that breed…”

“But didn’t you yourself say that they were Murratori’s customers?” I said, in an attempt to justify myself.

“Watson—please!” His voice went up an octave.

“Very well, very well,” I countered. “Who, then, is hiding behind that mysterious ‘M’?”

Before answering he paused, sighing twice or three times, obviously trying to compose himself, but also for effect. Holmes was, in fact, an unfulfilled actor.

“My evil lot,” he spoke at last, in a voice so hushed that I barely registered it. “My curse. Moriarty…”

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This is an excerpt from The Fourth Circle by Zoran Živković, published by The Ministry of Whimsy Press. Translation from the Serbian by Mary Popović.