Pathway to Japanese Literature

“No—exactly right.”
“When the weather turns pleasant like this, traveling by train becomes quite enjoyable... By the way, where might you be headed?”
“Ah—Tokyo, is it.”
“So your university’s in Tokyo as well… Ah, I see.”
“Well, that’s splendid… Eh? Me?”
“Ah—I’m just going up to H City here.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“That’s where the roundhouse is.”

“You might not think it to look at me, but until two years ago I was still an employee there.”
“I worked at that H Station roundhouse for many years… Well—certain circumstances arose, and I retired, but every year on this day—March 18th—I make this trip to H City without fail for a certain pitiful woman’s sake, on a matter of grave consequence… Hmm?”
“You’re asking why I quit the railway?… Well, it truly is a strange thing.”
“Exactly a year ago on March 18th, while riding the train to H City, I happened to meet another fine university student like yourself. And just like you, he asked me about that very matter… It must surely be Buddha’s divine will at work… Or rather—in any case, I’ll gladly tell you the story.”
“Truly, you students are all so unburdened by such things…”

“As for why I resigned from the railway and why I make this trip to H City every March 18th—well, you see, there’s actually a rather peculiar set of circumstances behind it all. Yet depending on how one views these circumstances, they might resemble an overly karmic tale—one that could feel somewhat awkward to someone like yourself, versed in modern scholarship. Still, if you’d humor me by considering it mere travel-time idleness… I’ll ask you to listen.”

“Now, this story goes back several years—to that fan-shaped engine shed at H Station where I worked… what’s commonly called a roundhouse… Within it stood an old, hulking locomotive, blackened with soot, that the crew had dubbed the ‘Funeral Locomotive.’”
“Its model and number were D50-444—a formidable freight locomotive with a tender, mounted atop four pairs of coupled driving wheels as stubborn and robust as millstones, bearing a swollen boiler like a pregnant woman’s belly, crowned with a teakettle-like chimney and a steam dome resembling a Fukusuke doll’s head.”

“However, strangely enough, among the many locomotives belonging to H Station’s roundhouse, this one—though I suppose it’s mere coincidence—was the most accident-prone clunker. Manufactured in Kawasaki in Taisho 12 [1923] and immediately put into service for freight trains on the Tokaido Line, it had caused over twenty fatal accidents by that time, making it now the undisputed… what should I call it… record holder? Thus, it reigned supreme at H Roundhouse as a notorious repeat offender—quite the troublemaker.”

Now, here’s another strange thing about this ill-fated tender locomotive—whether you’d call it sheer misfortune or perhaps fate itself—over nearly ten long years, every time the locomotive caused an accident, there had unfailingly been two pitiful men aboard as its operating crew.

One was the engineer Nagata Izumi—an old graduate of the N Railway Bureau Training School, then thirty-seven years old—a large man who, were you to remove the fake pencil mustache beneath his nose, bore an Ichikawa Ennosuke-esque air about him, appearing far younger than his portly frame would suggest. Among the roundhouse crew, he was commonly known as “Osa Izumi.”
The other was the fireman Sugimoto Fukutarou—a small man not yet thirty, pallid and gaunt, who perpetually wore soot smeared beneath his nose in imitation of Osa Izumi’s mustache.

“They were both carefree and good-natured men who—after drinking—would pick fights with women and carouse about without reason. Yet despite this, they couldn’t help feeling a certain dread—or perhaps an inescapable terror—toward the D50-444’s ominous history. At first, they tried not to show their fear to each other, but as these unpleasant accidents kept recurring, they gradually became unable to endure it. And so it came to pass that three years prior—on a certain autumn night when a chilly drizzle fell softly—after crushing the body of a deranged forty-year-old woman beneath H Station’s railroad bridge, a peculiar ritual was adopted between them at Osa Izumi’s insistence.”

“In other words,” he continued, “it was a modest offering to appease the victims’ spirits—a way for them to dash across the rails for forty-nine days with a cheap little wreath dangling from the cab’s ceiling.”

“The two men promptly put this into action.”

This modest practice promptly sparked a favorable reaction among their coworkers in the same workplace.
And people came to uniformly hold sincere goodwill toward the bearded man’s sentimentality.
“Now here’s the strange thing—once that happened, both Osa Izumi and Assistant Sugimoto gradually came to genuinely perceive their own idea as a purposeful, meaningful practice. After that, commendably enough, they never once neglected to hang a new wreath from the ceiling of the cab for forty-nine days each time another accident occurred.”
“And before anyone knew when, people had come to call D50-444 the ‘Funeral Locomotive.’”

“No—student.”

“However, two years ago this winter, this D50-444 was struck by truly bizarre accidents—and not just once, but multiple times over, I tell you.”

It was a morning not long after February had begun—one marked by a severe frost.

At that time, the D50-444—which had been operating a round-trip freight service between Y and N every twenty-four hours—arrived at H Station’s freight platform as the upbound train at its scheduled time of 5:30 a.m., belching exhaust steam whiter than frost.

On the platform, the loading and unloading of cargo promptly commenced under the direction of the conductor and freight clerks, while the assistant stationmaster set out to inspect the train with a hand lantern—
Meanwhile, Sugimoto, the fireman, lit a Golden Bat cigarette from the furnace fire, clamped it sideways in his mouth, and descended the iron ladder one-handed with an oil can, humming a tune.

But soon Sugimoto turned pale and rushed back to the cab without a word. He sat down before “Osa Izumi,” who had been glaring at the pressure gauge, then—with strange composure—removed his cap and gloves, blew on the back of his gaunt hand, and used it to wipe clean the soot beneath his nose—this being Sugimoto’s peculiar signal, or rather habit, whenever human flesh fragments became caught in the locomotive’s wheels.
Let me interject here—there are countless instances where that massive locomotive mows down one or two people in the dead of night, yet the crew members feign ignorance.

At this, Osa Izumi took offense and stood up.
And with a shrill voice, he summoned the station staff. Before long, under Assistant Manager Katayama’s orders, the locomotive was temporarily replaced, and D50-444—along with its two crew members—was confined to the roundhouse.

There, with the help of two or three roundhouse staff members, a minor cleaning of the locomotive began—but for the employees, there was scarcely anything as troublesome and unpleasant as this cleaning. For instance, when victims had their arms torn off, both legs severed, or torsos and heads split cleanly in two—in other words, when they met their end in a relatively orderly manner akin to blade injuries—the locomotive wheels might catch two or three pieces resembling dried marbled beef, leaving nothing but faint black stains scattered here and there. In such cases, a man with nerves of steel could manage with only the diligence required to scrub a butcher’s block—but once victims became entangled deep within the locomotive’s undercarriage, their heads sucked into axles or limbs caught on wheel centers and connecting rods to suffer full-speed horrific dismemberment, the locomotive’s belly would be chaotically splattered with reddish-black gore, exuding an overpowering stench of blood. And without fail during such times, the victims’ clothes—whether men’s Western suits or women’s kimonos—would be completely stripped away and end up snagged somewhere in the locomotive’s underbelly. The cleaning required in these situations—what they called a “gruesome accident victim”—would sicken the roundhouse staff.

Now, regarding D50-444—which had just been swung around smoothly on the turntable and brought into the roundhouse—upon closer inspection it became clear this one belonged to the "gruesome accident victim" category, though no one could tell where or when along its route it had crushed someone.

Sugimoto frowned as he sprinkled cheap perfume onto a towel, fashioned it into a mask tied tightly at the back of his head, then took the nozzle of a rubber hose and crawled into the narrow ash pit—a three-foot-deep slit gaping open beneath the locomotive’s undercarriage between the rails.

However, something strange was discovered there. To explain—as was customary in such situations—Sugimoto sprayed water over the locomotive’s underbelly while carefully checking whether a young woman’s kimono might be tangled somewhere. Yet not a single item resembling the victim’s clothing—not even the sleeve of an undergarment—had been found. Instead, Sugimoto emerged gripping a small piece of hairy flesh with fire tongs, handling it with the focused intensity of someone solving a jigsaw puzzle. As everyone gathered to examine it, a car inspector named Hirata began insisting the hair was too coarse and thick for human flesh. The agitated group then brought in two or three senior workers to reinvestigate. And what was the result? To their astonishment, they concluded it was skin from a black pig’s lower abdomen!

But then, a report corroborating this unexpectedly bizarre decision was brought by H Station’s track workers about two hours later. To elaborate—approximately six miles west of H Station, on the ascending line’s curved tracks near B Station—the mangled, scattered corpse of a large black pig that appeared fully mature had been discovered. Now, B Station—as you’re likely aware—was situated in a modest town of the same name known for housing the prefectural agricultural and sericultural school. In the farmhouses dotting its outskirts, pig farming thrived as a widespread side occupation. And so, the roundhouse staff concluded that a black pig must have escaped its pen by some chance, wandered freely along the tracks near the curve, and met with this unforeseen disaster during its stroll—thus settling the incident relatively easily in such a manner.

And so the ever-kindhearted "Osa Izumi," hanging a new, albeit crude, wreath from the cab's ceiling, resumed his duties once more.

Then, several days later on a certain morning, the wheels of D50-444—which had arrived at H Station at 5:30 a.m. as usual—were once again found clinging to the gruesome remains of a new black pig.
The investigation revealed that the site where [the victim] was struck lay on the upbound line’s curve near B Station—the same location as before.
Strange as it may seem, if one were to dismiss it as mere coincidence—that would be the end of it.
And so both Osa Izumi and his assistant Sugimoto had no choice but to line up yet another new wreath alongside the one for the black pig—not yet even reaching its initial seventh day, let alone forty-nine.

“But—student.”

Whether by intent or accident, once again one morning several days later, this time what appeared to be the gruesome remains of an undoubtedly soft white pig came clinging to the wheels of the same D50-444.
Assistant Sugimoto promptly wiped the soot from beneath his nose.
It was indeed the third time.
The time and location were exactly the same as the previous two instances.
Chief Iwase of the roundhouse finally filed a report with the B Town police substation.

According to a report from Officer Ando at the substation, it was discovered that the three pigs had indeed been stolen from separate owners near B Town on different dates.
But they had no idea who was behind the mischief.
Only the "Funeral Locomotive"
D50-444 was as busy as monks during equinoctial ceremonies.

“But here—I must once again… No—student, this is no joke at all.
Truly, yet another similar fatal accident occurred.
All conditions were nearly identical to the previous three instances.
The run-over pig was white—its snout like a tunnel arch… Can you picture it? Lodged fast in the driving wheel’s crank, spinning round and round like a windmill every time the locomotive ran.”

The chiefs of both the Iwase Roundhouse and Nanahara Inspection Depot were absolutely livid.
"Truly, this mischief had gone beyond mere pranks—completely beyond reason."
And so they promptly formed a three-member investigative committee with Roundhouse Assistant Manager Katayama at its helm, dispatching them to conduct field investigations in B Town.

Now, this marked the beginning of what you might call a detective tale concerning the strange incident involving the group led by Assistant Manager Katayama—and this tale proved rather intriguing indeed.
Well then, let me recount the events in full within the scope of knowledge imparted by those detectives after the incident.

This Assistant Manager Katayama of the roundhouse was a sharp Tokyo Imperial University graduate—still relatively new to railway work—who possessed both intelligence and integrity along with considerable resourcefulness and competence. Having since been promoted to a position in the ministry’s oversight bureau by that time, he arrived promptly in B Town via the 2:00 p.m. down train the following day accompanied by his roundhouse subordinates and guided by track maintenance section staff who had already completed preliminary investigations.

The curved track at the scene was located less than a mile from B Station toward H Station, with a pine grove along the upbound line on the inner curve and a vast mulberry field along the downbound line on the outer side. When the group arrived at the spot marked by a concrete milestone bearing numbers, the track maintenance staff member guiding them informed Assistant Manager Katayama that since the fourth accident had occurred just yesterday, all post-incident cleanup had been thoroughly completed, then began a full explanation of the scene. According to this explanation, the accident site remained precisely the same location across all four incidents—each time, both the milestone marker standing there and the four-headed spikes on the sleepers (these being stubborn fasteners used to secure tie plates onto sleepers along curves to prevent track creep, their heads typically protruding about 1.5 centimeters like all such components) had remnants of ordinary straw rope still tied to them.

“...In short,” the track maintenance staff member added as a final remark.
“...In other words, we believe the culprit stretched a rope between the tie plate nails on the outer side of the rails and the milestone marker on the opposite side, then tied the pig to the exact center of the tracks to be crushed—”

Then Assistant Manager Katayama said as follows.

“So every one of those pigs was still alive before being killed.”
“But if that’s the case, it’s remarkable they didn’t escape just from being tied with rope—granted, the culprit likely chose the curve to avoid having the bound pig spotted by the locomotive crew and forcing a stop. Still, you’d think the pigs would panic at the deafening roar approaching and snap through such flimsy straw ropes—”

Then Assistant Manager Katayama, perhaps having concluded there was nothing more to gain from the scene, requested of the guide that they visit the farmhouses from which the pigs had been stolen.

Before long, the group passed through a path amidst the mulberry fields and soon arrived at the quiet B Town police substation. There, by requesting guidance from the stern-mustached Officer Ando, they were able to visit the farm that had produced the fourth victim.

The master of this house was a large-framed, pockmarked farmer around fifty years old. Upon receiving the group, he timidly bowed several times before leading them to a stiflingly foul cedar-bark-thatched pigpen. And there, in a nasal voice, he began grumbling—how the stolen white pig had been a prized large sow of Yorkshire breed weighing 225 kilograms, the most cherished among his pigs, and how having it mangled so messily by the locomotive had left him utterly bereft of tears.

At that point, Assistant Manager Katayama turned to Officer Ando,

“The theft occurred during the night before the morning it was struck, of course?”

Assistant Manager Katayama inquired.

“All four cases were like that.”

Officer Ando answered.

“How on earth do they steal them?”

Then Officer Ando,

“If you open this low fence gate, they’ll wake right up even if they’re asleep—so you give them funeral confectionery.”
“They’d follow along happily.”

At that point, Assistant Manager Katayama inquired.

“As a result of your investigations into all four instances, it was confirmed they had indeed been stolen?”

“That’s correct. The statements from the four victims generally align in that manner after all.”

Then Assistant Manager Katayama said.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me the exact dates of all four incidents?”

“Exact dates? Hmm...”
Officer Ando took out a notebook from his pocket. “Hmm… First was February 11th… Next, hmm… February 18th… Then February 25th.”
“And yesterday, March 4th—each occurring around midnight until about 5:00 a.m.”

“Ah! Then this means they were stolen every seventh day, doesn’t it?! Since today is Monday, that would make it… Sunday mornings—the thefts occurred every Sunday morning.” Assistant Manager Katayama pondered briefly before continuing: “Now—in this town, whether on Sundays or other days—I need to hear about every single recurring weekly event. It could be anything—no matter how trivial—like companies and schools closing every Sunday, barbershops and bathhouses having fixed closing days, weekly markets on specific days… Absolutely anything that happens every seven days here. Could you list them all for me?”

Even Officer Ando seemed taken aback by this question. He furrowed his brows and racked his brain for a while, but eventually raised his face—

“...By ‘companies,’ I mean specifically the H Bank branch—but otherwise, the town hall, credit union office, agricultural sericulture school, and elementary school... well, those are the main ones that close on Sundays.”
“The silk mill closes on the 1st and 15th, I believe.”
“Barbershops close twice a month on days containing the number seven—the 7th, 17th, and 27th—while public bathhouses close likewise twice a month on days with five: the 5th, 15th, and 25th. These are their official closing days, not weekly… Hmm, and though the cocoon market hasn’t started yet, the egg market occurs every five days… Well, aside from that… Oh yes, the Agricultural Sericulture School holds a small agricultural bazaar every Saturday afternoon.”

“Ah! And what do they sell at that Agricultural Sericulture School bazaar?”

At that point, Officer Ando answered as follows.
“Being the agricultural department, they primarily sell vegetables, fruits, and flowers cultivated by the students… It’s quite a thriving event.”
Then, seemingly invigorated by this response, Assistant Manager Katayama shifted the topic and—

“If the culprit remains at large, how are you proceeding with the investigation and post-incident security measures?”

Then Officer Ando puffed up with pride,

“Of course measures have been taken.”
“However, we’re rather short-staffed, you see.”

“Well, I must ask for your continued efforts.”
“But rather, I think it’s better not to make too much of a fuss.”
“Well, I believe this will suffice…”

With that, the assistant manager urged his subordinate roundhouse staff and guides.
And before long, the group withdrew from the quiet evening streets of B Town.

Now, regarding Assistant Manager Katayama—though his subordinates had worked under him for some time, they still found it deeply regrettable that he occasionally displayed such peculiar attitudes as to arouse suspicion. Why? Take this example: after withdrawing from B Town, the assistant manager returned to H Roundhouse and resumed his ordinary duties with brisk efficiency the very next day—as if he had already forgotten all about the bizarre “Funeral Locomotive” incident entirely. Two days passed, then three, yet things remained unchanged. Finally, one subordinate who could no longer endure it confronted him about the matter on the fifth morning—only to receive an insufferably dismissive reply. “But you,” he said, “if there’s nothing to be done, then there’s nothing to be done.”

But when midnight arrived that very day, Assistant Manager Katayama’s attitude completely transformed.

It was likely around three o’clock in the dead of night when Assistant Manager Katayama roused one of his subordinates—a man named Yoshioka—prepared to go out, and then pulled the drowsy, unsteady man along as they boarded an automobile.

Yoshioka had no idea where they were headed or by what route, but Assistant Manager Katayama continued speeding through the darkness for nearly half an hour before finally alighting from the automobile at a certain field. Leaving the vehicle waiting there, he signaled for Yoshioka to follow quietly and entered the adjacent pine forest.
Yoshioka gradually became more awake.
And before long, when the two of them—the Assistant Manager and himself—had settled into the darkness among the bushes, they realized that the area about eighteen meters ahead marked the edge of the pine forest, and just beyond it lay the curved railway tracks near B Station.
As the night dew chilled the air, Yoshioka’s mind gradually sharpened into clarity.
And gradually, he began to understand what the assistant manager was doing.
The luminous wristwatch on the assistant manager’s arm indicated 4:30.
Now that he thought about it, this was indeed March 11th—a Sunday early morning.
That bizarre pig thief would surely come here for a fifth time—the Assistant Manager must have deduced as much. As this thought struck him, Yoshioka felt a chill that tightened his very insides. Burying his face in his coat collar, he shrank closer to the Assistant Manager’s side.

At exactly 4:42, the night passenger train let out a tremendous roar and rushed past on the up line right before their eyes.
The surroundings returned to their original silence.
But within no more than five minutes, Assistant Manager Katayama suddenly tensed up and forcefully jabbed Yoshioka’s shoulder.

Yoshioka involuntarily swallowed hard.

Ah—from the direction of a country path between mulberry fields, though exceedingly distant, came the small, low, yet somehow contented squeal of a pig, drifting dreamlike through the air.

Within two minutes, the sound steadily drew nearer. Soon came the crunch of footsteps on track bed gravel, and a pitch-black human figure emerged onto the rails. Through the starlight, one could discern trouser-clad legs beneath what might have been a coat's hem. Opposite those legs, a large white pig—likely stolen from some farm—was being tugged along by a rope-like object, oinking plaintively all the while. The man periodically bent down to offer what seemed like feed as he crossed the down line, then halted slightly west of their position on the up line. After feeding the pig once more, he pivoted sharply to scan his surroundings—though in that darkness, his features remained utterly indistinguishable.

Before long, the pig thief set to work.
The estimation that the track maintenance staff guide had explained to them here five days earlier was entirely correct, and just as described, the black-clad man was tying up the pig and scattering copious feed before the pitiful sacrificial victim.

The two men rose quietly.
And they began creeping forward.

But what on earth was this? Before they had advanced even twenty steps, something like a dry branch under Yoshioka’s shoe made a loud noise in the darkness. Startled, Yoshioka frantically dashed toward the tracks.

At that moment—the pig thief glanced toward the pine forest, let out a strange, birdlike shriek, then suddenly wheeled around and bolted down the tracks. Yoshioka immediately leaped onto the tracks and pursued that black shadow. But before he had run even two hundred meters, he already lost sight of that shadow. Before long,

“Hey—!”

And then came the assistant manager’s voice calling out.

So Yoshioka—though weighed by something resembling responsibility—returned reluctantly to the curve.

“Never mind that,” Assistant Manager Katayama addressed him.
“There’s no need to hurry.
Rather, first observe this pig… From the start I’d suspected that simply tying it with rope wouldn’t result in such clean impacts time after time.”

Looking at it, the pig did indeed seem somewhat strange. With its four legs braced in an odd posture, it occasionally moved its head back and forth while rasping its throat in distress and vigorously vomiting up something.

“It was poisoned.”

Having said that, the Assistant Manager began untying the fastened rope.
Before long, the two men began walking through the pine forest toward where they had left the automobile waiting, dragging the pitiful pig along.
But after suffering several bouts of violent vomiting during their trek, the pig finally stopped moving when they reached the automobile.
It went into convulsions.
With no alternative, they tied it to a nearby standing tree and ordered the astonished driver to take only them to B Town’s police station.
Just as the two men were boarding the automobile, they heard the sound of a train rushing through the pine forest beyond,

“That’s the D50-444 freight train,”
said the Assistant Manager.

After that, the officials went to B Town to request Officer Ando handle the pig, then sped through the now fully dawned outskirts in the automobile, the refreshing morning air carrying them all the way to H Station.

In the car, Yoshioka asked the assistant manager.

“Are you going to kill and dissect that pig?”

Then, the Assistant Manager,

“Nah.
“We have no more use for that pig fellow.”
“Because I’ve obtained the leftover feed and poison that guy used,” he said, pulling three or four flower-shaped rice crackers from his coat pocket to show them.
They had irregular patches of red and blue coloring, with small nut-like objects—each about the size of a red bean split in two—stuck densely across their surfaces.

“Our little adventure...” said the Assistant Manager.
“My primary objective from the start was this stuff.”
“Though I never imagined I’d end up acquiring rice crackers like these.”
“In other words—if they killed the stolen pig first, a single person couldn’t possibly carry it alone. So they’d bring it alive to the tracks. But even if you tied the pig right between the spike on the rail tie’s check block and the milestone marker standing opposite it, merely stretching a rope across—that method alone could never succeed three or four times over.”
“Therefore, naturally, the thief needed to either kill or immobilize the pig after tying it to the tracks.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“However, if they intended to kill it instantly through means like bludgeoning it with a blunt weapon, stabbing it with a blade, or poisoning it with a lethal toxin, there would be no need to tie it up so securely like that.”
“They could just kill it and leave it thrown out on the tracks.”
“Yet they haven’t done that.”
“So I now think—the poison in this confectionery isn’t fast-acting. They lure the pig with poisoned bait all the way to the tracks, tie it between the rails to immobilize it, then give it additional poisoned feed.”
“Gradually, the poison’s effect begins.”
“D50-444 arrives—well, roughly in that manner... But even so, what on earth is this confectionery?”
“I’ve never seen rice crackers like these that look like toys before.”
“Do you know?”

At that, Yoshioka promptly shook his head.
And before long, the two men who had returned to H Station began their investigation into the strange clues obtained during that adventure, using the roundhouse office as their base.

On the first day, the Assistant Manager spent the entire day calmly in the room, pondering over those confectioneries, but on the second day, he finally went out and began his investigation.
After returning in the evening and finishing his dinner with catered food, he promptly seized Yoshioka and another investigator and said the following.

“You two, head to B Town tomorrow morning—a brief visit will suffice.”
“It’s nothing urgent… But let me explain properly.”
So saying, he arranged the confectioneries before them. “Through my investigation, I’ve finally identified these rice crackers.”
“These peculiar specimens—resembling children’s pinwheel toys and thoroughly unappetizing—aren’t ordinary food. They’re the lowest grade of dried sweets, what we call ‘decoration confectionery.’”
“In this region, people call these ‘Harigashi’… You’ve seen them before, yes? They’re specialized funeral decorations.”
“Now these nut-like fragments glued to the surface—after thorough analysis, they’re identified as *Illicium religiosum*. Commonly called shikimi or hanashiba berries from an evergreen magnolia shrub.”
“They contain shikimic acid.”
“Shikimic acid belongs to the picrotoxin class of convulsants—this gets technical—but biochemically stimulates the medulla’s seizure center, causing epileptic-like fits with temporary unconsciousness.”
“Sometimes fatal, though not considered a potent toxin.”
“They grow wild across central and southern Japan’s mountains.”
“Here’s the fascinating part… Historically planted in cemeteries for Buddhist rites. Some regions stuff coffin interiors with the branches. More commonly—dried leaves and bark become that smoldering incense powder at altars.”
“Follow?”
“Both these crackers and shikimi berries represent highly specialized materials—mark that well.”
“Returning to our pig—were I the culprit, I’d use carrots or common bait. Skip tying it up—just bludgeon it and leave on the tracks. Yet this criminal employs absurdly theatrical tools.”
“This is critical.”
“Repeated use of such peculiar items means they’re readily available—the culprit must trade in these goods.”
“Thus my request: investigate whether any funeral suppliers in B Town or environs manufacture these ‘Harigashi’ and incense powder.”

And so, the next morning, the two men set out for B Town.

However, since it was a small rural town, after making inquiries at the police box, town hall, and other places, they soon discovered there was no funeral supply store matching Assistant Manager Katayama’s criteria.

And so, the two men dejectedly returned to H Station and reported this to the assistant manager.
Then the assistant manager said in an unexpectedly cheerful tone:

“I had a feeling it would turn out that way.”
“No—this actually works in our favor.”
“While you were away, I went to the roundhouse and asked where that ‘Osa Izumi’ from the ‘Funeral Locomotive’ buys his wreaths. Turns out it’s a funeral supplier called Juppousha—right in H City’s backstreets behind the roundhouse.”
“What’s more, that shop apparently produces both funeral confectionery and incense powder.”
“We’ll head there immediately.”
“If we can confirm even a single weekly connection between Juppousha and something—anything—in B Town through direct investigation, this case will logically leap toward resolution.”

And so, they promptly set out.

And rounding the back of the roundhouse, they soon arrived at a dingy two-story funeral supply shop—Juppousha.

Assistant Manager Katayama entered first and promptly ordered one small wreath in a practiced tone.

Indeed, a man in his fifties—thick-necked, with a pointed bald crown and a ruddy complexion—who appeared to be the shop’s proprietor wore an expression of profound gloom as he vigorously ground dried leaves in a mortar. But upon receiving the Assistant Manager’s order, he promptly began inserting pale artificial flowers into the straw base of a small circular wreath wrapped with green tape.
At that, Assistant Manager Katayama sharply surveyed the room.

Behind that workspace stood a large glass cupboard filled with what were unmistakably funeral confectioneries. Beyond the cupboard, a sliding paper door leading to an inner room had been left slightly ajar. Through this gap, a young woman—likely the shopkeeper’s daughter—peered out from an oddly elevated position, her face alone visible in a peculiar posture. In truth, she had been watching them in this manner since they first entered the shop, but never before had Assistant Manager Katayama seen a face so strangely captivating. Her hair was styled in a modest bun, her rounded face framed by skin as pale and translucent as candle wax. Though her nose sat low and her mouth small, her round eyes—smooth as raw silk yet slightly unfocused—possessed an indescribably, terrifyingly sweet allure. And upon seeing Assistant Manager Katayama’s party, she greeted them with a strained, artificial smile that made its falseness all too apparent, her voice shrill as she said, “Welcome.”

―This was something that would later be recounted time and time again.
In any case, when Assistant Manager Katayama first glimpsed that girl, an impression―neither this nor that―utterly indescribable and so unpleasant it could never be forgotten―had been seared into the very depths of his eyes.
And between this strange girl and that old man with his terribly altered facial features… Ah-ha―so this household harbored some secret-laden circumstances after all… Well, intuition―that’s what it was―he felt it. No―indeed, whenever it comes to women’s stories, I do tend to ramble on.

After remaining silent for a while and casually surveying the shop, Assistant Manager Katayama—his eyes now brimming with delight—pointed to the assortment of beautiful flowers in a water tank right beside them, and addressed the old man who was busily crafting a wreath.

“Old man. Beautiful flowers, aren’t they? Can such beautiful ones really grow in this wintry air?”

Then the old man briefly raised his face.

“Of course they can. In the greenhouse at B Town’s Agricultural and Sericultural School, you see——”
“If you go on Saturday evening, even you all can get them to sell to you. …There, it’s finished.”
“That’ll be 60 sen.”
“Here you go.”

With that, the assistant manager put on a solemn face, received the wreath, paid the fee, and promptly exited out front. Yoshioka promptly followed after the assistant manager, but as he stepped through the doorway, he glanced back inside and saw that gloomy yet oddly charming girl still peering out from her hiding spot—only her face visible—watching them depart.

When he stepped outside, the assistant manager and his group were already walking about eighteen meters ahead.
Then, Yoshioka hurried to catch up and, placing a hand on his shoulder, said fiercely.

“Mr. Katayama. That old man finally confessed to going to B Town every Saturday afternoon—why don’t we just arrest him right now?”

Then,

“We’re not prosecutors,” said the assistant manager. “Don’t act rashly. First of all—how much solid evidence do we actually have for an arrest? Granted, that old man is ninety-nine percent likely the culprit you chased the other night. But wouldn’t it be clearer to wait two or three more days and catch him red-handed at that usual spot this Saturday midnight—without letting him say a word in his defense? He’ll keep stealing pigs. There’s some deeper logic at play here. Let’s calm ourselves until Saturday and ponder this ‘Final Mystery’ as thoroughly as we can.”

And so they obediently decided to return to the roundhouse.

And true to his word, from the very next day Assistant Manager Katayama began conducting an earnest inquiry into the circumstances surrounding that gloomy Juppousha father and daughter, relying on neighbors and other sources.

Within a day or two—they were indeed a lonely father and daughter pair living alone, their livelihood not prosperous and their interactions with the neighborhood poor.
The daughter—a spoiled, petulant child named Toyo—had not stepped outside their home for the past two or three years due to some strange circumstance, instead spending every single day all year long peering through the gap in that inner room’s shoji screen at the thoroughfare outside, as though perpetually awaiting someone’s arrival.
From these circumstances, it seemed she might be someone with a disturbing physical affliction—or so the reports suggested.
And as for this father, he was an incomparably doting parent who would incessantly fuss over Toyo with affectionate calls of “Toyo dear” at every turn. When his daughter began to throw tantrums—a sight pitiable to behold given his age—he would fidget anxiously beside her, soothing and coaxing until he himself dissolved into streaming tears, murmuring “There, there” as he indulged her every whim without restraint.
Moreover, the daughter’s rather hysterical selfishness had grown increasingly severe over the past three months and half a year as days passed—yet strangely enough, about a month prior, it had abruptly ceased. In its place, she had taken to singing old popular songs like “Katyusha” and “Chinshō” in an oddly cloyingly sweet, childishly shrill voice, or loudly addressing her father in a cheerful manner.
However, for some reason, starting four or five days prior, it had reverted to its former hysterical state—such details gradually came to light.

Well, I must say—even I was quite taken aback by Assistant Manager Katayama’s thorough investigative approach. The thing is, I myself often went shopping at that house back then, and truly every single time, that girl would peek just her face through the gap in the shoji screen—wearing an indescribably erotic smile—her round eyes like thin raw silk spread wide open as she fixed a soft yet voracious gaze upon my entire face—so persistently that one couldn’t help but think, 'Ah, how obscene.' And indeed, that old man was exactly as the Assistant Manager’s investigation had revealed—even while working, he would restlessly turn toward his daughter with eyes brimming with paternal affection, saying things like, “If you open the shoji that much, you’ll catch a cold,” or “Now, why don’t you listen to our guest’s railway stories?” Time and again, I was shown this fidgeting display of anxious care, as though he were handling something that might shatter at the slightest touch……

Well, putting that aside—in any case, having grilled every detail in this manner, Assistant Manager Katayama soon reached what seemed a nearly satisfactory conclusion. By the next Saturday night—or more precisely, Sunday, March 18th at 4:30 AM—he was already crouching silently in the darkness of that curved track’s pine grove with his two usual subordinates and an H Station police officer, four men in total lying in wait to apprehend the girl’s father.

However, it was there that Assistant Manager Katayama’s miscalculation arose.
The thing was, the regular passenger train had passed at 4:42, and five minutes had elapsed, but unexpectedly, the pig thief did not arrive.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes—the group waited with bated breath, but whether their target had grown wary from the previous encounter or not, the Boss never appeared.
And finally, the crucial D50-444 freight train had passed by.

“...Hmm.
“He noticed our stakeout.”
“Alright.”
“There’s no other way now—let’s raid Juppousha directly.”

Finally, Assistant Manager Katayama stood up, looking displeased.

Soon, the group boarded the next passenger train from B Station and arrived at H Station.
And then they crossed the station yard—now fully brightened by dawn—and walked toward the roundhouse to head to Juppousha.
And then—what do you know—the Funeral Locomotive’s “Osa Izumi” and his assistant Sugimoto came trudging along.
When they looked—wouldn’t you know it—the usual soot under Sugimoto’s nose had been wiped clean without them noticing!

Sugimoto, upon noticing the group, put on an exaggerated expression and,

“We’ve gone and killed another one!”

“What have you killed again⁉”

Assistant Manager Katayama involuntarily shouted.

Then Sugimoto,

“Yes, we definitely felt an impact.”
“It’s just a block past this station, under the railway bridge.”
“And what’s more—this time there was a woman’s hair caught in the locomotive’s wheels.”
“It wasn’t a pig——”

So they promptly entrusted the arrest of the Juppousha Funeral Director to the officers for the time being and hurriedly turned back.
And before long, they arrived at the fatal accident scene slightly west of H Station.

It was early morning. Both on the chilling railway bridge and the dew-drenched tracks below, nearby onlookers had already formed a massive black swarm. As the group pushed through this dark mass, what struck their senses first was the raw stench of flesh and blood.
Next, they saw a gruesome female severed head lying at their feet.
The skull was missing its upper half, the brains within and both eyeballs having flown off somewhere—through the eye sockets and into the cranial cavity, one could see the tracks’ gravel caked with blackened blood.
But as they observed that half-shattered woman’s face with its gaping hollows where eyes should be, they gradually came to realize—this was that funeral director’s daughter.

Then, led by Assistant Manager Katayama, they trembled as they proceeded further inward.
And there, when they saw what lay upon the tracks, the group couldn’t help but vomit.

They appeared to be both legs severed from the groin, each nearly nine or ten inches in diameter along their entire length—like logs.
Moreover, their skin had lost all traces of blood, taking on a leaden hue.
Assistant Manager Katayama crouched down with a pale face, yet calmly pressed his finger firmly against the skin.
Then, the skin in that area merely gathered countless deeply unpleasant wrinkles and did not dent at all.
Assistant Manager Katayama stood up with a stern expression and said in a grave tone.

“...This...”
“This isn’t edema from the amputation.”
“Do you know about elephantiasis—that condition where lymphatic vessels get blocked by filaria parasites causing lymph accumulation, or where streptococcus invades through minor wounds leading to edematous symptoms that develop into this disease?”
“...This is it.”
“Among my university friends was one who suffered from this.”
“The affected areas are mainly legs—the skin gradually thickens from inflammation and loses mobility.”
“You rarely hear of deaths from elephantiasis,” said Assistant Manager Katayama, straightening his posture slightly, “but conventional cures are generally hopeless... It seems this case has reached its conclusion... I never imagined those pig fatalities would end in such tragedy... No—this was my oversight.”
“This girl likely killed herself. Because... Well—we’ll discuss this while walking. Let’s head to Juppousha first... If that Funeral Director sees his beloved daughter’s corpse like this—he’ll surely go mad...”

So saying, Assistant Manager Katayama began to briefly explain—while walking—how he had unraveled the final mystery of this bizarre incident through his superior intuition: namely, the motive behind the Juppousha Funeral Director’s pig thefts.

"No—student."

"But whether fortunately or unfortunately, that intuition of Assistant Manager Katayama’s proved correct."
"And soon after, its truth was definitively confirmed through a suicide note addressed to 'Osa Izumi of the Funeral Locomotive'—unexpectedly discovered in the girl’s breast pocket by the coroner’s hand."

"Now, about that girl’s letter… Truth be told, I have it here with me right now… No—rather than repeating the assistant manager’s account, I should simply show you this letter."
"Moreover—first and foremost—it pains me deeply to now recount from my own lips that smug explanation of his."
"For that story itself… deals a fatal blow to my past—a memory too agonizing to bear… Now then—this vile letter… Please—read it…"

Dearest Lord Osa-sen.

I am Toyo, the only daughter of Juppousha.
By the time you read this letter, I shall have already departed for a country that knows no shame.
Therefore, I believe I can now confess anything at all.
Please listen to my story.

I was unfortunate since childhood.
As there wasn’t much money in my household, my father and mother couldn’t make me as happy as other children.
Thus when I was nineteen—four years ago now—and sustained a small wound on my right leg from a mere trifle, I couldn’t even see a doctor properly.
Then bacteria entered through that wound, and I contracted a disease called tandoku.
Though in my panic I saw a doctor and that illness was soon cured, after about half a year I contracted another disease called *saihatsu tandoku*, which closely resembled the previous one.
This time it did not heal readily.
Then I ended up contracting a dreadful disease called elephantiasis in succession, until my legs became something so very hideous—truly hideous—that I could never show them to another soul.
The doctor said there was no risk of death, but my legs wouldn’t heal back to how they were.
And whenever spring or autumn approaches, my legs swell all the more dreadfully—so it comes to pass.

Dearest Lord Osa-sen.

What an unfortunate woman I am!
I grew to resent my father and mother.
But from around that time, the attitude of my father and mother toward me changed completely.

Father became utterly frantic and began treasuring me above all else.
Mother would say "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" to me every single day, like a madwoman.
Ah, and then... Mother truly went mad.

It happened on a cold, rainy autumn night exactly three years ago.
My deranged mother ran out of the house barefoot and was ultimately struck by a train beneath the railway bridge, meeting her end.

But dearest Lord Osa-sen.

For the engineer of that train at the time was none other than you, my lord.
And how kind a soul you are!
For my mother’s soul, you offered a wreath.
And even after that, whenever you ran someone over, you would come to my house to buy wreaths.
What a beautiful heart you have.

But oh dearest Lord Osa-sen.

From the very moment I first saw you at the shop, I fell so very, very in love with you that I could no longer forget you even for the briefest moment.
Before long, Father noticed my feelings.
By then, Father had become so devoted to caring for me that whenever you would kindly come to purchase wreaths, he would even go out of his way to craft your wreaths with utmost care.

But oh dearest Lord Osa-sen.

Because I have this ugly body, I gradually grew resentful that I couldn’t draw any closer to your side, and day by day my temper grew shorter until I became willful—how many times did I make Father stand at the entrance just to catch a glimpse of you, who only came to buy wreaths two or three times a year? But whether Father could no longer bear seeing me—day after day peering out from behind the shoji screen in the inner room, waiting endlessly for your arrival—he finally promised, about a month ago now, that every week when he went to B Town to buy flowers, he would offer prayers to a deity renowned for its remarkable efficacy. Then, lo and behold. The deity of remarkable efficacy heard this pitiful maiden’s plea and granted that I might behold your noble visage every single day. Ah, what a blissful creature I was in those days! Every single day I sang songs and had pleasant conversations with Father…

But that was but a fleeting moment—on the previous Sunday, you no longer came.
And then something must have happened—Father began saying he didn’t want to offer prayers anymore because divine punishment would strike, so tonight too he just bought flowers and came back early.
And I, unable to contain myself any longer, finally began an unsightly quarrel with Father.

And oh dearest Lord Osa-sen.

In the end, I accidentally killed Father with the four-edged drill for boring holes into coffin planks that I happened to be holding at that very moment.

I have lost all hope of living.
I shall go to the country where my mother resides, embracing this letter and perishing by your hand.
At my family’s shop, there lies a wreath I hastily crafted after writing this letter.
Please hang that wreath on the train for my pitiful sake.

March 17th Night

From Toyo of Juppousha

“……Well now, have you finished reading it? No—as the letter states, by the time Assistant Manager Katayama and his team stormed into Juppousha, that girl’s father had already turned cold, slumped into an unfinished coffin with a large drill plunged from his flank toward his heart……”

“No—young man—”

“……With this, I believe you’ve come to understand why I came to feel like quitting railway work, and why every year on March 18th—the anniversary of Juppousha’s daughter’s death—I make these visits to H City’s communal cemetery……Hmm?”

“Ah yes… You must’ve realized long ago, but in truth, I am Nagata Izumi—the ‘Osa Izumi’ of the Funeral Locomotive… Well now, I’ve kept you listening to my ramblings far too long… Seems we’re nearing H Station at last… I’ll take my leave here.”

(“Profile”
(September 1934 Issue))