Thirty minutes later the carriage stopped in front of the brightly lit main entrance of the Savoy Hotel.
Even in the middle of the night the service at the entrance of this first-class hotel was impeccable. A uniformed doorman opened the door for him; inside the glittering lobby the same servant who had delivered the letter earlier that evening was clearly waiting.
"Mr Watson, thank you for coming. Mr Milverton is waiting for you on the second floor."
The male servant bowed lightly, then turned and led the way.
Yet to Russell's surprise, after guiding him to the desired floor the man suddenly stopped advancing.
"What's wrong? Is there a landmine ahead?"
Russell looked curiously at the halted attendant.
"Mr Milverton said he wishes you to go alone," the servant replied. "Please understand."
Hearing this only deepened Russell's curiosity; he could not begin to grasp what Milverton was plotting.
"Fine."
He said this and walked straight ahead.
The corridor, carpeted with thick wool, was utterly silent. When Russell reached the entrance he instinctively turned the doorknob, only to find the door locked. He seemed to understand something.
Raising one hand lightly, a slender brass probe appeared between his fingers without anyone noticing. With a soft click, the expensive, intricate lock that even skilled locksmiths were said to be unable to handle opened effortlessly.
Russell pushed the door open and entered with the casual air of a man returning to his own bedroom.
Inside the suite a floor lamp fitted with a velvet shade cast a faint yellowish light. From the gramophone came a pleasant piano piece whose title he did not know.
Milverton sat in a leather armchair beside the fireplace, wearing a deep-red velvet robe and holding a glass of amber cognac. Although he heard the faint sound of the door opening, he did not hurriedly turn around the way most people would, nor did the fingers gripping the glass tremble.
"Mr Watson, I am honoured that you have come alone."
Milverton slowly set the wine glass on the small walnut table beside him, then turned his face away. In the ash-green eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses there was not the slightest trace of fear or anger at the quiet invasion of personal space. When a hunter beholds his finest prey he feels only one kind of admiration—an almost fanatical yet perfectly restrained admiration.
He truly was a man who combined extraordinary talent with striking looks.
"The door was locked, Mr Milverton, yet you will not mind if I omit the formal courtesy of ringing the bell, will you?"
Russell removed his slightly damp dark-grey coat and casually hung it on the brass coat-rack beside the door. He walked to another sofa opposite Milverton, sat down at ease, and casually crossed his long legs.
"Actually, I deliberately locked the door because I wanted to confirm whether the legendary phantom thief I had read about in the newspapers truly exists. Good evening, Mr Russell Watson… or should I call you Mr Moriarty?"
"A name is merely a label."
Even when confronted with this astonishing fact that could mobilise the whole of Scotland Yard, Russell merely chuckled. That young face showed not the slightest agitation at being exposed; rather, it radiated a casual nonchalance.
"Mr Milverton is exactly the same. He is a blackmailer who scavenges rubbish in the shadows unnoticed, yet outwardly he pretends to be a respectable gentleman."
Remarkably, Milverton showed no anger at Russell's almost blatant sarcasm and indifference. On the contrary, his gaze toward Russell grew even brighter, as though a discerning collector had finally found a rare and unique masterpiece, and a genuine smile appeared on his lips.
"Warning, arrogant, and extremely aggressive—that describes you perfectly. The aristocrats of London seem to hold you in very high regard. Excellent; I am thoroughly satisfied."
He took the crystal bottle from the table and poured a small amount of cognac into another empty glass. The amber liquid made a clear sound as it entered the glass; he pushed that glass toward the small round table in front of Russell.
"I had originally thought that a young man of such talent at this age would be unable to conceal his gift and impulsiveness. Yet Mr Watson is far calmer than I imagined."
Milverton sat deeply in the chair and stared fixedly at the young man before him through his glasses.
"Arrogant yet possessing an attractive rationality—that is your splendid quality."
Russell did not touch the wine glass; he merely watched the performance quietly. Deep in his eyes a leisurely enjoyment faintly resided.
"The fact that you are sitting here means you already understand my methods. Then you should also understand why, after learning your true identity, I not only refrained from reporting you to Scotland Yard but even took the bold action of meeting a murderer who could have his neck broken at any moment alone in London."
"Appled."
Russell casually uttered the name while stifling a slightly bored yawn.
"The Dead Hand switch is deeply bound to scandal and to his own life. To be honest, this method is indeed extremely effective, yet it lacks considerable originality. Aren't you afraid that if I become angry I will throw you into the Thames without hesitation and then go read tomorrow's newspaper?"
"You cannot do it."
Milverton's smile grew ever more confident.
"If you were a terrorist who knew only violence and destruction, you would not care whether Mary Morstan lived or died, still less would you go to the trouble of integrating the Morstan family into society for her sake. Mr Russell, you have a weakness. My death might cost me my present fortune, yet the scandals that would erupt the moment my heart stops would overturn the entire social structure of London from its foundations. At that point Buckingham Palace and MI6 would employ every means to eliminate the trigger. Mary Morstan would die. And the famous female detective who stands beside you would be sent to ruin for the crime of covering up the case."
He leaned forward slightly and spoke in a low voice.
"Appled is not an ordinary vault. It is a system—a Sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of every person who holds power. Before this system even Moriarty's extraordinary martial skill is nothing more than a blow against cotton."
Russell quietly regarded the eloquent man before him. He had to admit that Milverton indeed possessed a nauseatingly eerie yet at the same time unbelievably persuasive pathological self-confidence.
"You seem to think you have cornered me."
Russell's tone was largely calm.
"In other words, you went out of your way to come from Birmingham and even sent a threatening letter that smelled of cologne merely to flaunt how safe your turtle shell is?"
"I am merely explaining how foolish and meaningless resistance is."
Milverton laughed.
"Do you think I am interested in the insignificant textile factories of the Morstan family or the dilapidated warehouses on the South Bank? Does the profit those goods yield in an entire year equal the amount I earn from a single dinner with a few aristocrats? I do not even need to pay taxes."
He straightened his back and stared fixedly at Russell as though appraising an irreplaceable treasure.
"Christmas is almost upon us."
Milverton sighed quietly, shifted his gaze to the flickering firelight beside him, and a note of sympathy coloured his voice.
"Those two beautiful women have little time left. I could not bear to watch them wander aimlessly through the fog of London like headless flies, trying to untie a knot that cannot be untied. That is why I invited only you here tonight—so that I may give you and them an entirely new opportunity."
"Oh?"
Russell raised an eyebrow. "Is the King of Blackmail trying to play the generous Santa Claus on this sacred holiday?"
"Why not?"
Milverton smiled and clasped his hands.
"During this interval I have not spent my time doing nothing. While you were searching for Appled I have been reading every report concerning Moriarty."
He paused; the previous calm arrogance gradually shifted into a cheerful, expansive tone.
"From the secret treasures of Buckingham Palace to the clandestine thefts that took place in aristocratic mansions. What those foolish policemen saw was an arrogant, law-defying, rampaging suspicious thief. Yet in my eyes I saw an invisible net."
Milverton leaned forward slightly; he made no attempt to hide the greed that resided in his eyes.
"An information network and physical channels that permeate every place and are extremely efficient. You are able not only to grasp the security arrangements of those grand mansions but also, after an incident occurs, to calmly conceal it or shift responsibility. The stolen goods are so valuable that even MI6 cannot catch you. That is what makes you so terrifying, Mr Watson. Combined with such a vast information network and the astonishing ability to execute orders, you can truly be called the most perfect crime machine in the world."
Hearing this, Russell roughly understood what the other party was plotting. He shifted into a more comfortable posture, rested one hand on his chin, and watched the man before him sink deeper into his own world.
"In other words, this media king has set his sights on the sewers of my back alleys?"
"No—it is a cooperative relationship. What is called a powerful alliance."
Milverton corrected him, ambition gleaming in his eyes.
"You possess eyes that can see through every secret and skilful hands that can take anything. As for me…" He tapped his temple lightly with self-satisfaction. "I own the safest storage and monetisation system in Europe—Appled! Mr Russell, imagine what would happen if we joined forces. Your task would be to expose the hypocrisy of those who hold power and wealth and to reveal their most fatal secrets. And I would be responsible for storing those secrets in Appled and transforming them into an inexhaustible source of wealth, power, and absolute control!"
At this moment the refined demeanour of the media bigwig almost completely vanished, revealing an extremely greedy nature.
"What is Mary Morstan? She is merely a fake who happened by luck to find a treasure. If they can draw Moriarty—the master of intelligence and operations—into their own camp, it will not only be possible to seize the Morstan family; it will not be impossible to gradually weaken even the seasoned members of the House of Lords."
"Appled holds the most important secrets of this country. It is like a guillotine hanging over our heads. Yet I am, after all, a respectable person, and there are far too many things I cannot personally become involved in. Information also requires physical force in order to be realised as absolute control. To draw out the true value of these secrets—value that far exceeds monetary value—to the fullest, one needs extremely careful routes, the most perfect executors, and partners who do not care about public opinion."
He stared fixedly at Russell and revealed the trump card he had long nurtured.
"As long as you agree to become my partner, all the unpleasant events of the past can be treated as though they never happened. Miss Mary can rest secure in her position as head of the Morstan family and continue that fine family business. The proud Miss Holmes can continue playing detective on Baker Street. The blade of Appled will never be turned against them. The secret of her bloodline will turn to ashes in the flames. Furthermore, if anyone should attempt to harm them in the future, I can conveniently deal with it in my own way."
Milverton softened his tone like the seductive devil of a story.
"If you use your connections to ensure their safety, as a bonus you can obtain half of the underground monarchy of the British Empire. I cannot begin to imagine why a rational phantom thief would refuse. After all, what exactly do you gain by following that fake girl? A few words of praise? A small amount of dubious stock? Or her body? You had better give her up. She is already like a sinking ship. If you join me, Appled will become our shared empire, and the aristocrats of London will all prostrate themselves at our feet like dogs! At that time you will still be surrounded by beautiful women as you are now, yet you will stand in a higher position. Is there any disadvantage for you?"
The smokeless coal in the fireplace occasionally produced a faint crackling sound. Russell quietly listened to the grand vision the media bigwig was describing. He looked at Milverton's face, which had reddened a little from the display of power; behind the glasses a fanatical light resided.
Then Russell suddenly began to laugh.
At first it was a very small laugh, yet it gradually grew louder, becoming an incongruous sound in this luxurious, quiet suite and even carrying an open note of mockery.
"What are you laughing at?"
Milverton's enthusiasm faded slightly; a crease appeared between his brows.
"I'm sorry—I couldn't help it."
Russell covered his forehead with one hand; after the laughter had stopped for a while he finally raised his face and looked at the man opposite him.
"Just now, while you were speaking so eloquently, I suddenly realised that you looked exactly like a clumsy swindler selling fake medicine on a street corner."
Milverton's expression finally clouded; a crack appeared in the calm and elegance he had been striving to maintain.
"Mr Watson, I am offering you the chance to stand at the summit. Your arrogance can be said to have been based on reason."
"Reasonable? I am extremely reasonable."
Russell shrugged and finally stretched out a hand toward the cognac glass he had left untouched until now. Yet he did not drink it; he merely toyed with the finely crafted crystal glass, watching the amber liquid sway in the light and shadow.
"Mr Milverton, the pie you have just drawn is certainly very large—large enough to fill the stomachs of ninety-nine percent of the world's population."
His tone was languid yet at the same time thoroughly mocking.
"But unfortunately my stomach is weak, and the biscuit was too hard for me to eat.
I am better suited to being a kept man."