The Black Lizard and Beast In the Shadows

by Rampo Edogawa

‘Yes, just me. Open it, hurry!’

  He heard the key turn in the keyhole, and the door opened.

  ‘Ah! I was late! You’ve already taken poison, haven’t you?’ he shouted as soon as he stepped inside. The woman in black had collapsed after barely managing to open the door for him.

  Akechi dropped to his knees, and cradled the upper half of her body on his lap, hoping to at least soothe some of her dying agonies.

  ‘There’s nothing to say now; it’s all too late. Sleep in peace. Because of you, I faced mortal danger, but it has been a valuable experience… it is, after all, my profession. I don’t hate you. Quite the opposite: I pity you… ah, yes, there was something I had to tell you. The item that you worked so hard to obtain for your collection, Iwase-san’s Star of Egypt, I will take home with me. To return it to its rightful owner, of course.’

  He withdrew the huge jewel from his pocket, and suspended it in front of the thief’s eyes. The Black Lizard forced a weak smile, and nodded two, three times.

  ‘What about Sanae-san?’ she asked, gently.

  ‘Sanae-san? Oh, you mean Sakurayama Yōko. Rest assured, she has already left this hole together with Kagawa, and is safe in the hands of the police. She had a tough time of it down here. When I get back to Osaka, I plan to make sure that Iwase-san repays her for her trouble.’

  ‘I’ve lost to you. I’ve lost completely.’

  She had not merely lost at battle. Indicating without words that she also meant her defeat at something totally different, she began to weep, the tears overflowing from her half closed eyes.

  ‘You’re holding me in your arms, aren’t you… I’m so happy… I had never imagined I could have such a fortunate death.’

  Akechi understood what she was saying, and felt his own breast fill with a strange emotion, although it was not one that he could express in words.

  The confession of the dying Black Lizard was mysterious indeed. Had she been in love with her mortal enemy Akechi Kogorō without being aware of it? And had that been why she had cried, so full of terrible sadness, when she thought she had buried him in the midnight sea?

  ‘Good-bye, Akechi! Can you grant me a dying wish? Kiss me…’

  Her limbs were already shaking. This was the end. And though she may have been a criminal, he could not refuse her this last, dying request.

  Silent, Akechi Kogorō softly pressed his lips to her already-cold brow. He kissed the forehead of the murderess who had tried to kill him. She smiled with happiness, from the heart, and with that smile still on her face, she stopped moving.

  The detectives, finished with their arrests, came charging up the corridor, and stood transfixed in the doorway when they saw that strange scene. Even these detectives, known as cold-hearted men, had emotions. Stricken to silence by the solemnity they faced, they lost, for a moment, even the power of speech.

  The detectives, finished with their arrests,

  came charging up the corridor,

  and stood transfixed in the doorway…

  The incredible Black Lizard, the woman thief of the age who had shaken society to its roots, was gone. She had passed from this world with a faint smile on her face, lying with her head pillowed on the knees of the famous detective Akechi Kogorō.

  But look at the sleeves of her black garb! She must have torn them while fleeing from the police only minutes before. Her beautiful arms were exposed, and the black lizard tattoo that was the source of her nickname seemed to writhe ever so slightly like a living creature desolate at the death of its mistress.

  END

  It sometimes seems to me that there are two types of detective novelist. One, you could say, is the criminal sort, whose only interest is in the crime and who cannot be satisfied when writing a detective story of the deductive kind unless depicting the cruel psychology of the criminal. The other is the detective type, an author of very sound character whose only interest is in the intellectual process of detection and who is indifferent to the criminal’s psychology.

  Now the detective novelist I am going to write about, Ōe Shundei, belongs to the former category, while I fall into the latter.

  Accordingly, while my business is concerned with crime, I am in no way a bad person, for my interest is in the scientific deduction of the sleuth. Indeed, it might even be apt to say there are few as virtuous as me.

  The real mistake is that such a well-meaning person as me accidentally became involved in this case. Were I somewhat less virtuous, had I within me the slightest trait of evil, I could perhaps have come through without such regrets. I might not have sunk into this fearful pit of suspicion. Rather, I might now be living in the lap of luxury, blessed with a beautiful wife and great wealth.

  Quite some time has passed since everything ended and while the awful suspicions may not have disappeared the raw reality is fading into the distance and becoming to some extent a thing of the past. Accordingly, I have decided to set this down as a kind of record and I think it could even be made into a very interesting novel, though even if I completed the work I would not have the courage to release it immediately. You see, the strange death of Oyamada that forms a crucial part of this record still lingers in people’s memories and no matter how names were changed and disguising layers applied nobody would take it as simply a work of fiction.

  Thus, there may well be people who could be bothered by this novel and I would be embarrassed and disturbed to discover this. To tell the truth, though, it is more that I am frightened. For not only was the incident itself strangely meaningless and as unfathomable as a dream in broad daylight, the fantasies I built up around it were so terrifying as to discomfort even myself.

  Even now, when I think of it this world transforms into something peculiar. Rain clouds fill the blue sky, a sound as of drumming beats within my ear, and all darkens before my eyes.

  Anyway, while I am not of a mind to publish this record right away, sometime, just once, I would like to use it to write one of the detective novels in which I specialize. These are simply what you might call the notes for it. Nothing more than a moderately detailed aide-mémoire. I intend to write much as if keeping a long diary in an old notebook, blank but for the section around New Year.

  Before I describe the case, it would probably be useful to provide a detailed explanation of Ōe Shundei, the detective story author who is the protagonist in this case, of his style, and also of his somewhat unusual manner of life. While I had known him prior to the incident and had even engaged him in discussions in magazines, we had not had any exchanges at a personal level and I knew little of his daily life. I became somewhat more informed about this through a friend called Honda after the events took place. Accordingly, with regard to Shundei I think it most fit that I write about these things in the order in which they occurred and as it was the occasion that led to my becoming caught up in this strange case I will describe the facts I noted when I went to interview Honda.

  It was in the autumn of last year, around mid October.

  I had a notion to look at some old sculptures of Buddha so I went to the Imperial Museum in Ueno where I walked through the gloomy, cavernous rooms trying to muffle my footsteps. In the large deserted halls, the slightest sound echoed fearfully and I felt like suppressing not only my footsteps but also any impulse to clear my throat.

  So deserted was the place, I could not help but ponder why it is that museums are so unpopular. The large glass plates of the display cabinets shone coldly and not a speck of dust had fallen on the linoleum. The building’s high ceilings were reminiscent of a temple’s main hall and the silence flowed back as if one were deep under water.

  I was standing in front of a display case in one of the rooms gazing at an aged wooden bodhisattva that had a dreamlike eroticism. Hearing a muffled footfall behind me, I sensed someone approach with a light sound of swishing silk.

  I was startled to see the r
eflection of a person in the glass in front of me. Projected over the bodhisattva was the image of a woman of class wearing a lined kimono of yellow silk and with her hair done in the marumage style denoting a married lady. She drew level with me and stared intently at the Buddhist form. I am embarrassed to admit that while pretending to look at the image I could not prevent myself from snatching occasional glances at her. That was how much she captivated me.

  Her face was pale, but I had never seen such an attractive paleness. If mermaids exist, then I believe they must have charming skin like that of this woman. She had the oval face of the beauties of the past and every line, whether of her brows, nose, mouth, neck, or shoulder, had that feminine delicacy described by the writers of old that suggested she might disappear if touched. Even now I cannot forget her dreamlike, long-lashed eyes.

  Oddly, I do not now recall which of us spoke first, but perhaps I created some pretext. A brief interchange about the objects in the display case formed a link, and after doing the rounds of the museum together we exited and chatted about many things. Our paths remained the same for a considerable time on the walk from Sannai down toward Yamashita.

  As we spoke, the air of beauty she evoked deepened further. When she laughed there was something graceful and shy that produced a strange sensation in me as though I were gazing at an old oil painting of a saint or that reminded me of the mysterious smile of the Mona Lisa. When she laughed, the edges of her lips caught on her large, pure white eye teeth, creating a fascinating curve. A large beauty spot on the pale white skin of her right cheek set off that curve to create an ineffable expression at once gentle and nostalgic.

  However, were it not for something odd I discovered on the nape of her neck, my heart would not have been attracted by her so powerfully and she would have seemed but a genteel and tender beauty likely to vanish if touched.

  She concealed it with a skilful arrangement of her collar that betrayed no artifice, but as we passed through Sannai I caught a glimpse.

  Visible on the nape of her neck was a swollen line like a red weal that looked as though it went deep down her back. While it seemed to be a birthmark, I also wondered whether it might not actually be a recent scar. The dark red weal wormed over the smooth white skin of her soft nape, and strangely the cruelty of it bestowed an erotic impression. When I saw it, the beauty that had seemed to me so dreamlike suddenly pressed in on me with a compelling sense of reality.

  I learned that she was a partner in Roku-Roku Trading Company, that her name was Oyamada Shizuko, and that she was the wife of the entrepreneur Oyamada Rokurō. Fortunately, she was a reader of detective fiction and in particular an admirer of my works (I shall never forget how happy I was when I heard this), which meant that ours was the relationship of an author and a fan. As such, we could become better acquainted without a trace of unseemliness and I was spared an unwanted permanent parting of the ways. Following this, we began to exchange letters occasionally.

  I was impressed with Shizuko’s refined taste, for though a young woman she visited deserted museums. I was also pleased that she was a devotee of my detective fiction, often said to be the most intellectual in the genre. Thus, I fell for her completely, sending her meaningless letters on a frequent basis. For her part, she scrupulously replied to each one in a ladylike style. Imagine how happy it made this lonely bachelor to have made friends with such an admirable woman.

  The epistolary exchange between Oyamada Shizuko and myself continued in this fashion for some months.

  As our correspondence grew, I noted with considerable nervousness that my letters were undeniably, if unobtrusively, coming to contain a certain import, but it also seemed to me that the notes from Shizuko, while of the utmost propriety, were becoming infused with a feeling of warmth that went above what you would expect in a conventional exchange, though perhaps this was my imagination.

  To speak plainly, I am embarrassed to say that I went to some pains to find out that Shizuko’s husband, Oyamada Rokurō, was very much his wife’s senior, that he looked older than his actual age, and that he was completely bald.

  Then, around February this year, something strange began to surface in Shizuko’s letters. I sensed that she was becoming very scared about something.

  In one letter she wrote, ‘recently something very worrying is happening and I find myself waking up in the night.’

  The sentence was simple enough, but behind the words themselves the impression of a woman assailed by fear could be made out all too clearly.

  ‘Sir, I wonder if you happen to be a friend of Ōe Shundei, who is also an author of detective fiction? If you have his address, would you let me know it?’

  Of course, I knew Ōe Shundei’s works very well, but I had no personal acquaintance with the man because he was extremely anti-social and had never attended any writers’ gatherings. I had also heard a rumour that he had suddenly stopped writing around the middle of last year and had perhaps relocated but that his address was unknown. I replied thus to Shizuko, but when I thought that the fear she had recently been experiencing could be connected to Ōe Shundei I had an unpleasant feeling for reasons I shall explain later.

  Shortly afterward, I received a postcard from her saying, ‘I would like to ask your advice about a matter. Would you permit me to call on you?’

  I dimly sensed the nature of this ‘matter,’ but as I certainly did not imagine it would be particularly frightful I was aflutter with a foolish happiness and gave myself up to all manner of fancies regarding a pleasant second encounter.

  On the same day Shizuko obtained my reply that I would be pleased to receive her, she visited my lodgings. So downcast was she when I met her in the entrance hall that all my hopes were dashed, while the ‘matter’ was extraordinary enough to extinguish the fancies I had entertained shortly before.

  ‘I came here because I am really at a loss as to what to do. I thought that you would be kind enough to listen to me… but I’m not sure if perhaps it would not be too much of an imposition to speak so frankly when you still hardly know me.’

  Shizuko laughed tenderly, highlighting her eye teeth and beauty spot, and then glanced up at me.

  As the weather was cold, I had placed a rosewood brazier next to my work desk and she now sat down decorously on the other side of the oblong box with the fingers of both hands resting on its edge. Supple, fine, and graceful, but not overly thin, the fingers seemed to symbolize her whole body. Nor did their paleness reflect any ill health, for while their delicacy suggested that they might vanish if pressed they had an uncanny strength. And it was not just her fingers – this was precisely the impression she gave overall.

  As the weather was cold, I had placed a rosewood brazier next to my work desk and she now sat down decorously on the other side of the oblong box

  with the fingers of both hands resting on its edge.

  Perceiving her intensity, I too quickly became serious and replied, ‘If there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘It really is the most awful thing,’ she said, and leaning forward she reported the following strange events, mixed in with anecdotes from her own youth.

  To simplify considerably what Shizuko then told me about herself, she came from Shizuoka and she had enjoyed the utmost good fortune up until she was about to graduate from the girls school she attended.

  The only thing approaching ill fortune that befell her was in her fourth year at the school when she was beguiled by the artifices of a youth called Hirata Ichirō and fell in love with him very briefly.

  ‘Ill fortune’ because this was only an eighteen-year-old girl playing at love as a result of the slightest impulse; she certainly did not love Hirata truly. However, even if she was not really in love, the other party was totally in earnest.

  She found herself doing her utmost to avoid the relentless youth, but the more she did the stronger his resolve became. Eventually, a dark
figure began to drift around outside the fence beside her home late at night and unpleasant threatening letters appeared in the post. The young girl trembled at the frightful reward for her youthful impulse. Her parents too were upset when they realised that she was not her usual self.

  Just at that time her family suffered a serious stroke of bad luck, but it was actually favourable for Shizuko. As a result of the major economic upheavals then taking place, her father closed down his business leaving behind debt so massive that makeshift solutions would not do. Much as if fleeing in the night, he was forced to rely on a slight acquaintance to hide away in Hikone.

  Due to this unforeseen change in her circumstances, Shizuko had to withdraw from the girl’s school just before she was due to graduate. Nevertheless, she felt relieved that the sudden relocation enabled her to escape from the obsessive attentions of the unpleasant Hirata Ichirō.

  As a result of the situation, her father became ill and shortly after passed away, leaving the mother and daughter behind. For a while, they endured a miserable existence, but their misfortune did not continue long. Soon, Oyamada Rokurō, an entrepreneur from the same village where they were lying low, came into their lives. He was their rescuer.

  Through glimpses from afar, Oyamada fell deeply in love with Shizuko and sought her hand through a go-between. For her part, Shizuko felt no dislike for Oyamada. Although over ten years older than her, he was smartly turned out in gentleman’s attire and had a certain ambitious air about him. The marriage proposal discussions proceeded smoothly. Oyamada returned to his mansion in Tokyo accompanied by his bride Shizuko and her mother.

  Seven years passed. Shizuko’s mother died of an illness in the third year or so after their marriage and some time after that Oyamada travelled overseas for two years on important business (Shizuko explained that he had returned at the end of the year before last and that she had assuaged the loneliness of her solitary existence each day by attending classes to learn the tea ceremony, flower arrangement, and music). Excluding this, their household was relatively free of incident and the very harmonious relationship between the two was characterized by a succession of happy days.