Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

If it were possible, I would want to cleanly obliterate my own life.
I curse "that bastard" who won't let me carry it out.
Whether "that bastard" had flown from somewhere to latch onto me, or whether it had been hiding within my body all along before breaking out of its shell at some provocation remained unclear—but regardless, being dragged along by "that bastard," riding its obscene excitement, forced to whip myself and my ugly remains for as long as I drew breath—how utterly contemptible this was.

Ah, even now when I recall it, what infuriates me most is the trigger that allowed “that bastard” to take hold.
Had I not undertaken that accursed endeavor back then, by now I would have completed my “Quantum-Theoretical Study of the Canal Line,” become a new Doctor of Science at the mere age of twenty-eight, been dazzlingly featured in newspapers and magazines, subsequently risen to a department head-level position at the National Science Research Institute, built a Western-style house with a red roof in the suburbs, found myself urged to marry the university president’s beloved daughter, and advanced along the path of worldly success outlined in elementary school ethics textbooks—all with photographic precision.
Indeed, until that time, I had been a man crystallized from ethics textbooks—one whom others deemed fully qualified to bear such laurels, and in whom I myself had held unshakable confidence.
What transformed me overnight—the trigger for it all—originates in an incident during my third year of university, when I was stationed at the staircase of Shinanomachi Station on the Ministry Railway line.

In my university’s science department there existed an eccentric known as Professor Tomoeida—if I mention this, I imagine few among you would fail to nod and say, “Ah yes! That statistics-crazed Professor Tomoeida!” Yet my temporary participation in that mad statistician’s faction became, in truth, the very trigger through which I sold my soul to the devil.
Professor Tomoeida’s statistical hobby consisted of standing on Ginza’s pavement, for instance, recording the attire of the Ginza strollers passing before him within an hour, classifying these observations to extract the characteristics of this Ginza demographic, and then drawing bold conclusions.
He pointed out such intriguing phenomena—for instance, that salarymen occupied eighty percent of Ginza’s population at five o’clock in the afternoon, while conversely at two o’clock, salarymen accounted for only ten percent, with women presumed to be their wives traipsing about at sixty percent.
This was not like those desiccated statistics printed in papers—the sort that state how tens of millions died of illness last year and break down the figures—but rather work that captured vibrantly alive humans, its points of observation sharp enough to pierce the modern heart; herein lay the pride of my Professor Tomoeida’s statistical hobby.

And so, when they conducted the fairly large-scale statistical survey titled “Ministry Railway Passenger Classification Survey at Each Station,” I ended up conveying my agreement to the professor after being urgently requested due to a lack of personnel. Before long, the assignment list was finalized, and as I mentioned earlier, I was stationed at the relatively quiet Shinanomachi Station.

“Mr. Furuya, I appreciate your efforts, but please record the disembarking passengers at ‘Shinanomachi’ from 4:00 to 5:00 PM according to the usual criteria.”
“I’ve also been assigned to monitor Shinanomachi.”
“Since I’ll take charge of the men, I’d like you to handle the female passengers.”

“Professor, I’ll handle the men.”
“And as for you, Professor…”

“That won’t do. Men make up eighty percent of all disembarking passengers—it would overwhelm someone inexperienced like you.”
“The women are fewer in number and limited in variety—mostly office ladies or young ladies and married women—so we determined you’re fully capable of handling them.”
“I must insist you take charge of the female passengers.”

Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to refuse—though I thought it had become a troublesome predicament. For me—someone who found even a glance at women repulsive (no—in truth, I had earnestly believed that at the time)—to spend an hour doing nothing but counting them and scrutinizing them for classification was truly unbearable. Moreover, this assignment was to continue for an entire week starting that day, so merely imagining it already assaulted me with a suffocating tightness in my chest.

It was an early autumn afternoon, summer having passed, as a cool breeze refreshingly caressed the skin.
With a record board hung from shoulder to chest and several pencils sharpened at both ends as my weapons, striving not to lose the dignified air of a scholar, I finally stepped onto Shinanomachi Station’s platform.
Following Professor Tomoeida’s instructions, I stood at the base of that wide, towering gray staircase.
And so as not to obstruct passengers boarding and alighting, I decided to withdraw slightly further back along the staircase’s base.
The position resembled a slight elevation along a triangle’s hypotenuse, where at eye level with me, the fifth or sixth step from below became visible through the side.
Standing there and peering sideways through the staircase, the distinction between male and female passengers ascending toward the exit became readily apparent from their lower bodies; I, as observer, needed not move an inch—simply counting one after another the passengers’ lower bodies that appeared before my nose.
The time had finally come when the professor on the opposite side gave a sharp “There!” as his signal.
With my face flushed from tension in response, at that moment a young girl’s red shoe—likely from kindergarten—swung past my nose with a small sound like a clock’s pendulum. I counted it as “one” and drew a horizontal line in the “Young Female Students” column.
Following that, a trio of female students wearing black stockings and slightly high-heeled shoes brushed past my nose—but when the third student suddenly broke into a run for reasons unclear, a puff of dust burst up and flew into my eyes.
I now detested this unsanitary work.

However, within thirty minutes of starting this work, an uncanny fascination had seized me.
The legs of women ascending the station staircase grew steadily in number.
The black stockings dwindled as more working women revealed plump calves several inches long beneath cashmere or serge hakama.

At that instant came the sensation of an apparition—like goldfish undulating crimson and white tail fins—passing before my nose.
I drew a single quivering line in the "young working women without hakama" column.
It was a creature composed solely of legs.
This leg-creature wore white tabi socks drawn taut and light paulownia hiyori geta with scarlet thongs.
Watching this creature made my head swim.
My body ceased obeying commands.
I wondered whether time would never expire.

Then from beneath the staircase appeared another "young working woman without hakama"—the most unbearable for me to look at directly. Drawing a quivering line in that column with morbid fascination, I peered at the white shin. Never had I seen such an alluring shin. Exquisitely slender it was. The plump calf stood taut, swaying like a breast. What should have been sharp edges of the shin were unimaginably rounded with flesh. Its color held the dense whiteness of milk frozen solid. The fine-textured skin bore both a fish-like slick luster and springy resilience. With each step the white shin ascended, crimson undergarments clung relentlessly. It was as if Kuniyoshi’s erotic prints—those pinnacles of Edo sensuality succeeding Utamaro—had sprung to life before me. When the white shin climbed four or five steps, it abruptly halted mid-ascent—a mere foot from my nose—leaving me breathless with shock. My senses sharpened to needle-points, absorbing every detail like blotting paper.

Slightly above the calf was a dense white mass of flesh that seemed never to have met sunlight, with two or three delicate lines like ivory carvings lying etched. But on what seemed to be the back of the kneecap—slightly further up and curving toward the inner thigh—there had been a fleeting glimpse of something resembling a symbol indeterminate between purple and blue. What could this be? The moment I tried to discern it, her five fingers—splayed like a starfish’s arms—descended and blocked my invading gaze. For some reason, to read the heart of the woman who had halted on the staircase, I raised my eyes for the first time and looked up at her face. Ah, what a stunning beauty this was. Lips like a flower’s stigma, full cheeks, faintly flushed rims around her eyes—those wide, dewy eyes of hers remained fixed on the distant lower reaches of the staircase. In her eyes, there was a light that spoke of some intense emotion. And so, I tried to trace the direction of her gaze. But there was nothing to be seen there except for the tall Professor Tomoeida. I continued looking into the distance for a while longer, but still no one appeared. It was then that I noticed something with a start and focused on Professor Tomoeida’s face—

“It’s time.”
“Let’s stop.”

The professor suddenly looked toward me and shouted.
That voice—whether real or imagined—had rung out with an unnatural strain, a sound I would be forced to recall countless times thereafter.
When I noticed and looked up at the staircase, the figure of that woman was no longer there, as though she had vanished.
I collapsed in a heap on the spot.

That night, after returning to my lodgings, I spent a night of anguish torn between remorse and allure—this goes without saying.

The next day, though I resolved not to go even if bound by my promise to Professor Tomoeida, come afternoon I rose as if possessed, fastened myself into my uniform, and before I knew it stood on Shinanomachi Station’s platform with my record board just as I had the day before.
That day too, I pursued those suspicious phantom shadows even more intensely than before.
As time was drawing to a close, I noticed the young woman I had seen the previous day ascending the staircase; however, this time I observed that she climbed somewhat more slowly compared to other passengers coming and going, without pausing midway on the steps.
Because of this, I had only managed to glance at the young woman’s shin in the most superficial manner.
I also observed Professor Tomoeida’s complexion; though it concerned me, I had no time to spare for that.
The next day and the day after that, “that thing” inside me grew and grew.
And so, after the scheduled seven days had passed, I could feel a hungry “that thing” running rampant within my body—and along with it, that young woman’s figure remained burned into the depths of my retina, never fading away.

2

In the spring of the following year, I graduated from university.
Prior to graduation, as there had been an approach from the National Research Institute—headed by Dr. Yoshikawa Gentarō, a senior alumnus among us science graduates—I decided to sound out Professor Tomoeida’s opinion.
Professor Tomoeida, while maintaining his position at the university, was also a special researcher with a seat at the institute; thus, he should have been well acquainted with its circumstances.

“...Very well.”
“As long as you think it’s best…” the Professor agreed after a long pause.
I took issue with the Professor not giving his immediate approval.
This, of course, spoke to Professor Tomoeida’s cautious aspect, while at the same time, I could not help but associate it with his suspicious attitude during the “Shinanomachi” incident (if one could even call it that).

When April arrived, I passed through the gates of the National Research Institute for the first time as a research assistant.

This National Research Institute—Kokken being its abbreviation, as I learned that day—stood contiguous with Asukayama in Tokyo's northern suburbs, a serene facility where four-story square steel-framed brick buildings stood five or six abreast, forming a truly imposing spectacle.
I was assigned to the Physics Department in Building No. 2 and given a private room measuring approximately nine tsubo along with a three-room laboratory shared with my senior colleague Dr. Shinomiya.
Regarding research matters, we were permitted to freely select topics within the Institute's purview, resulting in Dr. Shinomiya and me being placed in a research team directly under Director Yoshikawa.
Dr. Shinomiya was a clean-featured young scholar—not particularly tall, but his pale complexion lent him the sharp definition of a marble tombstone. Though outwardly composed, one could discern at first glance a certain nervousness coiled beneath his quiet demeanor.
He stood exactly thirty years old—four years my senior and four years Professor Tomoeida's junior.

I spent my first day settling into what was now my chair, stretching out comfortably as I began considering what research to undertake—yet no coherent plan materialized. The more I thought, the more I became preoccupied with how I might arrange my return route today to reach Shinanomachi by the appointed time.
Just then, Dr. Shinomiya abruptly appeared and said he would now give me a tour of the institute, so I should come along.
I gladly rose from my chair and stepped out into the corridor with him.
The laboratories of esteemed doctors whose names I knew from academic journals were uniformly aligned as though in a mausoleum, each small white marble nameplate inscribed in gold with their respective laboratory names.
Finally came the library—famous for its abundant collection—and its office.
Upon entering the office first, there stood one large desk and one small desk arranged side by side, along with Japanese and Western-style typewriter stands.
Glass cabinets lined all four walls, packed tightly with what appeared to be Western-style paper.
Before the large desk sat a woman who looked about twenty-five or twenty-six, wearing a black kimono with a pale blue obi; when Dr. Shinomiya called out to her, she stood up and approached us.

“I am Sawayama Satsuko,” she greeted, inclining her rounded shoulders with decorum.

“This is Dr.Sawayama.”
“…graduated from X University last year…” Dr.Shinomiya added.
I knew that name.
I was shocked to discover that genius woman scholar being so young—wearing neither Western clothes nor hakama at this institute—just ordinary attire like any office worker’s wife might wear downtown.
I later learned Dr.Sawayama doubled as head librarian here; one small desk before hers sat empty beside an unoccupied chair.

“Has Miss Michiko gone somewhere?”
Dr. Shinomiya asked.

“Ah, she’s likely in the neighboring room,” Dr. Sawayama said, pointing to the door with thick frosted glass that led to the adjacent chamber.

On the desk of the woman referred to as Miss Michiko was a single vase holding a bright red tulip in full bloom, and on the wall beside the desk, a small stuffed Bobby was pinned with a thumbtack.
I somehow grew concerned about the owner of this desk.

Dr. Shinomiya opened the door and guided me to the adjacent library room.
The moment I stepped into the room, I involuntarily let out a “Whoa!”
The room was a rectangular space of approximately thirty tsubo, with every wall packed tightly from floor to ceiling with shelf upon shelf of books and magazines bearing gold lettering.
Two wide reading desks stood slightly to the right, while to the left were stacked numerous card catalog cabinets with many small drawers.
And the greatest spectacle of all was the narrow spiral staircase that towered at the center of the room.
It was narrow enough to barely allow passage for a single person—constructed by shifting iron plates in a spiral formation and stacking them with simple handrails and thin pillars.
Unintentionally pausing beneath it to look up, I saw the spiral staircase stretching vigorously upward to the third floor.
The third-floor ceiling hung so high it made one’s neck ache.
Somehow, it put me in mind of the monstrous beanstalk from “Jack and the Beanstalk,” reaching up to an ogre’s castle in the sky.
Beneath the spiral staircase, aside from the entrance leading back to the office, there was another doorway connecting to the hallway.
When Dr. Shinomiya and I ascended to the second floor via the spiral staircase, we found walls lined with identical bookshelves and reading desks—but instead of an entranceway, there was only an absurdly high ceiling—since the second floor lacked its own ceiling entirely, that of the third floor served double duty, making the third level jut halfway over this room like a balcony, with the spiral staircase continuing upward toward it.

“Let’s go up to the third floor as well,” said Dr. Shinomiya.

I took the lead in ascending and was timidly reaching out to grasp the cold spiral staircase’s handrail when—
Suddenly, along with a violent clattering sound overhead, four or five Nelson dictionaries came tumbling down from the top of the staircase to my feet.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

As a cloyingly sweet voice echoed from above, a woman came leaping down the steep staircase with astonishing agility.

"It's Miss Michiko!"

I thought.
With first-meeting courtesy etched on my face, I looked up and found myself staring at a beautiful girl's features that had materialized barely a foot from my nose—forcing me to abruptly rigidify my facial muscles.

"The librarian, Miss Kyōmachi Michiko."
"This is Dr. Furuya Tsunehito, newly admitted to the institute today."
"Do look after him."
Dr. Shinomiya's voice brimmed with cheerfulness.

“Oh my! How dreadfully improper of me to meet you for the first time like this…” she trilled cheerfully, matching her introducer’s tone.
I have no recollection of how I responded.
All I could dwell on was whether Miss Michiko—who had said “meeting you for the first time”—truly remained unaware that I’d been tracking her pale shins nearly every day at Shinanomachi for over half a year.

From the next day onward, I rushed to my research laboratory filled with new hope and fresh anxiety.
Yet I found myself unable to sit calmly within its walls.
Fortunately, needing to promptly report my research topic to Director Dr. Yoshikawa gave me pretext to frequent the library.
Though the room had an entrance directly accessible from the corridor, I would pretend ignorance instead—first pushing open the research office door before proceeding through another door into the adjacent library.
Each time I opened the office door, Dr. Sawayama remained utterly motionless while only Miss Michiko would startle her face upward toward me before offering a gentle smile.
Every instance left me stiffening my body as I labored to conjure a smile in return.

When I entered the library, I would usually climb all the way up the spiral staircase, stand before the third-floor bookshelves, repeatedly read over the titles and years of the lined-up magazines, and pick up rare books from the miscellaneous section that lay haphazardly piled on one of those shelves.
At first I thought—as if recalling something seen before—that Michiko might come up to this third floor again.
Given how dimly lit this room was, like a storehouse attic with no exit beyond the staircase, I imagined I might unexpectedly manage to have a quiet conversation with her there.
But Michiko never came even once.
Still I kept climbing to this third floor regardless, for I had grown quite fond of this musty, gloomy room.
I felt a certain fascination there, as though some secret lay hidden within it.

In the midst of this, an unthinkable incident occurred within the library, and due to my presence on this third floor, I ended up under dreadful suspicion.

It was an afternoon about ten days after I had entered the National Research Institute.
As usual, I peered into the office and confirmed that only Michiko sat at her desk writing what appeared to be a letter before pushing open the library door—only to find nobody inside.
The half-open door leading to the hallway left me vaguely uneasy.
I proceeded up the spiral staircase to the second floor where Dr. Shinomiya’s reading desk lay as always with some thick original text open upon it, though the man himself was absent. But when I placed my foot on the stairs to the third floor, I noticed him crouched immediately behind the staircase as if searching for something.
Without uttering a word, I climbed to the third floor and pulled out my usual choice from the miscellaneous rare books—a nineteenth-century British Scotland Yard report on criminal science—to begin reading.

I don’t know how many minutes had passed. I thought I heard something like a person groaning from the second floor. Then came the faint thud-thud of someone descending from the second floor to the first. Before long, there was a clanging sound as if a glass door had been struck, then complete silence. Dr. Shinomiya’s wheezing could no longer be heard from the second floor. Growing uneasy, I tossed aside the book I was holding and peered down through the spiral staircase at both floors below. But with my limited view, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The height where I stood filled me with an obsessive fear of suddenly plunging down from the third floor, so I pulled my head back and cautiously descended to the second floor. At first glance, everything seemed normal—until I spotted a pair of male legs stretched out on the linoleum between the narrow bookshelves behind the staircase—

"So he was killed earlier after all."

I thought.
Trembling with fear, I approached the figure, only to find—to my horror—that it was Director Dr. Yoshikawa lying there.
I shouted and tried to lift the doctor up, but his body merely slumped forward limply—there was no longer any pulse to be felt.
When I examined the doctor’s body in detail to see what had happened, the necktie had sprung up from his soft collar and was biting painfully into his neck.
It became clear that this was a strangulation by necktie, and it had to be acknowledged.

The one who came leaping up from the office in response to the voice was Dr. Sawayama.
Before long, Dr. Shinomiya came running up through another entrance.
A number of other staff members came running, but Michiko alone, for some reason, stubbornly refused to show her face.

3

Dr. Yoshikawa ultimately passed away as he was, the treatment proving futile.

The abominable murder incident suddenly occurred within the National Research Institute, and moreover, with Director Dr. Yoshikawa being killed in broad daylight—thus the capital city erupted into an uproar.
Amidst that commotion, a temporary investigation room was established within the institute, and we were questioned by a judge one by one.
I especially, being in the closest proximity to Dr. Yoshikawa and having been the first to discover his condition, faced particularly severe interrogation.
However, all I could do was insist I knew nothing—there was no defense possible.
The judge frowned at my vehement attitude but showed great interest in my account of hearing what sounded like footsteps descending the stairs and a door slamming after the doctor's final moments.
They questioned every staff member thoroughly, yet not a single one admitted to having descended the stairs at that time.
Infuriated by the heavy suspicion cast upon me, I resolved to track down the culprit myself—adopting the role of an amateur detective as I gathered various accounts from everyone in the institute.

First, Dr. Shinomiya came under suspicion.

“Where did you go after leaving the library at that time?”

I asked.

“I had returned to my room twenty minutes prior.”
“If only I’d stayed in the library—weak as I am, I might have been of some use…” Dr. Shinomiya lamented his own frailty, but to me, it reeked of cunning.

“Earlier—what were you doing behind the staircase?” I pressed the sore point.

“Ah—that was… I’d dropped my prescribed pills and was merely gathering them,” he replied, but his delivery made the lie plain.

Next, I casually approached Dr. Sawayama with a question.

“At the time the Director was killed, were you at your seat?”

“Yes, I was there… from much earlier.”
“Why?”

“That’s odd.”
I knew that Dr. Sawayama had not been in that room around what I believed to be thirty minutes before the murder.
“Then, did you not hear the sound of someone coming down the stairs during that incident?”

“Well... I wouldn’t know.”

“The glass door went clang, didn’t it?”

“I didn’t notice it at all.”

Dr. Sawayama answered calmly.
I wondered if perhaps I had misheard the footsteps and the sound of the door clanging due to my own misunderstanding, but even so, the memory was far too distinct.
How could I forget that the staircase rang with a kind of rhythm?

This time, I interrogated Michiko.
To call it an interrogation sounds stiffly formal, but I was precisely the sort who couldn't have spoken to Michiko without adopting such rigid manners.
I expect those among you readers acquainted with first love will recognize this disposition.
That Michiko—my lover Michiko—had indeed been in the library thirty minutes prior to the incident, yet her whereabouts remained unaccounted for nearly an hour afterward.

"Miss Michiko"—I wondered whether this mode of address was permissible—"where were you during the time of the incident?"

“Me? What does it matter where I was?”
And she was cheerful.
“For a full hour after that, you did not return to the room, Miss Michiko.”
“Where did you go?”

“Oh-ho, I wasn’t particularly suspicious,” she said. “I just stepped outside for a bit and walked under the trees. But Mr. Furuya—you were practically in the same sack as the Director himself. If you’d just stretched out your hand a little, you could’ve reached his neck, couldn’t you?”

“That’s absurd!” I turned crimson and glared at this impertinent girl. “What possible grudge could I hold against the Director? Wasn’t it just ten days ago he let me join? If anything I owe him gratitude—how could I possibly want him dead…?”

“Mr. Furuya. Those words didn’t come from my own head, you know. I heard someone say that, you know.”

“Who said that?”
“I…”

“……”
Instead of answering, she pointed to the large desk before her.
At that moment, the office door opened and Dr. Sawayama’s sullen face appeared.

“Miss Michiko.
“Dr. Shinomiya is calling for you.”

When Michiko left the room, I told Dr. Sawayama about the conversation I had just had and demanded her explanation.
However, Dr. Sawayama flatly denied it with, “I have no recollection of saying such a thing.”
And then, acting unusually by leaving her desk, she came close beside me until our cheeks nearly touched, and informed me of something I never would have expected.

“I think there is someone you must have overlooked that day.
“I cannot speak of it myself, but were you to ask Miss Michiko, it seems that person dropped a cufflink there on the second floor.
“Do take care.
“Since Miss Michiko will likely go searching on the second floor many more times from now on…”

“When did that cufflink go missing?”

“I am not aware of that.”

“Isn’t it Dr. Shinomiya? I have seen Dr. Shinomiya searching for something on the second floor before—though that was a full thirty minutes prior to the incident.”

“Well, Dr. Shinomiya was on the second floor... Where on the second floor?”

“It was behind the staircase. Isn’t the person you’re referring to Dr. Shinomiya?”

“Well, that…”
“I still cannot tell you,” Dr. Sawayama answered hesitantly.
I could not help but notice that Dr. Sawayama too seemed to be pondering something intently.
Around her plump, round white neck glistened what appeared to be sweat—whether from cosmetics or her own body odor, an oddly sweet and provocative fragrance assailed my nostrils—until before I knew it, I felt dizzy and brought my hand to my head.
“The demon” swelled and stretched upward within my heart.
Dr. Sawayama too was an enigma.

I pushed open the door and entered the library.
I had no intention of going up to the third floor.
Leaning against a reading desk on the first floor, I looked up at the staircase twisting upward before me.
Then from the second floor came a faint clunking sound.
In my hypersensitive state, I made an association and gasped.
What were they doing up there?
I considered going straight up to investigate, but knew my arrival would surely make them stop.
I thought of a better approach.
Taking advantage of the lightweight ladder kept for retrieving books from high shelves, I resolved to position it beneath the source of the noise and climb up to identify its cause.
I quietly rose from the chair and crept on tiptoe toward the back of the staircase where the ladder stood.
But there behind the stairs, I made an unexpected discovery.
What I found was Michiko and—astonishingly—Professor Tomoeida pressed close together in the shadowed doorway leading to the hallway, their grave expressions marking some secret conference.

“Well, Mr. Furuya.”

“Professor, a terrible incident has occurred, hasn’t it?”

“Just now, I was speaking with Miss Michiko.”
“For those of us wearing soft collars, vigilance against necktie strangulation is paramount.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The professor laughed with a cavernous voice.
As Michiko sprang back from us and clattered up the stairs to the second floor, my plan lay in ruins.
But what had the Professor and Michiko been discussing?

4

This deluge of suspects was becoming unmanageable.
I couldn’t decide whom to consult or which ones to eliminate.

I had stayed up all night researching the culprit, but ultimately, the suspicions remained nothing but suspicions. From this point onward, I absolutely had to uncover the culprit through proactive action. What suddenly occurred to me then was this: Might there not be some significant secret hidden on that library's third floor, just as I had intuitively sensed when first climbing up there? Though I had always gone up to the third floor without particular thought, there was no doubt that place had been observed by both the culprit and at least the deceased director. The culprit, fearing others might perceive it clearly, had deliberately holed up somewhere—whether on the library's second floor, first floor, or adjacent office—and was likely watching for an opportunity to extract that secret. If that were the case, I needed to catch whoever was secretly ascending to the third floor. So I devised a scheme. It involved placing a Scotland Yard report—with a cover matching the staircase's color—on one of the steps leading to the third floor. Should anyone ascend there, footprints would surely remain. Even without mud, something like linoleum grease would adhere to the surface. When magnified under a microscope using reflected light, distinct footprints would undoubtedly emerge. This method—worthy of a scientist—filled me with pride.

The next day, I timed it for 3:00 PM—when the National Research Institute’s atmosphere grew most lax—and stealthily ascended to the third floor. I pulled out the book I had previously marked and placed it on the third step from the top. I descended with an innocent face, only to find Dr. Shinomiya standing rigidly on the second floor—which I had thought empty—and I flinched.

“Mr. Furuya, you seemed to suspect me in that incident,” he said with an uncharacteristic smirk, “but you’d do well to refrain from prying too deeply yourself.”

“And what are *you* always doing in this room?” I retorted irritably, but immediately regretted it.

“I could tell you, but since you appear close with that circus troupe’s daughter, I can’t speak carelessly yet.”

“The circus troupe’s daughter?”
I had no idea what he meant.

“Who are you calling ‘the circus troupe’s daughter’?
Tell me.”

“Ah, never mind. If you were calm enough, I might tell you—but the truth is, Mr. Furuya, I’ve already identified who killed the Director.”

“What?! Is that true?” I instinctively closed in on Dr. Shinomiya.

“Indeed—a most inconvenient person, truly pitiable—but I’ve resolved to report everything to the prosecutor tonight. Until then, I can’t disclose anything.”

“Why did you go investigating that?”

“Detective?”

Dr. Shinomiya sneered.
“I never intended to play detective, but that murderer’s luck has run out.”
“Actually, within the experiments I’d been conducting in this room, the culprit left behind unmistakable footprints.”

“Footprints!”
I flinched as I suddenly recalled the mechanism I had just set up on the staircase.
Was Dr. Shinomiya mocking me?

“Come here.”
He led me behind the staircase with unexpected composure.
At last, the secret of that suspicious area would be exposed.
He crouched behind the staircase, abruptly peeled back the linoleum, and pulled out two thin electric wires from beneath it.
The electric wires ran along the floor toward the staircase descending to the first floor, but when he pulled them nimbly, a small button-like device at their end moved in the same nimble manner.

“What is that?”
I was struck by terror and screamed.

“That’s a microphonic sensor.”
“A microphone that converts faint sounds into electrical currents.”
“It’s attached to the staircase—when someone climbs it, the vibrations transmit and imprint the current’s waveform onto film in my room.”
“For over half a year now, with only the Director’s approval, I’ve been conducting research titled ‘The Individuality Manifest in Footsteps.’”
“All human footsteps differ fundamentally.”
“And I discovered these waveforms vividly reflect aspects of one’s nature never outwardly revealed.”
“Truthfully, this research into footsteps and human character isn’t original—there exists a detailed nineteenth-century report from Ireland about a sensitive woman named Mary Kensington who demonstrated astonishing special abilities.”
“I merely rendered it more clearly visible on the film surface.”

“So you’ve recorded the culprit’s footsteps from that incident?”
I had wanted to learn this immediately.

“That’s right. During that time, there was one person who ascended from the first floor to the second floor. After about five minutes, the same person descended from the second floor to the first floor. After that, no one had gone up that staircase until the incident was discovered.”

“Who is that? Please, at least tell me alone—I beg you.”

I pleaded.

“I must decline,” Dr. Shinomiya stated coldly, rejecting my plea.

Now that things had come to this, there remained but one path for me to take.
When I turned around and returned to my room, I hurriedly picked up the telephone and called the Research Administration Office.
Since I couldn’t speak openly in that room, I intended to summon Michiko here and urge her to flee.
But for some reason, even after ten seconds passed—then twenty—no one answered.
I had no choice but to rush out of my room and head to the administration office to locate Michiko.
I turned the handle and pushed the door inward, but neither Michiko nor Dr. Sawayama were in the room.
Thinking it must be the library, I opened the connecting door—and at that very moment.
No sooner had a woman’s shrill voice—neither precisely bizarre nor seductive—reached my ears from somewhere above than a thunderous clattering erupted, and Dr. Sawayama’s large body came tumbling down upside-down before slamming against the linoleum with a massive thud.
I stood frozen before Dr. Sawayama’s indecent corpse.
I still have never forgotten that sight—both seductive and grotesque beyond description.
I must refrain from describing that scene here, but will limit myself to noting two facts: that Dr. Sawayama had deliberately chosen black kimonos during her lifetime to further accentuate her voluptuous white flesh, and that the long underkimono she wore in her final moments bore astonishing patterns in truly resplendent colors.

As I stood frozen in place, Michiko—materializing from some unseen corner—burst forth like a fleeing hare beside me, scaled the spiral staircase with circus-perfect agility, and came vaulting back down within moments; yet through it all, not one footfall echoed through the iron steps.
Simultaneously, I caught sight of the purplish mark staining her pale thigh—a sight unseen for months.
This could only be the stigmata of an aerialist’s craft.
Dr. Shinomiya’s earlier words surfaced in my mind, casting a pall over my thoughts.
Still—could the doctor himself still be upstairs?

“Dr. Shinomiya!”

“...”

“Dr. Shinomiya was killed on the second floor,” Michiko whispered by my ear.
When I thought “Well then—” and stared at Michiko, a shouting voice came from above.

“What on earth happened?”
“Go call five or six doctors!”
“Hurry! Hurry!”

Amidst the commotion, I wanted to help Michiko escape.

“Run now!”
I pushed my hoarse voice into her ear.

“Oh, what are you saying? You’re the one who should flee—right now.”
As she said this, she pulled out a brown-covered book from her sleeve and handed it to me.
It was that Scotland Yard report used in the trap mechanism.
I became utterly bewildered, as if a fox had bewitched me—I could no longer comprehend anything.

“What are you misunderstanding? It’s not me.”

“It’s no use hiding it.”
“You put this book on the third-floor staircase, didn’t you?”
“Rheumatic Dr. Sawayama—she slipped and fell when she stepped on that book. I know everything—about the Director’s case, about Dr. Shinomiya.”

“No—that’s not true.”
I was perplexed.
As I wondered what to say to calm Michiko and tried to grab the shoulders of Michiko standing before me, staff members who had heard the sound of Dr. Sawayama’s fall came clattering in from all directions.
I was completely drained of all strength—

“The second floor! The second floor!”

Pointing to it, I called for backup from the staff members.

Two or three staff members rushed up.

As expected, a loud shout rose from the second floor.

“Dr. Shinomiya’s been strangled with a necktie!”

“What? Shinomiya…”

He stared at her face, wondering if she might be the one who had done it.
In Michiko’s large eyes—adorned with beautiful lashes—transparent liquid welled up.
Michiko said in a trembling voice.

“...That’s why I went and got this book—the one that’ll serve as evidence for the murder—for you.”

5

From Dr. Sawayama’s pocket emerged a photograph showing the curves of footsteps that Dr. Shinomiya had captured.
This was likely something Dr. Shinomiya had secretly hidden somewhere on the third floor after anticipating danger.
On it had clearly been imprinted a distinctive footstep waveform of Dr. Sawayama from the time of the director’s murder.
It is said Dr. Sawayama had apparently formed some disgraceful relationship with the director under the guise of her scholarly recognition, and that the strangulation incident occurred as her passion reached its culmination.
Dr. Shinomiya’s strangulation had been carried out through the same method; however, since he had uncovered evidence of her crime, it appeared she had no choice but to kill him.
I still don’t understand the story about the button Dr. Sawayama made me listen to, but since they called that microphonic sensor a “microphone button,” it seems she likely planned to create confusion in the case through wordplay on that terminology.

The relationship between Professor Tomoeida and Michiko was discovered to be that of half-siblings. Michiko, his younger half-sister, had inherited their father’s abnormality; from early childhood, she willingly allowed herself to be sold into a circus troupe and wandered across Japan until Professor Tomoeida managed to rescue her, enrolled her in a typing school to finally mold her into a respectable woman, and secured her employment at the National Research Institute—all under their strict agreement that no one must ever learn they were siblings or even acquainted.

However, we only learned of this after the two of us had already entered into a love marriage.

The abnormality we shared—something the late Dr. Shinomiya must have understood all too well (how shameful)—had now reached the point where we couldn’t spend even a single day apart.
Yes.
Today too, once I return home, I think I’ll use that Special No. 1 leather whip to lash Michiko’s pure white back until it’s covered in blood.