Pathway to Japanese Literature

“…………”

Nishimura Keikichi was terribly flustered and gazed back at the face of the cheerful, well-mannered client standing before him. Nishimura Keikichi was a young lawyer who had opened his practice on the fourth floor of this ×× Building just about a week prior. And the cheerful, well-mannered client standing before him was his first since opening his practice.

Autumn sunlight streamed brightly through the room—this story took place on a beautifully clear afternoon in late September of the year nineteen hundred and—. “I am Shimizu Shigeru, a film actor,” greeted the client with precisely the sort of sociable smile and tone of voice one might expect from his profession. “I’m not particularly famous, so you probably don’t know me—but since I’m on very close terms with Bōjō-kun, you may have heard the name Shimizu from him.” “The reason I came to visit you today like this is actually because Bōjō-kun recommended it.”

“Oh, so it’s you, Shimizu-kun.” “I did think I’d seen you somewhere before—hahaha.” Indeed, Nishimura had been told about Shimizu countless times through Bōjō—his old friend and art director at the △△ Film Association—but since Nishimura himself held considerable interest in that field, he had often encountered Shimizu’s face on the silver screen, magnified dozens of times larger than life, and thus knew him well. Moreover, since Shimizu—who generally played lead roles—was by no means as obscure an actor as he himself modestly claimed to be…

“Since Bōjō-kun recommended you so enthusiastically—and given that my case isn’t exactly ordinary, I thought it would be best to work with someone familiar…” As he spoke, Shimizu’s eyes abruptly darkened. “Oh ho! So it wasn’t a divorce case after all.” “I was absolutely certain it would be that again…” “My apologies.” “Though perhaps it’s not entirely different.” “Either way—it’s still about cutting ties—no, wait—being cut off—this here—it’s about being severed from this world itself.” “Ha ha ha—!”

“Ha ha ha—!” Both Nishimura and Shimizu burst into cheerful laughter. “So you’re saying you want to file a lawsuit in Yama’s court.”

“No.” “But this isn’t a joke.” “Mr. Nishimura!” “I want you to prepare my will.” Shimizu’s voice held complete seriousness. Once more, a dark shadow abruptly fell across his eyes. “What? “What did you say?!” “Shimizu-kun!” “A will?!” “—This is utterly absurd.” “Are you saying you’re shooting some dangerous action picture—but even so, this seems rather peculiar, doesn’t it?”

“Mr. Nishimura. “Please don’t be alarmed.” “To tell the truth, I—” Shimizu splayed his hands out like a crab’s claws—as befitting a first-rate actor—trembling them violently as he spoke, his eyes widening into perfect circles. “To tell the truth—I had to die today, and what’s more, I had to be killed.” “Ha ha ha! I thought you specialized in silent films, but you’re quite something!” “What marvelously grave lines you deliver.”

“No—it’s perfectly reasonable you wouldn’t believe me—but as I said earlier, this is no joke or idle quip.” “True or not—you…” Nishimura started to speak but froze mid-sentence, finally noticing the unfeigned darkness lingering in Shimizu’s eyes—a shadow that wasn’t entirely performance.

“Well—perhaps I should start from this point—Nishimura-san.” “Did you hear from Bōjō-kun about cinematographer Nakane being accidentally shot at the studio on the eighth?” “Since I haven’t met him recently, I hadn’t heard, but I read about it in the newspaper.” “That actress—what’s-her-name—apparently fired point-blank during filming, they say.” “That’s correct.” “It was during the filming of *Lamenting Moon*.” “Just as that actress—Matsushima Junko—was facing the camera in close-up, about to fire the pistol.” “Not only the shooter herself, but everyone present—myself included—none of us could have imagined live ammunition was loaded.” Bang! “When he collapsed backward from that gunshot with terrible force, we didn’t take it seriously at first.” “Before we knew it, several hands had deliberately loaded live rounds into that pistol.” “We still don’t know who did it, but fired from just two ken away*, there was no surviving it.” “Even a complete novice couldn’t have missed.” “Poor Nakane became my substitute.”

When he spoke this far, his words broke off.

And finally, tears began to stream steadily from his eyes, which had grown even darker.

Nishimura had become thoroughly disconcerted. Despite having worn an extremely cheerful face when he entered, this film actor—now shedding tears and revealing himself as an unexpectedly sentimental man quite unlike his usual self—had already thoroughly bewildered him, and there was no telling what he might say next—— “As your substitute?” “—I don’t understand.” “Exactly—Nakane did indeed stand as my substitute.” “You see, the scene at that time followed a plot where a young man I portrayed was to be shot out of jealousy by a young woman played by Junko—so if performed according to the script, I would undoubtedly have been killed outright. However, in that moment—in a flash—and entirely through Nakane’s own idea, they decided to insert a close-up of Junko firing at that precise instant.” “Poor Nakane—it was as if he’d pulled the trigger himself—was shot clean through the center of his forehead.”

"But... based solely on that, how could there be someone aiming to kill you—are you suggesting such a thing?" "—Why would you make such a claim?" "Might it not simply have been an unfortunate coincidence that live ammunition found its way into that pistol?"

“No.” “Though a terrible coincidence may have emerged from Nakane’s mind, the pistol—at least the pistol alone—left no room for any malicious chance to hide.” “Because about an hour before that incident, I myself had loaded that weapon with blanks.” “Now, at any rate, it’s certain that back then I hadn’t even conceived such an unfortunate notion as suicide.” “But more conclusive than any of that is the phone call received the night before—”

“Oh ho! A phone call?!…Hmm.” Nishimura, now thoroughly drawn in, thrust himself forward in his chair and peered deep into the other man’s eyes. “It felt both unfamiliar and familiar—so even if I had heard it before, it must have been ages ago.” In a man’s voice: “Shimizu-kun. Shimizu-kun! You will pull Speed’s Jack tomorrow,” he said. “But at that time, I had absolutely no idea what it could possibly mean. But I thought it was someone’s—say, a common prank by some action-loving boy—and didn’t pay it any mind. That it was an ominous phone call connected to Nakane’s death—I hadn’t realized that until just last night.”

“Ah, I see—so you’re saying an identical phone call reached you again last night.” “And now you’ve suddenly become terribly distraught—” Nishimura said this in a Sherlock Holmes-like tone, then with slightly theatrical gestures, tilted a sailor’s pipe filled with Three Castles tobacco at a greasy angle between his lips. “Exactly as you surmise.” “Last night brought another call—no different from the one on the seventh—in that same voice.” “Huh?!” The moment I thought this, Nakane’s unfortunate corpse rose vivid in my mind. “Speed’s Jack!” “Speed’s Jack!” “Nishimura-san!” “Wasn’t that sailors’ slang for ‘corpse’?” “In that instant, the dark memory of my past life—one I’d nearly forgotten—came rushing back.” “This time there’s no escape!” “I’ve resigned myself completely.” “What’s the use struggling now? So I thought—though it’s paltry—to leave what little I own... no, not even worthy of being called property... just my personal effects... to my brother in America. That’s why I’ve come to your office.” “Hahaha.”

Having said this, Shimizu had unwittingly reverted to his initial cheerful visitor persona and let out a shrill laugh. Yet Nishimura, with the pipe still clenched between his teeth, carved a cross-shaped wrinkle into his sharp brow and gazed piteously at the man’s demeanor. “Well, if you insist, I’ll draft your will—though strictly speaking, it’s a bit outside my usual line of work—but even so, aren’t you being rather too resigned about this?… You’ve naturally reported this to the police, I presume.”

“The police?” “Yes.” “I did report it.” “But when it comes to the police—they’re merely a gathering of scholars. Once you’re killed, they’ll conduct their deductions and observations with utmost care—meticulously verifying every detail as proper procedure.” “For living people—those who might yet be killed—it offers little more than faint reassurance, you see…”

“I recall hearing from Bōjō that you’d had an unpleasant clash with that American-trained director Mr. Sayama over some woman—do you have any similar memories of provoking such intense hatred from others?” “Ha ha ha, Sayama?” “That man would absolutely kill me without hesitation.” “He put on such a fearsome display of rage—though the cause was nothing significant.” “To put it bluntly, that Sayama is a dreadful lecher.” “He’d make advances indiscriminately toward any promising actress frequenting the studio—or so my colleagues claimed.” “It was as if he’d decided ‘If I can’t have them, no one will’—and truly, no actress could advance without currying his favor, no matter how talented.” “Yet there was one girl—Yumiko, the studio head’s protégé, youngest and most beautiful—who possessed remarkable integrity and steadfastly refused Sayama’s demands.” “Driven mad by his innate serpent-like persistence, Sayama began hounding Yumiko relentlessly.” “His vile methods had long grated on my nerves—so much that I finally snapped and whisked Yumiko away from him. Not that I had any personal interest in her, mind you—and ultimately, one day I publicly dressed him down before everyone… Ah yes! When he finally couldn’t endure it and quit the association, they say he left with this vicious parting shot: ‘Shimizu, you bastard! I’ll plant a dagger in that pretty neck of yours someday!’”

“Hmm.” “Then I presume you’ve naturally reported Mr. Sayama’s matter to the police.” “Yes.” “I did mention that as a formality—but the sad truth is, Nishimura-san.” “The one targeting my life is certainly not Sayama.” “And again—had it been Sayama—I wouldn’t have needed to make such a fuss…”

“How can you be so certain the culprit isn’t Mr. Sayama?” Nishimura pressed, pipe smoke curling like interrogation room vapor. “You must have some concrete basis for this definitive claim.” “That’s precisely it,” Shimizu leaned forward, fingers digging into his knees. “The very fact that shatters any notion of Sayama simultaneously proves my enemy’s terrifying nature.” His laugh came out shrill—a broken marionette’s chuckle. “Last night I first connected it—that ‘Speed’s Jack’ call? I’d heard those exact words seven years prior.” The actor’s throat worked before forcing out the damning detail: “In Shanghai.” His palms slapped the desk—a poor man’s dramatic beat. “Shanghai seven years ago! What possible link could exist to Sayama?”

“Shanghai?—”

Nishimura’s complexion shifted faintly for an instant.

“That’s right. In Shanghai.” “It was likely the most wretched period of my life—please listen…”

With the lonely, vacant gaze of someone slowly unraveling old memories, Shimizu began to speak.

“...At that time—it was late spring in the year when the long-lasting world war had finally come to an end.” “Back then, I was a tenor singer for the Morning Star Opera Company that had once enjoyed considerable popularity. But with the war’s conclusion came a sudden economic collapse that made us lose our main patron. To make matters worse, our audience numbers dwindled drastically until finally, like so many others, our troupe had no choice but to become wandering crows.” “After touring with equally dismal shows everywhere, we gambled on crossing the sea to distant Shanghai… Yet there too, from the very first performance, we faced disastrous turnout—what fools we were, thinking shady Japs could draw crowds with Japanese-language operettas in that near-European city! Our audiences could literally be counted on one’s fingers. We started at the Green Fan Theater on Fourth Street, but within a month had sunk to performing at the New World Variety Hall—until finally, in this foreign land we barely understood, we met our wretched fate of disbandment.”

Even so, most of the group somehow managed—through all manner of makeshift arrangements—to return to Japan, though reduced to near-naked poverty. But I alone, in my misfortune—(though naturally I didn’t consider it such back then)—through some twist of fate, ended up remaining stuck in Shanghai after parting ways with them all. This came about through an affair I’d foolishly started with the Frenchwoman running the lodging house on Avenue Joffre where I’d been staying—a dalliance born of my shiftless actor’s temperament. She was still a young widow—though a year older than me—and being a rather beautiful woman with a robust physique, she had ensnared my heart somewhat (not that I mean to boast before you, but as I mentioned earlier, it was all quite ill-fated). Moreover, truth be told, I lacked the fortitude to undertake the blood-letting, agonizing stratagems required to return home like the others…

“And so, for that reason, I spent six months in Shanghai. To begin with, I had no intention of engaging in honest labor—and moreover, that French woman—Madoreenu was her name—had saved up a considerable sum of money. So I spent my days drinking and gambling, loitering and drifting around nothing but this city’s shadowy underworld. And as if timed perfectly (?), Madoreenu’s brother—a drunken sailor nicknamed Shokoraa—had come crashing into the lodging around that time. Though he was a frightful drunkard, his nature matched his nickname: he was an endearingly kind-hearted man. Every day, he would kindly take me—geographically clueless, linguistically stumbling me, that Jap hoodlum who was his sister’s lover—to all sorts of pleasure spots: restaurants with vast gambling dens in their basements, opium dens, and then the nest-like lairs where flocks of beautiful ‘chickens’ gathered.”

“And then, one day, we—no—I ended up becoming a member of a terrifying secret club. Of course, it was Shokoraa who dragged me there in the end—but Shokoraa had been a member of that club from the very beginning. It was a club located in the basement of a house called ‘Shanghai’s Red Windmill Pavilion’—a first-class restaurant in Shanghai alongside establishments like the Old Carlton, New Carlton, and Café Maxim. When I first entered that place—no, even for some time after entering—I never even dreamed it could be such a terrifying club. But by the time I realized this after some while had passed, it was already too late—and what’s more, my mind, now rendered disjointed and unreliable by opium’s haze and alcohol’s poison, seemed to feel toward having joined such a terrifying secret society a strange, faint pleasure that was almost numbing—or perhaps tinged with sentimentality. However, though called fearsome, this club did not indiscriminately or wantonly plot terrible deeds—it simply administered extraordinarily severe sanctions without mercy solely against those who violated its established ordinances. They, the club members, were all extreme ‘Gentlemen Who Abhor Injustice.’ ‘Gentlemen’—yes, while many were sailors like Shokoraa, there were also numerous truly distinguished upper-class gentlemen among them—hailing from nearly every nationality across the globe.”

“And so at this club, the main daily occupation of those ‘Gentlemen Who Abhor Injustice’ was gambling—mahjong gambling at that—isn’t that amusing? Before long, I began frequenting that dimly lit club’s basement on my own, without needing Shokoraa to lead me there, becoming utterly lost in mahjong as time slipped away.”

“And so, by this time, the devil’s black dog had already sunk its fangs into my back.”

“You see, we competed daily in mahjong with utterly brutal stakes—either becoming unimaginably wealthy in an instant or losing everything but the option of suicide. Yet though I’d had no luck in such matters since childhood, once I joined this club, I found myself winning smoothly and splendidly at every turn without suffering any meaningful losses.” Thanks to this, I became an unexpected nouveau riche and, in my naivety, thought, *This must be my tremendous luck finally turning,* and *What a good thing I didn’t return to Japan with the others—* I grew utterly ecstatic with joy. But then, abruptly, a strange incident erupted here by chance… And so, the time finally came for me to recount the dreadful events that had befallen me.

One night—a night when nearly half a year had passed since my Shanghai life began—it was late… No, perhaps it was still early evening—or maybe the break of dawn—for by then I had completely lost all sense of time. Outside was undoubtedly a pitch-dark night, while in that basement club, beautiful chandeliers burned dimly. That night too, needless to say, I was absorbed in mahjong—and my opponent was a middle-aged Chinese man named Ko, the club’s caretaker. Ko had long been part of this club, known as an inflexible yet principled (?) man with fearsomely strong gambling luck. Yet that night, even he—renowned as he was—suffered a crushing defeat because of me, left not just penniless but saddled with an insurmountable debt. He buried his face in the table for some time, letting out a pitiful, puppy-like whimper as he cried, then eventually staggered to his feet and wandered off somewhere. But before long, he returned and quietly beckoned me to the shadow of a rosewood screen in the corner of the room. And there, he took out a magnificent ivory tile from the loose sleeve of his blue damask jacket and showed it to me, muttering in a whisper: “...I’ll give this to you.” “But no matter what happens, you must never show this to anyone else.” “Do you understand? You must—” Though I didn’t fully grasp the meaning of his words, I agreed immediately nonetheless—for the tile appeared far more valuable than what I’d originally demanded.

“In the end, I had wagered even my irreplaceable life on mahjong…” After returning to the inn, it seemed Ko’s words still somehow lingered uneasily in my mind—so after locking the door and firmly shutting all the windows, I secretly took another look at that ivory tile. I was startled to find it appeared far more valuable than I’d initially appraised. It was an aged square of fine ivory—nearly half an inch thick and two inches across—its surface entirely carved with exquisitely detailed chrysanthemums, each flower bearing a magnificent ruby at its core. The vivid crimson of those gemstones, embedded within the pure white smooth ivory, glittered so sinisterly they seemed almost vibrantly alive—though why I felt this, I couldn’t say. And on its reverse side were densely carved pictographs from some unknown country—ones I couldn’t decipher at all. I was utterly delighted by this completely unexpected treasure. Oddly enough, now feeling like a wealthy man, I suddenly found myself wanting to return to Japan. And once resolved, I could no longer bear to wait—I decided to depart on the first available ship sailing exactly one week from that day.

However, it was the evening three days before my scheduled departure. It was an evening when a cold rain fell with measured intensity. From morning until evening, I stayed at the inn, handling my luggage. That I remained at the inn through the night without venturing out was truly a rare occurrence. Alone in my room, I had pulled a rocking chair close before the brightly blazing fireplace. For winter had now arrived in the world, and the continental night air held a chill that seeped deep into one's bones. Listening intently to the fierce yet not unpleasant pattering of rain outside the window—I found myself immersed in nostalgic Tokyo scenes I hadn't recalled in ages... The twilight over Hamacho Riverbank—the beautiful land where I was born, though my childhood home was long gone... Ningyocho Avenue, which must have looked as picturesque as a painting on such a rainy night... The view of the great river shrouded in mist with white waterbirds flying about... And then the various elders and friends from my youth... Steeped in these myriad pleasant memories, I had grown quite cheerful—yet something kept abruptly shattering this blissful reverie. It was the sound of a dog barking intermittently near the entrance—sharply, yet with a somehow melancholic echo—and I had rarely heard dogs barking on rainy nights before (doubtless due to the scarcity of passersby), so I found it rather peculiar. Especially since the rainfall that night was quite fierce, just as I mentioned earlier. Yet precisely because of this, the desolate, profoundly hushed stillness filling this sparsely occupied inn's room grew even more palpable... when suddenly, I pricked up my ears. I thought—perhaps it was my imagination—that I heard a faint sound, something like someone tapping very quietly on the windowpane. I stood up and tried to open the window curtain. But of course, on such a pitch-black, rain-lashed night, I could discern no shadow of any eccentric visitor coming to my window, and so I returned once more before the fireplace. And just as I plucked a fresh cigarette from the case and put it to my lips—Oh! Again, this time more clearly than before, I heard a sound. Swiftly turning toward the window—the very window whose curtain I had just opened—Ah! “Would you believe it?” “Wasn’t there a Chinese man’s face dimly floating on the windowpane?” “It was Ko.” He appeared thoroughly drenched, his hair clinging in a sodden mess across his forehead, his face deathly pale. With eyes filled with terror, he stared fixedly at me while moving his mouth as though speaking—or rather, gasping desperately.

So extreme was the situation that I stood frozen in terror, struck dumb and speechless for some time. But when I finally managed to stand and move toward the spot, his eyes suddenly blazed with mingled terror and resentment—glaring fiercely at me—before his face abruptly vanished. It disappeared into the darkness with violent suddenness, as though yanked away by some colossal machine. My body shuddered involuntarily, forcing me two or three steps backward. When I rushed to the window and threw open the pane, nothing remained in the outer darkness but void. Yet the dog’s renewed frenzy of barking at that precise moment struck me as undeniably suspicious. (—Shimizu Shigeru’s face had gone corpse-pale as he spoke—) “Now this… this reeks of something foul.” Was it delusion? Had I dozed by the fire and dreamed it all? This opium-addled brain of mine—half-mad with drink—might well conjure such phantoms… Yet every detail burned too vividly for such comforts. The rain’s rhythm hadn’t faltered. The barking echoed identical before and after. And that wretch’s face—all pallid malice! No—this defied rational dismissal… Better to credit ghosts than such convenient lies… God help me—was madness finally claiming me? —In that moment, teetering at sanity’s brink, I truly believed it might.

Just then, the desk telephone bell rang out piercingly. When I went out to check, a man’s voice I didn’t recognize—distant yet clear—could be heard. “...Shimizu-kun.”

“Shimizu-kun! You’ll get Speed’s Jack tomorrow,” he said. I grew furious and shouted, “Who’s there?! Don’t jinx me!” I roared, but the line went dead… With one unsettling event piling atop another, my spirits sank further—though of course, part of me tried dismissing the call as some tasteless prank. Yet Ko’s face from earlier gripped my mind far more tenaciously, and I soon forgot about it entirely—indeed, for seven years afterward, I never once recalled that phone call—. That night, furious at having my pleasant reverie so thoroughly shattered and unable to endure brooding over these ominous mysteries any longer, I downed a hefty dose of konnyaku liquor and collapsed into sleep.

Then, the next morning at the gathering spot near the front desk, I was informed by a garçon that a Chinese man had been brutally murdered on the banks of the Huangpu River—not far from the inn—that very dawn. Yet when they said this murdered Chinese man—his age, appearance, and clothing—they all bore an uncanny resemblance to Ko. I was now completely terrified. Had a detective been present then, they would undoubtedly have cast grave suspicion upon my demeanor without fail. I simply didn’t have the courage to go out of my way to confirm the corpse. (But it must indeed have been Ko. The details were recorded in that evening’s paper.) It appears that Ko, standing by my room’s window and about to tell me something inside, was suddenly dragged down from behind by his assailants—likely a large group—and abducted. As evidence, I discovered beneath that window rain-soaked garden plants and shrubs trampled into disarray by mud-covered footprints… But then—for whom was Ko killed?… And for what purpose did he come to my room on that dreadful rainy night?… What had he meant to tell me?—When it became clear that last night’s ghastly pale Chinese face was neither my delusion, nor a dream, nor of course a ghost, the mystery only grew more incomprehensible to me. And so, that entire day, I continued to think in a daze. Seeing how utterly dejected I was, Madoreenu suggested we attend the New Carlton’s masquerade ball that evening. To this wonderful idea, I gladly agreed. For while I certainly thought this might distract my mind somewhat, it was also because—though it pained my heart greatly—the day after tomorrow would finally see me bidding farewell not only to this mysterious city of Shanghai but also to Madoreenu, the kind French woman who had been my wife these past six months; I wanted us to cherish our final moments together. Moreover, while I had long heard rumors of the New Carlton’s opulent ballroom, I had never once actually visited it—and so I thought it would make for a good story to take back to Japan. I don’t clearly remember what the woman wore, but I certainly went dressed in samurai attire. And, as I mentioned earlier, I had completely forgotten about the Speed’s Jack phone call—not only did I never once imagine that some terrible calamity was closing in on me that day, but amid the dazzling spectacle of the ballroom, I even managed to forget the phantom image of Ko’s face entirely, allowing me to dance to my heart’s content with Madoreenu. And since I was quite tired—though it was still early, or rather, past twelve—I decided it was time to wrap things up and head back. Then, right by the stairs in front of the cloakroom, I suddenly came upon young Mr. Iku—a boyish gentleman dressed as a pierrot—I realize I haven’t yet told you about young Iku, have I? He was the young scion of a wealthy family in this city whom I’d grown quite close to since first arriving in Shanghai—a stylish, beautiful youth exceptionally skilled at Western-style painting—and it was only now that young Mr. Iku learned of my impending return to Japan, expressing his regret in every way possible. I too found myself strangely swept up in the sentimental mood… Indeed, young Mr. Iku was precisely the kind of guileless, gentle youth one would expect from a wealthy Chinese young master. And there, he asked for the samurai costume I was wearing as a memento.

Of course, I gladly gave it to him and even added my mother’s single-lidded gold-cased pocket watch—a bulky antique piece with an arabesque relief carved on both lids—which I happened to have on me. He gave me that stylish pierrot costume in return—and shortly after, we parted ways with Young Mr. Iku and returned to our inn on Avenue Joffre. And so, in the end, that day—that is to say, the day following the phone call’s warning—passed without incident, or at least without anything befalling me. Yet tragically, a truly grave incident had erupted in young Mr. Iku’s life. I learned of it two days later, aboard a ship about to depart from Jyusan Wharf for Japan. At the wharf where I bought the newspaper, I happened to come across a brief three-line article that read as follows.

Another Brutal Murder on the Huangpu River

Near the Huangpu River bank by Winsor Bridge—where a certain Hu had been brutally murdered on [date]—yet another young man’s savagely mutilated corpse was discovered floating yesterday morning around six o’clock. The victim, Hutong-sama, had his facial skin mercilessly stripped away, rendering identification impossible; estimated to be around twenty-three or twenty-four years old and clad in samurai attire, it was speculated that he might have been a Japanese individual who had attended a masquerade ball somewhere the previous night. The fact that he carried in his breast pocket a wallet containing several hundred yen and an antique gold-cased pocket watch with arabesque relief carvings suggested it could not have been thieves’ work, but rather likely the deed of someone harboring profound resentment...

As such incidents were not particularly uncommon in Shanghai, it had been reported only very briefly, yet even so, this was sufficient to conclude that the murdered young man was undoubtedly Young Mr. Iku. Poor Young Mr. Iku! No wonder his figure—who had vowed to see me off to the ship no matter what—was nowhere to be seen… (Shimizu’s eyes brimmed with tears.)

The moment I disembarked at Nagasaki, I sold that ivory tile for 3,000 yen—though I thought it far too cheap—. Having grown increasingly depressed over Young Mr. Iku’s cruel death, I spent nearly every day holed up in my ship’s cabin during the voyage, during which time I secretly took out that tile again and again to gaze upon it. Then, for some inexplicable reason, the eerie contrast between its ghastly white and crimson gradually became unbearably unpleasant—until finally, each time I looked at it, it felt so repulsive it made my skin crawl. “Three thousand yen was indeed far too cheap. It probably wasn’t even one-tenth of its true value.” “However, I also had about twenty times that amount in cash—money I’d made from mahjong—so in any case, feeling like some triumphant overseas success, I returned to beloved Tokyo after what must have been a year…”’

Having recounted his tale at great length, Shimizu now paused here and released a heavy sigh. “So you’re saying that even there, that Chinese man named Iku ended up standing in as your substitute simply because he received the samurai costume from you?” “But then—for what reason and by whom were you targeted to be killed?” “It seems that point—that most crucial point—still remains entirely unclear, though…” Nishimura asked with an air of impatience, his cheeks slightly flushed—perhaps from agitation—as he pressed further.

“What reason? You ask.” “That’s obviously the curse of the Ivory Tile.”

“Ivory Tile?—”

“That’s right. That’s why I told you earlier I’d staked my life on mahjong, didn’t I? Now that I think about it, that ivory tile wasn’t actually Ko’s—the one he gave me. He stole it from the Club and gave it to me. And there’s no doubt it was an extremely precious object for the Club—though of course the tile itself must have been a rare and costly artifact, what truly mattered were the hieroglyphic characters carved on its backside, which likely held some crucial secret text. And if that were indeed the case, then the Club would undoubtedly sentence me to death for having taken it out. I know all too well just how terrifying that Club is, just how immense their power reaches… Can’t you see it from Ko’s tragic fate?”

“No, Shimizu-kun! But if you keep arbitrarily connecting everything through baseless causality like this, it becomes unbearable.” “It breeds paranoid delusions… First of all, doesn’t this strike you as absurd?” “If your claims hold true, why would there be such an extended seven-year gap between the initial ‘Speed’s Jack’ phone call and this recent one?”

“Oh, there’s nothing mysterious about that. Because—until just recently, they never doubted that Young Mr. Iku, whom they killed on the night of the New Carlton’s masquerade ball, was actually me. That’s why I could spend seven peaceful years in Japan. But those devils never once let me go. You see, in the spring of the year before last, I joined what’s now the △△ Film Association. That’s where my luck truly ran out. Some among them happened to see my film in Nagasaki or Kobe—and thus came to know, quite unexpectedly, that I still lived.”

“So you’re saying they’ve begun reaching their black hand toward you once again.” “Hmm... I see... ‘Speed’s Jack’ and the Ivory Tile... with chrysanthemum carvings... called the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club... Hmm, hmm...” Nishimura muttered these words under his breath while pinning Shimizu with a pitying gaze.

“Ivory Chrysanthemum Club⁈…” Shimizu’s face turned pale as he leapt to his feet. “That’s right! Th-that… Nishimura-san.” “You know about it?!” “Yes. “I do have some idea—no, in fact, a great many—Shimizu-kun.” “This one’s got terrible taste in enemies—but then, Shimizu-kun.” “You sold the ivory tile in Nagasaki and don’t have it now—surely even those Ivory Chrysanthemum Club fools aren’t so oblivious—and you claim Ko tricked you into taking it—and that Chinese man’s already been killed… Which means you’ve got absolutely no connection to any of this anymore.” “If they intend to take your life knowing full well all this, then no matter how you look at it, it’s far too cruel—at the very least, it’s a method unbefitting the ‘gentlemen who abhor injustice’ you so grandly referred to… Shimizu-kun, is there anything else you haven’t confessed to me—anything at all that might give those club bastards reason to seek vengeance on you?”

Nishimura said in the sharp tone of a famous detective, probing as if feeling out a response.

“There isn’t,” Shimizu stated firmly. “None at all, hmm?" “Not having confessed to you—I’ve already resolved that I’ll be killed tonight.” “Why would I bother hiding such trivial things?”

“I see... Yes, now that you mention it.” Nishimura’s eyes brimmed with profound pity. “Then—regrettably—I must prepare your will after all… Beyond that, I can offer no further assistance.” “They are the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club.” “Ultimately—yes—your life cannot possibly be spared.” “You share that conviction?” “Nothing remains to be done now.” “I shall make for G—— Street instead—drink until my senses drown—and achieve a death as dramatic as Petronius, that noble Roman of indomitable spirit.” “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

With forced cheerfulness, Shimizu burst into uproarious laughter. "No, but I'm afraid even that won't be granted." "What⁈ What did you say...?" "In other words, your death has already been approaching with unexpected nearness and precision."

Nishimura said quietly in a calm and composed tone.

“?...” Even Shimizu, now thoroughly flustered, looked around him. “The proof—” As he spoke, Nishimura stood up, opened a drawer in the elegant bookshelf that stood in one corner of the room, rummaged noisily for a moment, then swiftly produced an unsheathed Chinese-style dagger.

“This…”

“Oh!!” Shimizu groaned as his eyes fell upon the hilt of the dagger being presented. There, embedded in it, was a white ivory ornament carved with chrysanthemums…

Abruptly, Shimizu kicked over the chair and rushed toward the window. But catching up effortlessly from behind and grappling him there, plunging the blade deep into his chest, Nishimura Keikichi—his face somewhat pale with a faint smirk—then spoke.

“Shimizu-kun. “There’s nothing to be done. “This is the rightful reward of the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club—our gathering of ‘gentlemen who abhor injustice.’ “Of course—to say nothing of the fact that you, having suffered a crushing defeat at mahjong and found yourself in dire financial straits, deceived our good Ko, lured him to your inn and brutally murdered him, stole the key he possessed, and made off with the club’s ivory tile— “As for Bōjō, who so skillfully drove you into that room—needless to say, he is a fellow club member like myself. “So the one who tampered with the pistol at the film studio was undoubtedly him, right? “Got it?... But even I have to admit I’m impressed by you. “First off, your astonishing resolve—right? “Then, despite all that admirable resolve, the astonishing heap of lies you’ve piled up—why, even I might’ve carelessly gone ‘Oh!’ “Where exactly does the truth end and the lies begin in this—? You’ve spun such masterful falsehoods with your novelistic flair that even I nearly lost track of where to draw the line. “Thanks to you, I’ve been treated to quite an entertaining tale—but the pity is, your masterful lies have rendered this story rather incoherent. “Especially now, if killing you as the grand finale were to further violate the novelistic contract of this whole affair—the thought makes me somewhat inclined to reconsider… but… Shimizu-kun. “Shimizu-kun! “Oh—have you already died? Well then, I suppose there was truly no helping it…”