Shaarokku Homuzu tai Ito Hirobumi © 2017 Keisuke Matsuoka
All rights reserved.
First published in Japan in 2017 by Kodansha Ltd., Tokyo
Publication rights for this English edition arranged through Kodansha Ltd., Tokyo
English language version produced by Vertical, Inc.
Published by Vertical, Inc., New York, 2019
Cover design: Zak Tebbal
This is a work of fiction.
Ebook ISBN 9781949980257
First Edition
Vertical, Inc.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
About the Author
Editor’s note: Two passages from this text have been quoted directly from original Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle: “The Final Problem” and “The Adventure of the Empty House.”
1
The sky overhead was a piercing blue. The snowdrifts piled on the towering mountain peaks were already half dissolved beneath the May sun. The scene, with the protruding rocks jutting out in shy intervals from the sheer cliff, almost seemed idyllic. But grim reality cast an all-encompassing shadow over the cliffs’ beauty. The snow? Nothing more than crystals of ice accumulated from spray suspended in the atmosphere. Even now a thunderous roar, like a wail of lament, echoed interminably from all corners. The noise came from the swelling falls, below, where the snow that blanketed the hills south of Meiringen journeyed to its most final end.
It was the devil’s own cauldron, imposing and fierce. Over the years the falls had worn away the cliff face, forming a deep chasm below, from which mist rose in a dense fog that encompassed the entire region. Leagues below, the frothing, cresting basin of the falls was visible as no more than a white haze.
And yet, the man standing at the precipice staring down into the falls displayed no sign of fear. Fear, after all, was but a sentiment. It was abundantly clear to him, from observing the vesicular flora growing from the craggy earth upon which he stood, that no avalanche or similar disaster had visited these cliffs for many years.
Professor James Moriarty was calm. As he looked down, he was conscious of the command he held over his mental facilities. The falls spanned 300 feet across, with a drop of 650 feet. The consequences of tumbling from such a height hardly required speculation. Moriarty, however, had no intention of meeting such a fate this day.
His persecutor had failed to see the truth and would soon be lured into his trap. Even now, that enemy must be confident that the infamous criminal mastermind he pursued was now at his wit’s end and sought only a companion for his trip to hell. But Professor Moriarty’s back was not yet to the wall. Multiple cubbyholes existed through which he might effect his escape. And ample possibility remained that those paltry records, what his persecutor referred to as evidence, could yet be overturned.
And yet…by and by, as time went on, Moriarty found he was not so free as he might wish. He could not, as it were, relax and linger over his tea. The man who hounded him was as tenacious as a cat, and clearly determined to continue his stubborn chase.
Conducting a perfect crime required considerable expense, and his pursuer was affecting the return in profits. If their return was lower than expected, this impacted their day-to-day operations. If they wished to end this untoward state of affairs it was imperative that the man hunting Moriarty be eliminated.
Due to that opponent’s circumspect and premeditative nature, however, opportunities to do him mischief were less easily obtained. Moriarty had already faced the other man once, in his rooms at 221B Baker Street, though naturally he had not been able to make any attempt on his life at the time. The man’s death would have to look like an accident, and preferably under circumstances in which the body should never be recovered.
Moriarty glanced upward. Though the cliff wall behind him seemed sheer, it contained several small footholds. With some scrambling one would arrive at the ledge that stretched out above.
From far overhead, a bearded face peered down at Moriarty from the summit of the cliff. Sebastian Moran. Moran was a former colonel in the Indian army, and a renowned hunter particularly notable for his skill in bagging the fiercest of big game. After suffering a string of losses at cards Colonel Moran had mired himself in debt, and it had been a simple matter for Moriarty to induce him into the criminal fold.
Professor Moriarty waved his hand in Moran’s direction. In response, Moran lifted his air rifle—disguised to appear as a walking stick—high into the air before retreating again from sight.
With that custom-made weapon and Colonel Moran’s unparalleled marksmanship, the devil would soon have his due. Despite his blindness, the German mechanic Von Herder had constructed a formidable weapon. Designed to fire pistol bullets silently, the gun was tremendously lethal.
The challenge, then, lay in inducing their target to stand upon the rocks. The mist stretched nearly to the precipice of the cliffs, obscuring Colonel Moran’s aim. Their plan was dangerous enough that Colonel Moran had suggested placing a decoy in Moriarty’s stead, but the professor could not consent to this. It had to be Moriarty himself who lured Sherlock Holmes out. Only by convincing him that Moriarty had been reduced to desperation and had nowhere left to run, would they spur him to give chase even at risk to his own life.
The roar of the falls drowned out all other noise. Still, Moriarty sensed, rather than heard, someone approach. He turned around.
A solitary gentleman walked toward him along the cliff’s strangled path. One edge of the trail wound hopelessly into the waterfall’s gaping basin. The man, however, showed no sign of fear. With his gaze fixed upon Moriarty, he planted his alpine-stock, which he held firmly in one hand, squarely into the earth.
He wore an Inverness coat draped over his suit. Though the coat was thinner than the Ulster coat Moriarty wore, and the man’s figure was tall and gaunt, he seemed hardly affected by the chill air. Though arresting, the leanness of his figure was logically consistent. The man was proficient in boxing, fencing, and even the singlestick. Moriarty judged it wise not to approach within reach of th
e man’s walking stick.
The man stood at over six feet tall, and was possessed of piercing eyes, a hawk-like nose and a distinctive, angular jaw. When they had last met Moriarty had mocked him, saying that he displayed less frontal lobe development than expected. At the moment, however, his lobe was hidden from view, his forehead concealed by his cap. Moriarty smiled despite himself. The man was wearing a deerstalker, exactly like the one in the illustrated memoirs about him written by his loyal friend.
Sherlock Holmes. Thirty-seven years old. Bachelor. That a mere detective could have pressed Moriarty this far!
The man called out, his voice booming over the sound of the falls. “Naturally I immediately realized that the Swiss lad that you dispatched had no experience as a guide. Even in May the guides in these areas are obliged to wear climbing irons with ten teeth. The boy’s irons had only four.”
“Are you so put out that anyone might think for even a moment that you had been fooled? Mr. Holmes, intellect is meant for more than vanity’s sake.”
“Undoubtedly.” Sherlock glanced down into the chasm, his expression unchanged. “There are truths in this world that I would never engage to dispute. A fall from this height, for instance, should be certain death.”
“You threaten me? Violence is the impulse of the barbaric and the weak of mind.”
“I was merely giving voice to your own thoughts, Professor. Consigning oneself thus, in a pique of rage, to mutual annihilation, hardly befits a man of culture.”
Moriarty struggled to contain his glee. By God, Holmes had fallen for it. He really believed he had Moriarty against the ropes! All was unfolding according to plan.
Sherlock Holmes raised his voice once more. “Professor Moriarty. You published your treatise on the Binomial Theorem at the mere age of 21. A mind as capable as your own ought to have applied its faculties to the betterment of mankind.”
“You suggest my path has been mistaken?”
“You now stand at the very pinnacle of villainy, the hand that governs that foul syndicate that pervades London’s lanes and shadows. Your mark can be found upon the majority of those fiendish crimes that have gone unanswered in our city. The air of London will only be sweeter for your loss.”
“You are here to convict me? Is it a crime to oppose those artless assumptions that you and your ilk deem to be ‘order’? I have merely provided a learning opportunity to an immature society.”
“Crime cannot be justified in the name of enlightenment. How much blood have you spilled? The fire you started near Charing Cross Station left two pitiable children dead, and they were only four and six years of age.”
“Society cannot progress without sacrifice. Study your history, Mr. Holmes.”
“I believe I have. Revolution comes upon the overthrow of tyrants. London’s future now hangs in the balance.”
The falls reverberated with a deep groan, the rising wind creating a shifting mass from the mist. Sherlock’s figure floated in and out of the fog, obscured one moment and visible the next.
Moriarty began to lose patience. The other man’s feet remained firmly planted upon the narrow trail that fringed the cliff. He had drawn no closer to the rocks, where he might afford Colonel Moran his shot from above. Was it wariness on his part?
He sighed, venturing a glance down toward the basin. “The tallest waterfall in the world possesses a drop of 3,200 feet. Do you know where it is located? I am sure you do not.”
“In your own imagination, I presume.”
Moriarty snorted reflexively, leveling his gaze at the other man. “It does exist, Mr. Holmes. But it has yet to be officially discovered. It is located in the Guiana Highlands, in the northern reaches of the South American content.”
“Evidently you wish to imply that your activities extend even to such lost reaches, but it would be fruitless for us to discuss such matters. I have no means of confirming them.”
“Your world is a small one, Mr. Holmes. I imagine you are entirely ignorant of recent events in the Far East.”
“Trivializing London by comparing it to the world at large will do nothing to alleviate the weight of your crimes, Professor.”
“Upon observing the Guiana Highland falls, I calculated its height using triangulation. There is no doubt that it is the greatest waterfall in the world, but it strikes rock first after a plunge of 2,648 feet. How deep, do you suppose, is the basin?”
It was Sherlock’s turn to chortle. “Do you think that by distracting me with calculations you will delay your fate? There is no basin. With a fall that great the water would be dispersed in the air before reaching the ground.”
“Hmm…” Moriarty appraised Sherlock. It seemed he, too, was in command of his more rational faculties. “You speak as if you have seen the falls for yourself.”
“I believe only what I witness directly, but when one subscribes to the principles of deduction, reason operates automatically.”
“We are alike in that regard. When you departed Strasbourg with Dr. Watson and crossed the Rhone Valley and Gemmi Pass, I was watching through my binoculars. You were headed for Interlaken, I presume.”
“Completely correct,” Sherlock replied simply.
“When the rock fell at Lake Daubensee, however, it seems you were unable to interpret that as a warning.”
“If you had hoped to hamper our progress, you might have made a grander show of your presence. I suppose you were so fearful of police notice that you felt compelled to hide.”
“Ask another, Mr. Holmes. Documentation of my history of cooperation with the police, as an instructor in England and beyond, dates back 20 years or more. Naturally, I never once attended upon the police in person, if you take my meaning?”
“That is well played.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Should Scotland Yard inquire after the name Moriarty, the account received would differ station by station. The resultant confusion would dispense with any immediate necessity for a consistent alibi.”
“It is not only my own lieutenants who have assumed the name of Moriarty. My younger brother’s given name is also James, and he resembles me in outward appearance. This has proved convenient on several occasions.”
“You have devised everything most cunningly. I already esteemed you as a criminal of the first order and this has only further convinced me.”
Suddenly Moriarty was gripped with a sense of alarm. He pursed his lips, tightly. His aim was to come across as a desperate old man who had been backed into a corner. Perhaps he was being too much of a church-bell now.
Sherlock set his alpine-stock against the rocks. His expression suddenly took on new resolve. “If you would be good enough to allow me to leave a few lines for my friend.”
“By all means. We are fast reaching the final stages of the discussion of those questions that lie between us. An interlude appears in order.”
The discussion of which Moriarty spoke would be a mere formality. It was clear at this stage they were beyond reconciliation. Sherlock, too, was surely aware of that fact. He displayed no signs of agitation, however, as he drew a notebook from his pocket, opened its pages, and began writing with the tip of his pencil.
“Will you be attaching the date?” asked Moriarty. “It is the fourth of May, 1891.”
“That will not be necessary,” Sherlock said, without looking up. “My friend will return shortly.”
It appeared his mind had been settled. His implacable purpose was to eradicate the criminal mastermind Moriarty from the face of the Earth, even should it cost him his own life. His eyes, as they rested on his notebook, betrayed no signs of hesitation.
Moriarty ground his teeth. Still Sherlock refused to step from the narrow path skirting the cliff! Colonel Moran had no shot. Moriarty kept his distance as well. Certainly he might take his chance and attempt to dash the man into the falls, but Sherlock would surely reach for that stick of
his first. He had yet to lower his guard once, not even as his pencil ran across the page. The slightest shuffle of Moriarty’s feet was enough cause for him to recoil. His watchfulness bordered on paranoia.
Should the shot prove impossible, Colonel Moran had also prepared several boulders that could be dropped down the cliff. It was a proposal, however, that was less than ideal. One could hardly expect that a boulder dropped from such a height would hit only its mark. A poor stroke of luck, and one of the boulders might even strike Moriarty instead.
It was critical, however, that they eliminate Sherlock Holmes while the iron was still hot. Regardless of how they dispatched of the man, the plan afterward remained the same. Arrangements had been made for Moriarty to scale the cliff face after the deed was accomplished. Colonel Moran was to let down a rope ladder so that Moriarty could get from the shelf above to the top of the cliff.
The surface of the narrow path leading to the falls was naked dirt and remained damp in all seasons. Any footprints would be readily apparent. The genius of Moriarty’s plan, however, was that it would appear as if the two men had gone to the falls, whereupon neither had returned. The police would deduce that Moriarty had tumbled into the falls along with Holmes. Once Moriarty was believed dead, he would no longer have the police hounding him. He could return to London in triumph, free to lead his organization unimpeded. And with Sherlock eliminated, his trail would be forever safe from detection.
Moriarty’s prospects were in alignment, and fruition was near. This chance must not be allowed to escape.
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