Pathway to Japanese Literature

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

Bright autumn sunlight streamed through the room—this was a story from a beautiful sunny afternoon in late September of nineteen hundred and--.

“I am Shimizu Shigeru, a film actor,” the guest greeted him with precisely the kind of amiable smile and tone one would expect from his profession. “Since I’m not particularly famous, you probably don’t know me—but then again, I’m quite close with Bōjō-kun, so you might have heard the name ‘Shimizu’ from him." “The reason I came here today is actually because Bōjō-kun recommended it.”

“Oh, Shimizu-kun! So it’s you.” “I thought I’d seen you somewhere before! Ha ha ha ha.” Indeed, Nishimura had heard about Shimizu countless times from Bōjō—his old friend and art director at the △△ Film Association—but Nishimura himself possessed considerable interest in that field as well, having frequently encountered Shimizu’s face on the silver screen, magnified dozens of times larger than life, and thus knew him well. Moreover, Shimizu—who in most cases played leading roles—was by no means an actor as unknown as he himself modestly claimed…

“Since Bōjō-kun recommended you with such fervor—and given that my case differs somewhat from ordinary requests—I thought it best to choose someone whose disposition I know well……” As he spoke, Shimizu’s eyes abruptly darkened.

“Oh ho! So it wasn’t a divorce lawsuit after all.” “I was absolutely certain that’s what it was…”

“How dreadful of me.” “Though perhaps not so different after all.” “Either way, it’s still a matter of severing ties—but even if it’s severing ties, no—being severed from them—this here… well, it’s being severed from this world itself.” “Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha—” Both Nishimura and Shimizu burst into cheerful laughter. “So you’re filing a lawsuit in the court of the underworld, then.”

“No.” “But this is no joke.” “Mr. Nishimura!” “I want you to prepare my will.” Shimizu’s voice carried genuine solemnity. A dark shadow abruptly swept across his eyes once more. “What?” “What did you say?!” “Shimizu-kun!” “A will?” “This is absurd!” “Are you planning to film some dangerous action flick? Even so, this seems rather peculiar, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Nishimura. “Please don’t be alarmed. To tell the truth, I—” Shimizu spread both hands crab-like before him, trembling them violently as he spoke—his eyes widening into perfect circles like those of a first-rate actor. “To tell the truth—I had to die today. No, more precisely, I had to be killed.” “Ha ha ha! I thought you specialized in pantomime, but no—quite the contrary! What a splendidly grave performance you’ve given us here!”

“No. “It’s perfectly reasonable for you not to believe me, but as I’ve just said, this is absolutely no joke or jest.” “Whether it’s real or not—you...” Nishimura began to retort, but at that moment he finally noticed the not-entirely-theatrical look—the truly ominous dark shadow—dwelling in Shimizu’s eyes, and gasped. “Yes—I suppose I should start from the beginning—Mr. Nishimura. “Did you happen to hear from Bōjō-kun about the incident on the eighth when cinematographer Nakane was accidentally shot at the studio?”

“I haven’t seen him in some time, so there was no opportunity to hear about it—but I saw it in the newspaper. Some actress or other shot him point-blank during filming, they say.”

“That’s right. “It was during the filming of *The Lamenting Moon*. “At that exact moment, the actress—Matsushima Junko—was about to fire a pistol at the camera in close-up. “Of course, the person firing the pistol—everyone present at the scene, myself included—none of us could have possibly imagined that the pistol was loaded with live ammunition.” **Boom!** When he fell backward violently along with that gunshot—indeed struck down with terrifying force—we didn’t take it seriously at all. “Unbeknownst to us, live ammunition had been deliberately loaded into that pistol by several hands. “We still don’t know who did it—but given that she fired from just twelve feet away, there was no surviving it. “Even someone with no experience couldn’t have missed at that range. “Poor thing—Nakane stood as my substitute.”

When he said this much, his words broke off. And finally, tears began falling in fat drops from those eyes that had grown even darker. Nishimura was thoroughly taken aback. Despite having entered with an excessively cheerful face, this actor—now with tears streaming down in a manner utterly unbefitting his usual demeanor, this unexpectedly sentimental performer—had already thoroughly bewildered him, and there was no telling what he might say next—

“As a substitute?” “—I don’t know.” “Exactly—Nakane did indeed stand as my substitute.” “You see, the scene at that time involved me portraying a young man who gets shot by a jealous woman played by Junko—if performed exactly as scripted, I would have genuinely been killed. But then, in that moment, Nakane himself spontaneously conceived the idea to insert a close-up of Junko firing the pistol right there.” “The poor Nakane—having practically pulled the trigger himself—was shot clean through the center of his forehead.”

“But… based solely on that incident, how can you claim there exists someone targeting your life—?” “—Why would someone say such a thing to you?” “Couldn’t it simply be that through some unfortunate coincidence, live ammunition had been loaded into that pistol?”

“No.” “Though a terrifying coincidence did indeed spring from Nakane’s mind, the pistol—at least the pistol alone—left no room where even the most ill-intentioned coincidence could lurk.” “About an hour before that, I myself had loaded that weapon with blank rounds.” “Regardless of now, at that time I certainly had not yet conceived such an unfortunate thought as wanting to commit suicide.” “But an even more certain piece of evidence than that is the phone call that came the previous night—”

“Oh?! A phone call⁈ …Hmm.” Nishimura, now thoroughly hooked, leaned forward abruptly from his chair and peered into the other’s eyes. “It sounded both unfamiliar and familiar—so even if I had heard it before, it must have been from a very long time ago. In a man’s voice: ‘Shimizu-kun. Shimizu-kun! You’ll pull Speed’s Jack tomorrow,’ it said. But at that time, I had absolutely no idea what on earth it could possibly mean. I dismissed it as someone’s prank—like those common mischief-making boys who love movies—and didn’t pay it any mind. That it was an ominous phone call connected to Nakane’s death—I hadn’t realized it until just last night.”

“I see—so you’re saying an identical phone call reached you again last night.” “And thus you’ve suddenly become dreadfully anxious—” Nishimura delivered this in a Sherlock Holmesian tone before affectingly clamping the Three Castles-stuffed sailor pipe between his lips at a greasy slant. “Precisely as you deduce.” “Last night brought another call—identical to the seventh’s—in that same voice.” “Oh?! In that instant, what rose vividly before me was poor Nakane’s corpse.” “Speed’s Jack!” “Speed’s Jack!” “Mr. Nishimura!” “That’s sailors’ cant for a corpse, isn’t it?” “The dark memories of my past life—ones I’d nearly forgotten—came flooding back.” “This time I’m finished!” “I’ve resigned myself completely.” “What’s the use struggling now? So I thought—though it’s paltry—to bequeath my meager possessions as a lone man—not even worth calling property—all my worldly goods—to my brother in America. That’s why I’ve come.” “Ha ha ha ha.”

Having said this, Shimizu had unwittingly reverted to his initial cheerful self as a visitor and let out a shrill voice.

Yet Nishimura kept his pipe clenched between his teeth while etching a cross-shaped wrinkle into his keen brow and gazing pitifully at the man’s demeanor. “Well now—if you insist on a will, I’ll draft it though it’s rather outside my specialty—but really now! You’re being far too resigned about this… You did report this to the police naturally?” “The police? Yes,” he replied mechanically. “I filed a report alright—but let me tell you about policemen! They’re just scholarly types huddled together—marvelously thorough with their post-mortem deductions and observations once you’re dead… But for living humans—for those still facing potential murder—they’re utterly useless creatures…” His voice trailed off bitterly.

“Some time ago, I heard from Bōjō that you had some unpleasant dispute with that American-returned director Mr. Sayama over a woman—do you have any recollection of that sort of thing, where someone might hold an intense grudge against you?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Sayama? That man couldn’t kill me if he tried! You should’ve seen his ridiculous bluster—though it all started over nothing important, really. That Sayama’s a notorious womanizer, you understand? They say he propositions every promising actress at the studio without exception.” “In his mind, refusal wasn’t an option—even the most talented actresses couldn’t advance without currying his favor. But then there was Yumiko.” “The director’s protégée—youngest, loveliest, and far too discerning for Sayama’s tastes. She kept refusing him outright.” “Driven mad by her resistance, he clung to her with that snake-like persistence of his—coiling tighter each day.” “I’d long despised his vulgar methods, so finally I intervened—snatched Yumiko right from his grasp. Not that I wanted her myself, mind you! Then one day I publicly dressed him down… Oh yes—when he stormed out of the association for good, they say he roared: ‘That bastard Shimizu! I’ll plant a dagger in his throat someday!’”

“Hmm.” “Then I assume you’ve naturally reported Mr. Sayama to the police as well?” “Yes.” “I did mention that as a formality—but the sad truth is, Mr. Nishimura.” “The one targeting my life is definitely not Sayama.” “And also, if it had been Sayama, I wouldn’t have needed to make such a fuss…” “How can you declare with such certainty that the culprit isn’t Mr. Sayama?” “You must naturally have some solid basis for making that assertion.”

“That’s precisely it. The very fact that uproots any notion of Sayama simultaneously proves that the enemy coveting my life is unexpectedly a terrifying force. You see, I only pieced this together last night—upon careful reflection, I realized I’d actually heard that ‘Speed’s Jack’ phone call once before, exactly seven years ago. And that was in Shanghai. Seven years ago in Shanghai—what possible link could there be to Sayama?”

“Shanghai?—” Nishimura’s expression shifted faintly for an instant. “Yes, that’s right. In Shanghai.” “It was likely the most dissolute period of my life—please listen…”

And so, Shimizu began to speak, his lonely, vacant gaze that of someone slowly unraveling old memories.

“...That was the time—the late spring of the year when the long-continued Great War had finally come to an end.” “At the time, I was a tenor singer with the Akeboshi Opera Troupe, which had enjoyed considerable popularity for a while. But with the war’s end came a sudden wave of economic turmoil that robbed us of our most influential patron. To make matters worse, our crucial patronage dwindled alarmingly, until finally—as might be expected—the entire troupe had no choice but to become wandering vagabonds.” “And after touring various places with equally dismal results for our productions, we ultimately resolved to cross the seas and descend all the way to distant Shanghai… Yet there too, from the very start, we suffered disastrously poor attendance—in this city that might as well have been part of the West, a bunch of suspicious-looking Japs performing dubious operettas in Japanese to try winning popularity was, in hindsight, sheer wishful thinking—the audiences were literally countable on one’s fingers. Before long, what had begun at the Ryokusen-za theater on Sima Road sank within less than a month to the variety halls of New World, until finally we met the wretched fate of disbanding in this foreign land.”

Even so, most of them seemed to have somehow scraped together enough—though reduced to near destitution—to return to Japan. But I alone, in my misfortune (—though of course I never thought of it as such at the time), through wretched misfortune, ended up remaining stuck fast in Shanghai after parting ways with the others—all thanks to an affair I’d foolishly entangled myself in with the French proprietress of the inn where I lodged, located on Avenue Joffre, a consequence of my shiftless actor’s disposition. “She was still a young widow—though a year older than me—with a healthy-looking physique and considerable beauty that had somewhat captured my heart (no—it’s not that I’m trying to boast before you, but as I’ve just explained, this was all part of my misfortune), and truthfully, I also lacked the willpower to make the sort of bloody strenuous efforts everyone else did to return home…”

And so, under such circumstances, I ended up spending what amounted to six months in Shanghai. To begin with, I had no intention of engaging in honest labor, and furthermore—the French woman, Madoreenu was her name—she had amassed a considerable sum of money. Thus I spent each day drinking and gambling, wandering aimlessly through the city’s shadowy underworld. To make matters even more opportune (if one could call it that), around that time, Madoreenu’s brother—a drunkard sailor nicknamed Chocolat—had rolled into the inn. Though he was a terrible drunkard, his nature was as sweet as his nickname suggested—a lovable, overly trusting man. Every day, he kindly took me—his sister’s Japanese lover, a good-for-nothing Jap—who was both geographically ignorant and linguistically challenged, to various pleasure spots: restaurants with basement gambling dens, opium dens, and the lairs where beautiful prostitutes gathered.

“And then, one day, we—no—I ended up becoming a member of a certain terrifying secret club.” “Of course, it was Chocolat who dragged me there in the end, but Chocolat had been a member of that club from the very beginning.” “It was a club located in the basement of what they called ‘Shanghai’s Red Windmill Pavilion’—a first-class restaurant in Shanghai alongside establishments like Old Carlton, New Carlton, and Café Maxim.” “When I first entered that place—or rather, even for some time after I had entered—I never even dreamed it could be such a terrifying club.” “But by the time I realized this after some time had passed, it was already too late—and moreover, my mind—already rendered quite disjointed and unsteady by opium and alcohol—strangely enough felt a faint, almost numbing pleasure—perhaps even a sentimental one—at having joined such a terrifying secret society.” “However, when I say the Club was terrifying, it wasn’t that they indiscriminately plotted dreadful acts without distinction—rather, they showed not the slightest mercy in meting out their extraordinarily harsh sanctions only against those who violated the rules established by the Club. They—the Club members—were all extreme ‘gentlemen who abhorred injustice.’” “Gentlemen—yes—while there were indeed many sailors like Chocolat among them, there were also plenty of truly distinguished upper-class gentlemen; their ranks encompassed nearly every nationality across the globe.”

“And at this club, wasn’t it amusing that these ‘gentlemen who abhorred injustice’ spent their days engaged in gambling—mahjong they called it? Before long, I had begun frequenting that dimly-lit club basement on my own without needing Chocolat to lead me there, becoming so absorbed in mahjong that I lost all track of time.”

And by this time, the demonic black dog had already sunk its fangs into my back. “You see, we gambled daily at mahjong—competing in utterly brutal stakes where one might become an instant tycoon or lose everything but the option of suicide. Yet I, who’d been cursed with rotten luck since childhood in such matters, found myself after joining this Club scarcely suffering a single significant loss, instead being struck by nothing but an astonishing streak of favorable results.” “Thanks to this, I became an unexpected upstart and, in my naivety, thought, ‘This must be my tremendous luck finally turning! What a good thing I didn’t return to Japan with the others!’—and became utterly elated.” “But suddenly, there erupted a strange incident... And so, the time has come for me to recount the dreadful events that befell me.”

One night—a night when nearly half a year would soon pass since my Shanghai life began, late at night it was… or rather, perhaps it was still early evening? Or could it have been the breaking dawn?—for I had completely lost all sense of time by then. Outside was undoubtedly a pitch-black night, and the basement club had beautiful hanging lanterns glowing dimly. That night, needless to say, I was engrossed in mahjong, and my opponent was a middle-aged Chinese man named Ko—the caretaker of the Club. Ko had long been part of this Club, known as a harsh yet rigid (?) man with fearsomely strong gambling luck. However, that night, even he—renowned as he was—suffered a crushing defeat at my hands, left not just penniless but saddled with an astronomical debt so immense he couldn’t lift a finger to repay it. He buried his face in the table for some time, weeping with puppy-like whimpers of profound sorrow, then unsteadily rose and stumbled out of the room. But before long, he returned once more and quietly beckoned me to the shadow of a rosewood partition screen in the corner of the room. And there he pulled out a magnificent ivory tablet from the loose sleeve of his blue damask jacket to show me, muttering in a hushed voice: “...I'll give you this. But you must never show this to anyone else under any circumstances. Is that clear? You must absolutely—” Though I didn’t fully grasp the meaning of his words, I immediately agreed to his terms regardless, for the tablet appeared far more valuable than what I had originally demanded.

"In the end, I had come to stake even my irreplaceable life on mahjong..."

After returning to my lodgings—though Ko’s words still lingered uneasily in my mind—I locked the door and closed the windows tight before stealthily examining that tablet anew. I was surprised to find it appeared even more valuable than I had initially appraised. It was an aged square of high-quality ivory—five *bu* thick and two *sun* per side—its entire surface exquisitely carved with chrysanthemums, each bloom bearing a magnificent ruby at its core. The vivid crimson of those gemstones, embedded within the ivory’s pure white smoothness, glittered with such uncannily vital intensity—I couldn’t say why—it felt almost sinister. On its reverse side lay densely carved markings resembling hieroglyphs from some unknowable land. I beamed with delight at this utterly unexpected windfall. Oddly enough, there I sat feeling like a wealthy man when suddenly I yearned to return to Japan. Once resolved, I could no longer contain myself and decided to depart on the first available ship sailing exactly one week hence.

However, it was the evening three days before my scheduled departure. It was a night when a cold rain fell with growing intensity. I had been at the inn since morning, occupied with tidying my belongings, remaining there even as evening fell. That I stayed quietly indoors through the night was truly a rare occurrence. Alone, I had drawn up a rocking chair before the brightly burning fireplace. For winter had already arrived, the continental night air holding a chill that seeped into one's bones. There I sat listening to the fierce—though not unpleasantly so—pattering rain outside the window, while gazing at beloved Tokyo scenes I could finally revisit after so long... The twilight of Hamacho Riverbank where I was born though my family home was gone... Ningyocho Street that must have looked picturesque as a painting on such a rainy night... The mist-shrouded Ōkawa River with white waterbirds flying... And childhood elders and friends... Immersed in these memories, I'd grown cheerful—yet something kept shattering this reverie. It was a dog barking sharply yet mournfully near the entrance—a sound I'd rarely heard on rainy nights (due to few passersby)—that struck me as peculiar. Especially since that night's rain fell heavily, as I mentioned. Yet precisely this made the inn room's desolate stillness more profound... when suddenly I strained my ears. I thought—perhaps imagined—a faint sound like someone quietly tapping the windowpane. I stood to open the curtain. But of course no eccentric visitor lurked outside on such a torrential night, so I returned to the fireplace. Just as I took a fresh cigarette from the case—Oh! Again came the sound, clearer now. Swiveling toward the window whose curtain I'd just opened—Ah! "What do you think?" Wasn't a Chinese man's face dimly floating on the pane? "It was Ko!" Thoroughly drenched, hair plastered across his pallid forehead, he stared with terrified eyes—mouth moving as if gasping or speaking.

I was so utterly terrified that I stood dumbfounded for some time. But when I finally managed to stand and move toward him, his eyes suddenly filled with a mixture of terror and resentment, piercingly glaring at me—and in that instant, his face vanished. It vanished into the darkness with sudden force, as though swallowed by some enormous machine. I involuntarily burst into a shiver and took two or three steps back. And when I rushed to the window again and pushed open the glass pane, there was no longer any sign of anything in the darkness outside. That the dogs had begun barking fiercely again at this moment might indeed have been considered suspicious. (-Shimizu Shigeru, seemingly gripped by abnormal terror, spoke with his face turning deathly pale-) "...Hmm... This is suspicious indeed." Was this a delusion? Or perhaps I dozed off in the rocking chair's warmth and dreamed—given my mind, already half-mad from liquor and opium, such lapses couldn't be ruled out—yet to dismiss it so simply felt impossible, for every detail remained excruciatingly vivid. The sound of the rain and the barking of the dogs had been heard with undiminished clarity before and after, and then that terrifying face of his, brimming with resentment! No—this couldn’t be mere delusion or dream… Rather, believing it’s a ghost would be far more plausible… Good grief—could I truly be losing my mind?! And so I found myself gripped by a feeling that I might truly go mad right then and there. Just then, the desk telephone's bell rang piercingly. When I went out to check, a man’s voice I didn’t recognize could be heard in the distance, yet clearly. “...Shimizu-kun.”

“Shimizu-kun! You’ll be getting Speed’s Jack tomorrow,” he said. I grew furious and shouted, “Who is it?! That’s a rotten omen!”—but the line went dead… Besieged by this series of increasingly eerie incidents, I sank deeper into despair. Yet of course, part of me couldn’t help thinking the call might just be someone’s sick joke—though Hu’s face from earlier gripped my mind far more fiercely, making me forget about it entirely—and in fact, I never once recalled that phone call again for seven years— Well, that night, furious at having my pleasant reverie shattered to pieces and unable to endure dwelling any longer on those unsettling mysteries, I gulped down every drop of konnyaku liquor I could find and collapsed into sleep.

Then, the next morning at the front desk area, a waiter told me a Chinese man had been brutally murdered that very morning on the banks of the Huangpu River near our inn. Yet this murdered Chinese man—his approximate age, features, and clothing all bore an uncanny resemblance to Hu’s, wouldn’t you agree? I was utterly terrified. Had a detective been present then, they would surely have regarded my demeanor with grave suspicion. I lacked even the courage to go confirm the corpse’s identity. (But it was undoubtedly Hu. The evening paper carried detailed accounts.) It appeared Hu had been dragged down from behind by assailants—likely multiple men—just as he was about to tell me something outside my window. As evidence, I found rain-soaked garden plants beneath that window trampled into chaos by muddy footprints... But why was Hu killed? What purpose brought him to my room on that dreadful rainy night? What had he meant to tell me?—Realizing that pallid Chinese face hadn’t been delusion, dream, or ghost only deepened my bewilderment. All that day, I wandered through my thoughts in a daze. Madoreenu, unable to endure my despondency, proposed we attend New Carlton’s masquerade ball that evening. To this splendid notion, I readily agreed. While I hoped it might distract me, more pressingly—and this pained my heart—the day after tomorrow would see me bid farewell not just to mysterious Shanghai, but to Madoreenu herself, my French companion these six months; I longed for us to share these final hours. Moreover, though I’d often heard tales of New Carlton’s opulent ballroom, having never seen it myself, I thought it worth witnessing as a story to bring home. I can’t clearly recall what Madoreenu wore, but I went dressed in full samurai regalia. Having completely forgotten Speed’s Jack’s ominous call—not only did disaster seem unimaginable that day, but amidst the ballroom’s dazzling spectacle, even Hu’s phantom visage slipped my mind—I danced with Madoreenu until my heart was content. Growing rather fatigued—though early by Shanghai standards at just past midnight—I resolved to retire. By the cloakroom stairs near the exit, I suddenly encountered young Mr. Yuu—ah yes, I realize I haven’t yet mentioned Yuu. He was none other than a wealthy young scion I’d befriended upon arriving here—a modern-minded beauty skilled in Western-style painting—who now expressed profound regret upon learning of my imminent departure. Somehow his sincerity swept me into deep sentimentality... Truly, Yuu embodied the gentle refinement expected of China’s privileged youth. There and then, he asked for my samurai attire as a keepsake.

Of course, I gladly gave it to him, and furthermore presented him with a gold-cased pocket watch I happened to have—my mother’s single-lidded timepiece—along with an old-fashioned chunky watch featuring arabesque carvings on both lids. He gave me that dapper clown costume in return—and not long after, we said our goodbyes to young Yuu and returned to our inn on Avenue Joffre.

And so, that day—the day immediately following the phone threat—passed without incident, or at least without anything happening to me. But tragically, a truly dreadful event had befallen young Yuu. I learned of it two days later aboard a ship preparing to depart Jiushan Wharf for Japan. In a newspaper I had bought at the wharf, I happened upon a brief third-page article that read as follows.

Another Brutally Murdered Corpse in the Huangpu River

(On the previous ×× day, near the Huangpu River bank close to Windsor Bridge where a certain Hu had been brutally murdered, another young man's mutilated corpse was discovered washed ashore yesterday morning around 6:00 AM.) The victim—his facial skin mercilessly flayed away rendering identification impossible—was estimated to be twenty-three or twenty-four years old. His samurai costume suggested he might have been a Japanese national attending some masquerade ball the previous night. (...The possession of a wallet containing several hundred yen and an antique gold-cased pocket watch with arabesque carvings indicated this was unlikely a thief's work—it must have been committed by someone nursing profound resentment...)

In Shanghai, where such incidents were not particularly uncommon, it had been reported only very briefly—but even so, that was sufficient to deduce the murdered young man was undoubtedly Yuu. “Poor young Yuu!” No wonder his figure had been nowhere to be seen despite his fervent promise to see me off at the ship... (tears overflowed in Shimizu’s eyes) As soon as I landed in Nagasaki, I sold that ivory tablet for three thousand yen—though I’d thought it absurdly cheap—and growing all the more despondent over young Yuu’s brutal death, I had shut myself in my cabin nearly all day every day. During that time, I secretly took out the tablet again and again to gaze at it. Then—for reasons beyond comprehension—the eerie contrast between its white and red gradually became unbearably unpleasant, until finally each viewing made my skin crawl with revulsion. Three thousand yen was indeed far too cheap. “It likely didn’t even amount to a tenth of its true value.” “However, I also had about twenty times that sum in cash—money won through mahjong—so feeling every bit the triumphant overseas success story regardless, I returned to dear old Tokyo after nearly a year’s absence…”

Having told his lengthy tale, Shimizu paused here for a moment—then let out a heavy sigh.

“So you’re saying that even there, that Chinese man Yuu—in other words—became your substitute precisely because he received the samurai attire from you?” “But then, for what reason—and by whom—were you targeted for assassination?” “Yet that most crucial point remains entirely unclear...” Nishimura pressed impatiently, his cheeks faintly flushed—whether from agitation or something else.

“What do you mean, ‘what reason’? You.” “It’s obviously the curse of the Ivory Tablet.” “The Ivory Tablet?…” “That’s right. That’s why I told you earlier that I’d staked my life on mahjong, didn’t I? The ivory tablet—now that I think about it—had never truly belonged to Hu, who gave it to me. He stole it from the Club and gave it to me. And it must have been an extremely precious item for the Club—while of course the tablet itself was undoubtedly a rare and costly artifact, what’s more, those hieroglyphs carved on its reverse side might have constituted some critical secret document—and if that were indeed the case, then there could be no doubt the Club would hand down a death sentence upon me for having taken it. I know all too well how fearsome that Club is—how vast its power reaches… Can’t you see it in poor Hu’s fate?”

“No—Shimizu-kun! But if you keep arbitrarily connecting causes like that, it becomes unbearable. It’s the kind of thing that breeds paranoia... First off, isn’t it strange? If what you say is true, then why does such a long gap of seven years exist between the first ‘Speed’s Jack’ phone call and this recent one?’” “Oh, there’s nothing mysterious about that. Because—until very recently, they had absolutely no doubt that the young Yuu they killed on the night of the New Carlton masquerade was me. Because of that, I was able to spend seven peaceful years in Japan. But those devils never truly abandoned me. The reason I say this is that in the spring before last, I joined the current △△ Film Association. This was truly where my luck ran out. Some of them happened to see my film in Nagasaki or Kobe and unexpectedly discovered that I was still alive.”

“So you’re saying they’ve begun reaching out their sinister hand toward you once again.” “Hmm… I see… ‘Speed’s Jack’ and the Ivory Tablet… with chrysanthemum carvings… called the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club… Hmm, hmm…”

Nishimura muttered these words under his breath while staring fixedly at Shimizu with pitying eyes.

“The Ivory Chrysanthemum Club⁈…” Shimizu’s face paled as he leapt to his feet. “Exactly! Th-that’s it—Nishimura-san.” “You know about it?!”

“Yes. “I do have some inkling—or rather, in fact, a great deal—Shimizu-kun. “You’ve picked a formidable foe… Shimizu-kun. “You sold the ivory tablet in Nagasaki and no longer possess it now—though I doubt the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club members would fail to notice that. Moreover, you claim Hu deceived you into taking it—and that Chinese man has already been killed… In other words, you now have absolutely no connection to any of it. “If they acknowledge all this yet still seek your life, that would be unspeakably cruel—at the very least, methods unworthy of the ‘gentlemen who detest injustice’ you described… Shimizu-kun, is there anything else you haven’t disclosed to me—anything that would give the Club members reason to relentlessly target you?”

Nishimura said in a detective’s sharp tone, as if probing.

“There isn’t,” Shimizu said flatly. “There’s nothing at all.” “Not confessing to you—I’ve already steeled myself to be killed tonight.” “Why would I engage in such trivial concealment?” “I see—ah, I see. Now that you mention it, that does make sense.” Nishimura’s eyes filled with profound pity. “Then I’m afraid I really must prepare your will after all… I truly cannot assist you any further.” “After all, they are the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club.” “No matter what—indeed, your life can never be saved now.”

“Do you also think that way?” “It’s far too late for anything now.” “From here, I think I’ll swing by G—— Street or somewhere, drink and drink until I collapse, and achieve a dramatic end like that spirited Roman noble Petronius.” “Ha ha ha ha!”

With an air of exaggerated cheerfulness, Shimizu roared with laughter.

“No—but I’m afraid even that won’t come to pass.”

“Eh⁈ What did you say?…” “To put it plainly, your death has already been approaching with unexpected precision and imminence.”

Nishimura said quietly in a composed tone.

“…?!” Shimizu finally panicked in earnest and glanced around. “The proof is—” As he spoke, Nishimura stood up and opened the drawer of an elegant bookshelf placed in the corner of the room. After rummaging noisily for a moment, he suddenly produced an unsheathed Chinese-style dagger. “This is it…” “Ah!!” Shimizu groaned as his eyes fell upon the dagger’s hilt thrust before him. There, embedded white against it, was an ivory ornament carved with chrysanthemums...

Suddenly, Shimizu kicked over his chair and rushed toward the window. But catching up effortlessly from behind and seizing him in a grapple, he plunged the blade once into his chest. Then, with a slightly pale face bearing a faint smile, Nishimura Keikichi spoke.

“Shimizu-kun.” “There’s simply no helping it.” “This is simply the rightful recompense from the Ivory Chrysanthemum Club—our gathering of ‘gentlemen who detest injustice’—you see.” “Of course, this applies to the fact that after you suffered crushing losses in mahjong and found yourself destitute, you deceived my good servant Hu into coming to your lodgings and brutally murdered him, then stole the key he possessed and made off with the Club’s ivory tablet.” “As for Bōjō, who skillfully drove you into Hi’s room—needless to say, he is a fellow Club member like myself.” “So it was undoubtedly he who tampered with the pistol at the film set.” “Did you grasp it?… But I must say—even I was impressed by you.” “First of all, the astonishing resoluteness of your preparedness.” “And then—despite being so resolutely prepared—the sheer volume of lies you’ve spun! Why, I might have carelessly thought—‘Oh!’” “Where exactly does the truth end and the lies begin?—to have spun such masterful falsehoods with your novelistic talent that even I momentarily struggled to discern the boundaries.” “Thanks to you, I’ve been treated to quite an entertaining tale—but the pity is, your masterful lies have rendered this story largely inconsistent.” “Particularly now—if we were to kill you at this climactic moment, wouldn’t that utterly violate the novelistic contract as a whole? The thought made even me momentarily reconsider... But... Shimizu-kun.” “Shimizu-kun!” “Oh—have you already died? Well… after all, there was simply no helping it…”