Keisuke Matsuoka - Sherlock Holmes: A Scandal in Japan

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.

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 devils 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 wits end and sought only a companion for his trip to hell. But Professor Moriartys 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 opponents 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 mans 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 Morans direction. In response, Moran lifted his air rifledisguised to appear as a walking stickhigh into the air before retreating again from sight.

With that custom-made weapon and Colonel Morans 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 Morans aim. Their plan was dangerous enough that Colonel Moran had suggested placing a decoy in Moriartys 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 cliffs strangled path. One edge of the trail wound hopelessly into the waterfalls 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 mans 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 the mans 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 boys 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 vanitys 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.