Fraudulence and Fruition
There was a moment of silence in the room. "I…I'm lost for words, Basil!", Dawson then said, breaking it. "What a horrific story…and experience! And you actually succeeded at remaining so composed in the presence of that vile scoundrel?"
"Admittedly, it was extremely trying," Basil replied. "Yet it's been so long ago that I've mostly forgotten the intensity of my agitation. For years, I have been regarding Ratigan as an absolute enemy… I'd almost forgotten how I much used to idolize him before he revealed the dark secret of his true nature. Somehow, I'm so disconnected from him now, that it's almost impossible to recall to my mind the admiration I once had for him. Unfortunately, it was all based on a masterfully executed lie." He sighed quietly, then, seeing that his pipe had been smoked, he put it aside, took out a packet of cigarettes out the pocket of his coat that hung loosely over the backrest of the armchair, lit a cigarette with a match, and took a pull. "Basil, you really shouldn't be smoking so excessively, and especially not in your current state!" the Doctor, ever concerned about others' well-being, cried, looking aghast at the unhealthy sight. "Besides, there's a child present, do not forget that!" At those words, Basil, for a splitsecond, raised his eyebrows, swallowed, and said, rather abashed, "Oh—I'm sorry, I- didn't realize-" He didn't finish the sentence, but briefly looked at little Olivia, who had been hearing everything he had been saying with keen, but sad, eyes. "Forgive me, Miss Fla…versham," Basil apologized, awkwardly. Looking at Dawson and Mr. Flaversham, he said, "The girl has been so unusually silent – I almost forgot she was here with us." The two mice exchanged looks, but then Flaversham smiled briefly. "May I just… smoke till it's half-burned? I promise I shall put it away then," Basil asked his audience. "I don't mind!" Olivia said, sincerely. Basil gave her a faint, but rapt, smile, and then said, "I'll put an end to this in a moment." After a few more puffs, he tapped the ash off the cigarette and finally stubbed it out into an ashtray. "Thank you," Dawson said. "So…what happened after you had left the office?" Basil continued,
"I hurried home, drained and distraught, as anyone would be who had to accept that his greatest hero was but a fraud, not to mention one so vengeful and vicious…" His eyes wandered upward as he attempted to recall the details of the terrible memory. "I don't think I had ever felt so forlorn, so hollow in my entire life, but luckily, I've never had reason to feel as I did on that evening anymore thereafter. All my attempts to remain composed were futile – you can probably imagine my doleful state." His face froze for a moment. "Anyway," he then continued, in his usual sober manner, "After I had vented my feelings, I figuratively slapped myself on the head and returned from my state of affliction back into the present reality. I knew that I would have to keep a new picture of the Professor in mind, and that I would have to instantly inform the Head of Department and vice-chancellorship about his maniacal intentions, which I did. The following morning, as early as I could, I went to both of them and asked if I could see them in private, for I had something of extreme urgency to tell. Naturally, they were outraged, and asked me if I was absolutely certain. I affirmed, and implored that they immediately dismiss the villain before it was too late, and dispossess him of his academic title. Having done that, I sent Ratigan a telegraph saying "The game is over". I soon received his replying message: "Not yet. It has only begun. Looking forward to hearing from you soon. R."
"The day after that, Ratigan was fired and sentenced to imprisonment. He had counted on this happening, so he had prepared for it. He did not deny any of the allegations, and apparently, declared himself insane, claiming that this was common amongst geniuses of his calibre, who frequently got bored, and, as a consequence, began devising obnoxious plans to divert themselves. Anybody who hears a statement such as that would believe that it is indeed the talk of a madman. For a week, his name was all over London's newspapers. "Mad genius fired from Oxford University", read the headlines. It was pitiful. Though I was angry at the public's, but especially, the University's ignorance and gullibility, I knew that Ratigan had successfully deceived hundreds of people, and perhaps, I shouldn't blame them for believing he was something he wasn't. He was an excellent actor, actually, and additionally possessed a certain charisma that often helped him get his way. His entire life revolved on playing pretend, in so many ways!
"I of course knew the Professor much better than the rest. I knew his manner of thinking. He was indeed a genius – but a genius twisted for evil, as he had proven. I knew that he was intending to fool the prison by pretending to be a true lunatic, who should rather be sent to an insane asylum. He did stay behind bars for three weeks, I think, until his bizarre antics caused him to be discharged, and indeed, sent to an a psychiatric hospital, where, I am certain, he must have thoroughly enjoyed playing the madman. Although – evidently, he was mad in some way – but in spite of all his actions, he was most definitely compos mentis, for no lunatic possesses the clarity of mind, combination skills and logical thinking ability to the extent that Ratigan did. No no – he was always fully conscious of his actions, they were always coolly calculated, and, the work of a truly ingenious mind. Until his final hour, that is…
"Whilst in jail, he, as I later discovered, made the acquaintance of Fidget, the peg-legged bat, who had once broken into a bank, but was caught. He was not so much of a villain himself; rather a former thief, a persistent minor offender, who had been raised in poverty, an agent, who was not as intellectually capable as those who had decided to make him carry out their crimes, which is also what Ratigan did. After deceiving the psychiatry, he, one night, freed Fidget from his cell and arranged for a little place for him to stay in, until he escaped from the asylum shortly thereafter. Once again, his name was all over the newspapers – but since everyone was under the impression that he was simply a madman, they did not make the effort to search for him, having enough other problematic patients to deal with. The ex-Professor must have laughed himself sick at their stupidity; and during his stay in the cells, had plenty of spare time to concoct another devious plan, now that his Cogito idea was obsolete.
"I, in the mean time, decided, though with a heavy heart, to leave Oxford and forget about my degree, for I figured I did not need it. I had almost completed my studies anyway, and had knowledge of many areas of chemistry that were never even covered in my classes. I could not bear to visit the place again, after the grievous disappointment I had experienced. I cannot deny that he was the best Professor around – and if I had already learned from the best, there was nothing more that his intellectually more inferior colleagues could teach me. My former dreams of pursuing a University career were shattered. I decided to dedicate my future to catching the Napoleon of Crime, and catching others who haunted the streets of London with their criminal acts. I knew I did not belong at Scotland Yard – most of the police detectives there were incredibly dim-witted and short-sighted, as far as I could tell from multiple experiences – but I wanted to do detective work, for it was analyzing, hypothesizing, and combining seemingly unrelated pieces of information which was what I could do best. My knowledge of chemistry, I thought, would be greatly beneficial. I planned to become a private investigator, but I needed some money to begin with, and would have to work and make a name for myself. By a stroke of luck, my uncle died, and I inherited some of his fortune, which sufficed for me to rent a small room. I worked at the police for a while, and saved however much I could of my salaries. When I felt that I was ready, I began my own practice as a private consulting detective, a profession I had created myself. People would consult me after the police had failed to handle their cases, and, quite often after I had left Scotland Yard to become self-employed, a few of the inspectors still asked for my help with the most complicated of their cases. Thanks to me, they succeeded at unravelling the mysteries and tracking the criminals, yet they nearly always took the entire credit themselves, save for a few very important cases which were known to the public; my name was mentioned in some newspaper articles on those. Initially, I was quite offended at their conceited attitude, believing themselves superior to me because they regarded me as an amateur. But I learned not to mind – in fact, those rare occasions when I was given official credit for finding the final missing link that chained events together, greatly benefited my still budding career, for people knew me from reading the newspapers and thus, came to me when they didn't wish to consult the police, or they recommended me to their family, friends and acquaintances. Fortunately, after half a year of only minor success, clients began to increase rapidly, and soon, I was often working on more than one case at a time. I finally knew that I was on the right path.
