Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Alright, I’ll tell you—I’m a chatterbox through and through.” “But you’ve really got to promise not to tell anyone, okay?” “Because I’d feel bad about him.”

“It’s already been a year, hasn’t it? Last year around this very time—yes, when the chill was just beginning to bite and the cholera scare had mostly died down.” “Speaking of last year—it was such a dreadful year. The newspapers were filled daily with nothing but unsettling things like suicides, murders, madnesses—and you know all about that, don’t you?” “That strange thief business, right? He’d target nothing but these absurdly large mansions—you couldn’t tell where he’d gotten in or out, but before you knew it, valuables would vanish. The more precautions folks took, the more he’d take perverse delight in sneaking in through some method you’d never expect. Since he could get in anywhere like radio waves, the newspapers dubbed him ‘Radio Kid’ and caused quite the uproar—you remember?” “And then, in the end, the Professor who had been so kind to me ended up dying like that—you know?” “I was truly at my wit’s end.”

“Speaking of the Radio Kid—you know that story, right? It was last spring, I think—a bankbook and seal were placed in the mailbox of some mansion in Ushigome, along with a polite cover letter saying they were returning something from an old defaulted loan—or so the story goes.” “It was in the papers, wasn’t you?” “The master there was an old man named Shimizu—he served as some councilman and appeared a splendid gentleman on the surface, but in truth he was a nouveau riche who’d climbed up from lowly status, a loan shark without mercy or humanity.” “Now he’s under police custody—and ended up senile too—so nobody gives him a second glance, but he’s truly a vile man. The Professor’s death was all because of that miser’s greed, I tell you.” “Well, being the greedy old man he was—when some bankbook from a complete stranger showed up in his own mailbox—now, a normal person would’ve found that creepy and turned it in—but not him! He went trotting off to the bank thinking it must be repayment for some ancient defaulted loan, I tell you!” “But since the bank had already reported it as stolen, the old man was immediately hauled off to the police.” “I’ve said it a million times, but that old man was so greedy—and for someone supposedly frugal despite being filthy rich, he always dressed like a beggar—so even his title as some councilman meant nothing to the police.” “So he was finally detained overnight, I tell you.” “It wasn’t satisfying enough—but adding insult to injury, on the very night the old man was staying at the police station, the Radio Kid broke into his place.” “This matter never made the papers, but there’s a reason I know about it.” “Putting the bankbook into the mailbox was also part of Radio Kid’s scheme, I tell you.” “It serves him right, I tell you!”

“I really hated this old man through and through, but he’d come to the house once or twice a month without fail.” “And then he’d examine the clinic’s ledgers, order the students and me around—the sheer arrogance of it all!” “The Professor is such a kind person, right?” “He just calmly watched without saying a word, didn’t he?” “I was so frustrated I couldn’t stand it.” “I’m such a fool, aren’t I?” “Even after serving him for a full year, I couldn’t understand why Shimizu’s miserly greed would drive him to do such a thing.” “Men are indeed clever.” “Though looking at kimono patterns isn’t proper, you know.” “Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino—those were the students’ names—both came after I did, but they must’ve figured it out properly because they explained it to me.” “Apparently, the Professor was struggling to fund his research and borrowed money from Shimizu—but it was set up in this terrible way where he could never fully repay it. The interest kept compounding until it became an impossible sum.” “So both the house and the clinic were completely seized as collateral; most of the monthly income got taken by Shimizu too, leaving only a pittance making its way to the Professor.” “Shimizu controlled all the accounting; in other words, the Professor worked day after day just to fatten that man’s pockets, I tell you.” “The Professor had written numerous books and was renowned worldwide; he was also a master diagnostician. Precisely because he valued his honor so deeply, he endured Shimizu’s cruelty in silence, I tell you.” “And Mrs. Kōga had been bedridden with her long illness all this time, you know.” “These days, whenever I realize how the Professor must have felt, tears just come naturally.”

“For any ordinary person, no matter how much they earned, it would’ve just lined someone else’s pockets—they’d have grown sick of working long before then—but the Professor was so kind to his patients and, as I mentioned before, such a master diagnostician that his practice stayed quite popular.” “But you see, starting a little before he passed away, he got even more wrapped up in his research, so naturally, the number of patients wasn’t what it used to be.” “So the number of servants had dropped a bit compared to when I first arrived.” “At the clinic, there was one pharmacist and an elderly accountant—both commuted—and besides them, there were two live-in students: Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino, like I said earlier.” “Plus two nurses.” “This was quite a different crew now.” “But nurses—when they’re awake, they treat patients like piglets or something, and once they’re asleep, they snore away like fat hogs themselves! I mean, you could kick ’em and they wouldn’t wake up—so of course nobody gives a hoot about them!”

“In the main house, there was one cook, one attendant for Mrs. Kōga, and then I was the Professor’s attendant.” “Yes, I never called him ‘Master’—it was always ‘Professor.’” “The cook was an elderly woman who mostly stayed in the kitchen, and Mrs. Kōga’s attendant was Ms. Okome—she’d been married once and was about ten years older than me.” “She was a quiet sort, what with tending to the bedridden Mrs. Kōga day and night.” “Never had a moment to chat, she was that absorbed in her duties.” “No, she didn’t have any children.” “So you could say I was practically the only one who dealt with the clinic staff.” “Well, partly ’cause I’m quick on my feet—but being the Professor’s personal attendant meant dealing with the clinic all the time.” “Oh, this here’s a Sino-Japanese term.”

“So the live-in students Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino were so wonderful.” “They’re such handsome men, I tell you.” “Oh, if you’re going to say things like that, I’ll stop talking right now!”

“They were both twenty-four or five, I tell you.” “Mr. Uchino came around March or April, and then about a month later, Mr. Shimomura came.” “Both of them were Edokko.” “Of course, they’d never known each other before.” “They really did pair up perfectly, didn’t they?” “They both had such good builds, you know.” “It’s what you’d call physical beauty—not pudgy or plump, but slender with firm muscles, I tell you.” “Mr. Shimomura had a fair complexion and a charming smile, but there was a certain sharpness around his eyes that made him look more like the contemplative type.” “Mr. Uchino had a slightly tanned complexion—to put it in fashionable terms, he had a bright face—so even when I chatted openly with Mr. Shimomura, I always felt a lingering stiffness in some corner of my heart, but with Mr. Uchino, I could let my guard down completely.” “Well, if I had to choose, I suppose I preferred Mr. Uchino—but I liked Mr. Shimomura too, so I was at a loss.” “It wasn’t just me either!” “Anyone would find themselves at a loss!” “As for academic matters, I don’t understand them myself, but they both seemed to know everything—and their intellects were both remarkable.” “They’d often argue over complicated matters.” “During the day it was still alright, but they’d keep at it in the students’ room late into the night.” “There were times I couldn’t sleep at all—it drove me mad.” “I couldn’t really understand it myself, but I thought they were both a bit… you know, into that socialism thing or whatever they call it.”

When I think back on it now, the Professor was acting a bit strange back then, I tell you. Like a man who knew his time was short, he would shut himself in his study whenever he had a spare moment, busily scribbling away as though begrudging every minute and second; he seemed somehow listless and devoid of energy, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something momentous was about to happen, I tell you.

That night, you see. That evening, Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura were having quite the heated discussion between them. The Professor was in his study working as usual. As I sat in the anteroom, I could clearly hear them arguing loudly in the students’ quarters. I grew worried they might start fighting and was about to go intervene when the Professor summoned me. When I hurried to his room with a quick “Yes!”, he told me to fetch Shimomura and Uchino. I thought I’d surely get scolded and felt a chill run through me. Once they went inside, I strained to listen from the adjoining room, but it seemed to be a solemn conversation—I couldn’t catch a single word. Before long, the bell rang, and he asked me to bring tea. When I peeked in and saw they weren’t being reprimanded, I felt relieved.

After I served the tea, it must have been around eleven o'clock. The two of them returned to the students' room and went to sleep. The Professor still appeared to be awake working on his research, but since he said I could retire for the night, I went back to my room and slept. I was dozing off when I suddenly awoke to a strange noise coming from the study. Thinking the Professor must still be up, I tried to turn over but saw the hallway was pitch black. If the study light had been on, it would have cast a white glow through the shoji screens into the darkness. With a jolt, I became fully alert. Just to check, I groped open the shoji screen—still total darkness. At that instant, I distinctly sensed someone moving from the study. I trembled violently. I burrowed into my bedding and pulled the futon over my head. After some time, everything fell deathly silent with no more sounds. Fearfully, I got up and turned on the light. Then I held my breath awhile longer but found nothing unusual. Gathering courage, I crept along the corridor to the students' room and called from outside, "Mr. Shimomura! Mr. Uchino!" Normally they'd wake at the slightest noise, but now they were snoring so heavily I gave up and returned to bed. I couldn't muster the energy to go check the study.

I couldn’t fall asleep for the longest time, but even so, I must have drifted off by dawn. No sooner had I noticed the sky beginning to lighten than I got up and, concerned as I was, first peeked into the Professor’s bedroom—only to find the bedding perfectly arranged just as I had left it the previous night, with no sign he had slept there at all. With a start, I hurried to the study and knocked lightly on the door, but there was no response. With my heart pounding, I timidly tried opening the door. There sat the Professor, his back to the chair, leaning against the large writing desk in front of him, slumped over as though he’d dozed off in such a position. I called out, "Professor! Professor!" but there was no response at all. I could no longer bear my anxiety and rushed to the students’ room to wake the two of them up. Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura just wouldn’t wake up, you know. I was at such a loss. When I told the two who had finally awakened that the Professor was acting strange, they bolted out of the room like arrows released from a bowstring. When I chased after them, the two were talking at the door.

“You, wait a moment,” came Mr. Shimomura’s voice. “Let’s put on gloves before entering. Since someone seems to have ransacked this room, we mustn’t erase any fingerprints.” Mr. Uchino apparently having no objections either, the two of them returned to the students’ room, put on gloves, and entered the study, I tell you. I thought they were being oddly meticulous about it, I tell you. When I quietly entered the room afterward, I was shocked, I tell you. Practically every last book from the bookcases had been pulled out—some left splayed open, others stacked still closed—and every single drawer had been yanked out, leaving the whole room completely trashed. The Professor remained sitting perfectly motionless where I’d last seen him. I briskly approached the Professor’s side, you see. I thought to place my hand on his shoulder to wake him when I suddenly noticed something pitch-black thickly smeared on his neck. When I looked closely, I realized it was blood. If Mr. Uchino hadn’t held me back, I surely would have collapsed right there, I tell you.

“So this is how he did it,” said Mr. Shimomura as he crouched by the Professor’s side. When I looked, there lay a bloodstained paperweight at his feet, I tell you. This paperweight here was something the Professor had specially made for holding down foolscap—you know, those large Western-style graph papers—when they’re spread out, so it’s over a foot long, I tell you. It was nickel, you see. I often held it when cleaning, but that thing was heavy, I tell you. Some time ago, the Professor had jokingly said to me, "Yae, if you get struck by this with all your might, it’ll be lights out," and yet he truly ended up being struck by it himself, I tell you.

Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino are such strange people. They told me not to touch anything and then proceeded to rummage through every corner themselves with their gloved hands—though mind you, they were quite meticulous about it. They made sure to put everything back exactly as it was. They didn’t say a single word. They checked the windows, crawled across the floor, tapped on the walls—and I thought to myself: They must’ve both gotten carried away with those detective novels that are all the rage lately—playing at being great detectives and competing to find the culprit. The two of them are always competing, you know. Oh, it’s because I’m here, I guess. That’s got to be a joke. Both of them aren’t really like that. So since those two were searching around so much, I thought about teasing them a little, but given the circumstances... And those two were being so serious. Feeling both bored and uneasy, I was about to leave when Mr. Uchino said, “Yae-chan. Better not let outsiders know yet.” So I returned to my room but had no idea what to do—I couldn’t sit still or stand being there any longer.

Before long, Mr. Shimomura must have called the police, I tell you. It must have been around eight o'clock. A large group of officials came rumbling in by car, and we were all questioned one after another, I tell you. Officials are such strange creatures—here was this splendidly dressed man with a beard bowing repeatedly to some shabby, emaciated old man, I tell you. That old man must surely have been someone like a judge or a prosecutor. Well, I decided he must be the prosecutor. I told them everything I knew. They took my fingerprints and such. The others all seemed to have gotten through it quickly enough, but Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino appeared to have been grilled quite thoroughly. In the end, they'd even been questioned together from what I could tell. You see, they found it suspicious that both of them had been sound asleep without knowing a thing. And then—whether it was robbery or personal grudge or whatever—the police worked up this theory that whoever killed the Professor had come through the clinic window, passed right by the students' room, gone into the study, struck him dead from behind with the paperweight in one blow, calmly searched every nook and cranny, then slipped out the back door. To top it off, since there was only one clinic window and its latch had apparently been undone from the inside, that made them suspect those two all the more, I tell you. Where was the paperweight usually kept? they asked me. You're asking just like the prosecutor did now too, aren't you? When they asked me that, I felt rather flustered. It's strange how even things you see every day—when someone suddenly asks you exactly where they were in a room—can make you hesitate like that. I thought it was probably kept on that other desk to the left of the Professor's writing desk. Hm? Yes, they said something about how many hours had passed since the Professor died—determined the crime happened around two o'clock that previous night.

After Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura finished their questioning and returned to the students’ room, they began whispering conspiratorially. When I heard the word “tea,” I involuntarily pricked up my ears,

“Why didn’t you tell the prosecutor about drinking tea before the Professor?” came Mr. Uchino’s voice.

“And why did *you* hide it?” said Mr. Shimomura’s voice. “I didn’t mention it because I thought it might cause trouble for the Professor.” “Well, I had the same reason as you—but there was also the matter of worrying whether *you* might get into trouble.”

“What—me?” Mr. Uchino seemed shocked. “What do you mean?” “So you’re claiming you slept soundly and knew nothing—is that truly the case?”

“Unfortunately, that’s the truth—no matter what you did, I didn’t know a thing about it.” “That’s a strange way to phrase things.” Mr. Shimomura remained surprisingly composed, I tell you. “If anything, *I’m* the one who didn’t know what *you* were up to.” The two of them were busy suspecting each other, I tell you. Since I knew full well both of them had been fast asleep, I’d been ready to speak up if they started quarreling—but then, as if timed perfectly, their conversation seemed to reach its natural end right then and there.

In the midst of all this commotion, something major occurred, I tell you. Mrs. Kōga was, as I mentioned before, a terminally ill patient—so the officials must have been hesitant about informing her of the Professor’s situation, unsure how she’d take it. But there were things they simply had to ask, and they couldn’t just leave it unsaid—so in the end, Ms. Okome took on the task. When she broached the topic indirectly, Mrs. Kōga was surprisingly composed, I tell you—what a strong woman she was. And so, since Professor Kōga had instructed Ms. Okome, saying, “If anything should ever happen to me, have them slightly shift the waist-height panel in the northwest corner of the study—there’s a keyhole there. Opening it will reveal my will inside, so have them look,” Mrs. Kōga produced the key she had been keeping, I tell you.

Officials really do panic easily, don’t they, I tell you. Ms. Okome must have asked me to take the key because she didn’t want to carry it herself. I had no choice, so I took it to the study. Then the prosecutor—this gaunt, higher-up type—received it with a solemn face and asked me, “Which way is northwest?” We’re always going on about right and left, you know, I thought. Even if you suddenly start going on about west and east, it’s not like anyone could figure it out easily. As I was pondering this, another round-faced, portly official began pulling out a magnet. But then it got tangled in the belt strap of his trousers and wouldn’t come loose. Being portly, he probably couldn’t get a good view of his own waist area. In his panic, it only got more stubbornly stuck. Mr. Prosecutor seemed a bit irritated. When the chain finally came off, look—that magnet had its lid properly attached, you see. That’s the thing, you see. And so the lid wouldn’t open easily. The prosecutor finally lost his temper and was likely intending to call either Mr. Shimomura or Mr. Uchino. He desperately pushed the button attached to the wall, I tell you. “He probably thought it was a call button, but that was actually the light switch,” I explained. No one showed any sign of coming, I tell you. For an old man, he sure doesn’t know about modern switches, does he? I thought. While I was thinking about whether to tell him, the magnet’s lid finally opened.

“Let me see... This way is north, this way is west, so this corner here,” I said, pointing to the exact back corner where the desk was placed. The old man finally let go of the wall and hurried over to that corner. Then the two of them shook each panel one by one, but they didn’t budge an inch. Finally giving up, he told me to call the students. When I brought Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura back with me, Mr. Prosecutor pointed to the corner they had been searching and said, “You—the northwest corner you mentioned is this one here, correct?” The two of them—men really are impressive, aren’t they—immediately pointed to the corner directly opposite the desk and said, “No, it’s this corner.”

“What on earth did you see?” Mr. Prosecutor shouted.

“I saw the magnet,” the younger one also said somewhat angrily. “Let me see it,” the older one said as he snatched the magnet away and examined it for a while.

“That’s ridiculous! You’ve got it wrong! Since this way is north, the direction you’re talking about must be northeast!” “That’s impossible,” said the younger one with a scowl as he took back the magnet. Then he let out a shrill voice, I tell you.

“Oh, that’s strange. The needle’s pointing differently than when I saw it earlier.” “Don’t talk nonsense. Could a magnet’s needle lose its bearings in just five or ten minutes?”

“……” He must have been unable to make sense of it. The young man stayed silent, gazing fixedly at the magnet, I tell you.

Putting aside their debate, they needed to retrieve the suicide note. The so-called northwest corner was where the large bookcase stood. With everyone’s help, they moved the bookcase. When the prosecutor examined it, they soon found where the panel had shifted, revealing a keyhole. The key fit perfectly, and the suicide note emerged without difficulty. Since only Mrs. Kōga could open it, I took it to her bedside and did so myself. Inside were various trivial details, but a separate sheet contained something shockingly significant. He must have written it in extreme agitation—his trembling hand left characters uneven in size and lines misaligned. As I read it, I turned pale.

“I will surely be killed by Shimizu.

Due to a mere pittance of debt, I had been tormented by Shimizu through countless years. I survived only as his slave. I swallowed my tears and endured it all. My research was dear to me. All I desired was to complete my research. Yet Shimizu covets this precious work of mine solely for its monetary value. He obstructs me both from dread of my vengeance and craving to possess this research. I will assuredly be killed by Shimizu. "If I meet an unnatural death, know it came by Shimizu's hand——"

I don't remember clearly, but I think the text went something like this. When I took this suicide note to Mr. Prosecutor's office on Mrs. Kōga's orders, even that old Hardheaded man seemed shocked.

About an hour later, Shimizu the Hardheaded was brought to the study. He had a face as pale as a corpse’s, I tell you. After all, they must have realized that Shimizu’s fingerprints were clearly on the paperweight. He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t returned home until late the previous night; Mr. Shimomura and the others had testified about the nature of his relationship with the Professor; and then there was the Professor’s suicide note. There was absolutely no way he could escape, you see. When I saw him sitting there with that pale, dejected face, I truly felt it served him right, I tell you. When I thought about how this guy had killed the Professor, I found him utterly detestable, I tell you.

That’s what I thought, I tell you. That Shimizu bastard killed the Professor with the paperweight and left it there—yes, the wound matched the paperweight perfectly, I tell you. There’s no doubt he struck him with this, I tell you. And he must have found out about the suicide note mentioning his own affairs somehow and searched the whole room trying to steal it, I tell you. How utterly shameless, I tell you.

The three of us were summoned before Mr. Prosecutor again and questioned about Shimizu, I tell you.

“Do you know that the victim sent a letter to Shimizu?” they asked me, I tell you.

"I didn't know anything about that." "Mr. Shimomura and the others didn't know either, I tell you." "Since I'm usually the one who delivers the Professor's letters, I'd naturally know about them if there were any, I tell you." Shimizu apparently said this: He'd received a letter from Professor Kōga yesterday afternoon about some secret matter, asking him to come late that night—so he went out, but having been tricked before over that bankbook business, he felt reluctant somehow, and after coming all the way to the house, just turned back and went home, he claimed. That's ridiculous, isn't it? The Professor's letter had nothing to do with the bankbook incident! And he says he tore it up exactly as instructed because it told him to destroy it—how suspicious! Then when someone mentioned the research, he turned deathly pale! No matter how you look at it, there's no doubt Shimizu did it—isn't that right? But he absolutely refuses to confess!

“This may be terribly presumptuous of me,” Mr. Shimomura abruptly said to Mr. Prosecutor, “but I believe there are one or two contradictions in this case.” “First, while there are clear fingerprints on the murder weapon—the paperweight—and it is acknowledged that the perpetrator searched the entire room, the fact that no other similar fingerprints appear makes it hardly conceivable by common sense that they would put on gloves after committing the crime.” “In other words, either there were two perpetrators, or the fingerprints had already been left before the crime——”

“That’s not true!” I blurted out to Mr. Shimomura, I tell you. “But the Professor was always worried about that paperweight rusting and was constantly wiping it, and I also made sure to wipe it once every morning without fail, you see.”

“I also agree with Mr. Shimomura’s theory,” Mr. Uchino said. “The man who searched this bookcase is clearly a man of considerably short stature. “As you can see, he’s stacked books pulled from below to use as a stepping stool.” “Mr. Shimizu, of course, would be able to reach it without a stepping stool.” I somehow found it detestable that the two of them seemed to be supporting Shimizu, I tell you. I wondered if the two of them might be Shimizu’s accomplices, I tell you. But Shimizu is the one who tormented the Professor so much, isn’t he? I didn’t think there was any need to defend him—Shimizu turned his shriveled, deathly face toward the two and seemed to be pleading with his eyes, I tell you.

“About how long is the paperweight?” Mr. Shimomura asked, paying no heed to my considerations. “It’s approximately one shaku,” answered Mr. Prosecutor. “I want more precise measurements.” The man—a detective, I suppose—who had been stationed beside Shimizu reluctantly pulled out a tape measure and took the measurement. “Eleven and three-quarters inches.” “What? Are you certain there’s no mistake?” “Are you absolutely sure—Mr. Uchino?” He turned toward Mr. Uchino. “You and I made a bet about that paperweight’s length two or three days back. Do you remember how long it was?”

“Eleven and seven-eighths inches,” Mr. Uchino answered flatly.

They must each have been thinking. For a while, no one said a word. I also tried to figure it out, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. Mr. Shimomura sat deep in thought, while Mr. Uchino began rustling around the bookshelf area as if investigating something.

“Please shave the paperweight.” Mr. Shimomura suddenly exclaimed, so I was startled, I tell you.

Since what Mr. Shimomura said seemed plausible, the officials shaved it down exactly as he instructed—but it was still nickel all the way through. They must have thought Mr. Shimomura’s idea was about plating. “All the way through nickel?” he said disappointedly, crossing his arms and starting to think again, I tell you.

Then this time, Mr. Uchino started shouting.

“That’s him! “Yes, that’s him!” Everyone was startled and looked toward Mr. Uchino, I tell you.

“Everyone, you’re aware of this.” “The German teacher Furuta Shōgorō—that’s him.” “The one who sneaked in here was—”

I was shocked twice over, I tell you. Because this Furuta business was connected to that Radio Kid after all—it’s that strange incident that was all over the newspapers just recently, you see. Nowadays, I doubt many people remember it anymore, but back then, there wasn’t a soul who hadn’t heard of it. Now, this Furuta person was a German teacher at some private school, you see—someone who did translation work on the side. There was a photo of him in the newspaper, you know—with this crumpled face like a pug’s, yet his head was disproportionately large and his height abnormally short, so he might’ve been closer to a monster than a man. But he had a brilliant mind and was apparently skilled at translation work. This person suddenly went missing, I tell you. The wife was worried, and her photo was also published—but she was a real beauty. When it comes to someone like me measuring up—that’s no joke. When they searched everywhere but couldn’t find her, they reported it to the police. Then, apparently around four or five days after he ran away from home, a letter arrived for the wife saying that due to unavoidable circumstances, he wouldn’t be returning home for two or three weeks, but she shouldn’t worry at all because he was living happily—and that there was money enclosed in the letter. The police apparently just let it drop. Then, just as the letter said, around the three-week mark, he came strolling back with a healthy-looking face, you know. The police apparently questioned him thoroughly, but they didn’t get anything definite out of him. At that time, that was acceptable, but after a month passed, he ran away from home again. Since there was a note left saying he’d return in two or three weeks, this time his wife refrained from making a fuss—and after about two weeks, he came back with a pale face this time, they say. The third time was disastrous—he had been absent for two or three days as usual when he was found collapsed with a slashed wound at old man Shimizu’s residence. At the time, it seemed he had been given some translation work by old man Shimizu—but that night, a burglar broke in; since it was someone else’s house, he probably should’ve stayed quiet but must’ve put up a fight. He was cut and then beaten until he ended up fainting. The wound was shallow, but he was badly beaten. The police investigated thoroughly, but there were no clues at all, you know.

Old man Shimizu was being extremely cautious because he was terrified of burglars—it shouldn’t have been easy for anyone to get in—and what with that earlier incident involving the bank passbook they were absolutely certain it had been that Radio Kid’s doing again,I tell you.The newspapers sensationalized it too,I tell you.Well then that Radio Kid got angry and wrote a letter to the newspaper,I tell you.It wasn’t some boldfaced thieving,I tell you.

"I’ve never once called myself the Radio Kid, but when people use that name, they’re likely referring to me. And just as they say, my greatest skill lies in moving undetected—no one ever discerns where I enter or exit. I’ve never been spotted by human eyes. How could I possibly wield blades or inflict wounds? Whenever some baffling incident occurs, they try to hide their own ineptitude by blaming everything on me—'This Radio Kid did it! That Radio Kid’s work!'—but I won’t shoulder their false accusations!" he declared furiously. The police combed every corner searching for him, but ultimately failed to capture him, I tell you.

Then, after some time had passed, Furuta apparently disappeared again for about two nights. The wife had no choice but to leave him be, but on the second night, she apparently heard a groaning sound coming from inside the closet. Being the resolute woman she was, she opened the closet—only to find what seemed like someone groaning inside a chest. She and the housemaid timidly opened it together, and there was the current master, bound with his hands behind his back and gagged with a rope muzzle—poor thing had been inside his own household chest for about two days and nights, I tell you. He was apparently half-dead. Poor thing—apparently, it was all so sudden, being tied up from behind, so he says he had no idea at all who did it to him. This time, it was definitely the genuine Radio Kid who did it, I tell you. This was probably true. This time, even Radio Kid didn’t write to the newspaper. Even so, it was remarkable how he managed to do all that without the family noticing.

That must be why Furuta came here. It’s only natural everyone was startled, I tell you.

“Take a look,” Mr. Uchino said while observing everyone’s dumbfounded expressions. “All these books left open like this are large German volumes. “And all the large items—drawers and such—have been removed. “I had heard from the Professor some time ago that there was someone trying to steal his research. “So when he finished writing them up, he would hide them away in secret places. “As you can see by looking at the desk, all of the Professor’s research is written in large volumes. “Therefore they must be concealed in either large books or big drawers. “Furuta can read German. “Thus he must undoubtedly be part of the group trying to steal the Professor’s German-written research. “He’s short. “And above all else, this paper fragment tucked here constitutes irrefutable evidence. “To avoid confusion while checking through numerous books, he inserted small paper markers into those he’d finished. “Though meant to be blank sheets, it appears a botched draft from his translation work got mixed in—this scrap bears his handwriting. “In fact, having once studied German under Furuta myself, I’m thoroughly familiar with his penmanship.”

In a crisp tone and with a cheerful voice as if reciting, he declared it boldly. I was utterly spellbound. Everyone else reacted exactly the same way.

But wait. Mr. Shimomura was the only one. He had been sitting there with his arms crossed, deep in thought, but at that moment glanced at Mr. Uchino’s chattering face and smirked. Yet he immediately returned to his previous expression—I must have been the only one who noticed. The Prosecutor too seemed familiar with Furuta; upon seeing the paper fragment Mr. Uchino handed over, he promptly sent detectives to arrest him. Shimizu’s old man remained frozen in place, his face contorted like petrified wood.

“We need to find another paperweight, don’t we?” After a moment, Mr. Uchino said to Mr. Shimomura. “Yeah, there must indeed be two of them.” “Even if only slightly, their dimensions differ.” “But even supposing the other one were iron-plated, how could they have been switched?” “If what fell here isn’t iron, this makes no sense,” Mr. Shimomura muttered as if to himself. “Ah!” Mr. Uchino exclaimed so loudly. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Your reasoning is brilliant.” “Don’t you see? Nickel works perfectly.” “What a horrifying scheme.” “Now—to the attic!”

No sooner had he said this than Mr. Uchino nimbly scaled the window frame, grabbed the eaves to hoist himself onto the Western-style roof, and detached the small shutter-fitted window that looked like a train carriage sunshade. Mr. Shimomura climbed up right after him too, I tell you. After a moment, when Mr. Uchino had slipped into the attic and Mr. Shimomura tried to follow him inside, it seemed Mr. Uchino passed something out from within. Before long, the two of them came back down carrying what looked like some heavy electrical apparatus.

“This is the coil, and this is the magnet.” “When you pass a strong electric current through the coil, it generates a powerful magnetic force in the magnet.” “Let me demonstrate.” Mr. Uchino rummaged under the desk, found a thick wire to connect it, then pressed the wall switch from earlier. When he brought the nickel paperweight close—snap!—it stuck fast. I gasped. “If this paperweight had been iron, Mr. Shimomura would’ve solved this mystery an hour ago.” “Hardly anyone knows pure nickel can be attracted to magnets.” “The Professor installed this mechanism in the attic—he ran a current to make the paperweight stick to the ceiling, then cut the power to drop it onto his own neck.” “It’s suicide.” “Remember how that magnet went berserk earlier?” “That happened because Mr. Prosecutor here had accidentally pressed this switch, redirecting the magnet toward the desk.” “Two paperweights were prepared in advance—the one used already had Mr. Shimizu’s fingerprints planted on it.” “There were more than enough reasons to frame Mr. Shimizu.” “Beside this machine lies another nickel paperweight—and a second suicide note from the Professor.”

Because this suicide note was addressed to the police, it was opened immediately. I shed streaming hot tears of frustration while the Prosecutor was reading.

“Dear Police Officers. I do not know how many days after my death this second suicide note will be opened. Needless to say, the day this suicide note is discovered will be the day my death is revealed as a suicide, and the day suspicion against Shimizu is cleared. I pray that the timing of this suicide note’s discovery will be neither too soon nor too late—just necessary and sufficient for exacting revenge against Shimizu for the violent tyranny he inflicted upon me.”

It was too short. The Professor couldn't take revenge while alive and went through all that trouble to avenge himself after death, only for it to be discovered so effortlessly. Why hasn't that obstinate old man been struck by greater divine punishment? I couldn't stop the tears from streaming endlessly. Everyone must have felt the same way. With grim faces, no one spoke for some time. But now only Furuta's problem remained. Since it wasn't murder, the prosecutors sighed in relief and began preparing to leave. Shimizu stood there blankly, looking somehow deflated—whether from relief or something else.

Then suddenly, Mr. Uchino called out to the Prosecutor. “Mr. Prosecutor.” “There’s still a part of this case remaining.” “I wish to accuse Mr. Shimizu as the person who conspired with Furuta to steal the Professor’s research.” “And then, this Mr. Shimomura is not innocent either.” “He left the examination room window open and facilitated Furuta’s break-in.”

My goodness. I wonder if Mr. Shimomura really did such a thing. So was Mr. Shimomura working with Shimizu after all? But couldn't this be some misunderstanding on Mr. Uchino's part? If he's mistaken, that'd be truly awful. Or is this payback for their usual squabbles? Then it'd be even worse. Who knows how much trouble this accusation could cause at a time like this. Yet there was no hint Mr. Uchino would pull such an underhanded trick—I found myself utterly torn. But Mr. Shimomura remained surprisingly calm through it all.

When this was said, even Mr. Prosecutor couldn’t very well cover things up ambiguously. They extracted Mr. Uchino’s statements. I was made to go outside. Then somehow—I don’t know what happened next—Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Shimizu were taken away by the police.

Bad things tend to keep happening. That night, Mrs. Kōga finally passed away too. Mr. Uchino took charge of everything, and after a day had passed, we held a lonely funeral. The servants each took their leave and went home, but I found myself in this strange situation with Mr. Uchino—whenever I thought about how we'd sent Mr. Shimomura off to the police, I somehow came to see him as less reliable, and things just couldn't go back to how they were before. Even so, when we parted and he said, “Yae-chan, goodbye—if fate allows it, let’s meet again,” I felt so forlorn that tears spilled out.

As for what happened afterward, you've likely read about it in the papers. Shimizu and Furuta were put in prison for trying to steal the Professor's research, I tell you. Having thought that day he couldn't escape murder suspicion, Shimizu got so shocked his mind went completely senile afterward, I tell you. Truly divine punishment, I tell you. The Professor's research was apparently something meant for use in war, I hear. This was safely delivered—whether to the Army or Navy I don't know—but I hear it properly reached them.

The only thing I hadn’t anticipated was that Mr. Shimomura ended up escaping on the way to the police station, I tell you. I never would have thought he was the kind of person to do such a thing, though. I used to think people were impossible to understand. Then, after two or three months had passed—right when everything with Shimizu and Furuta had been completely settled—letters arrived from both Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura on the very same day, strangely enough. How they found out I was staying here, I’ll never know. I started with Mr. Shimomura’s letter.

“Dear Ms. Yae-ko,

I am glad to hear you are living safely. I am quietly pleased. I too am safe, thanks to you.

On that day when I escaped while being taken to the police station, you must have been surprised. I too had quite a struggle that day. After all, my opponent was Mr. Uchino—a man of formidable caliber. There must be various matters you still don’t comprehend. That’s why I’ll quietly share this information with you alone.

The beginning of it all, you see. It was Shimizu who stole the Professor’s esteemed research. The Professor’s esteemed research was a poison gas intended for use in war, which is why it was kept strictly confidential. Shimizu caught wind of it and—though he didn’t know what kind of research it was—since it would turn a profit regardless, he used the debt repayment as a pretext and forcibly took it away. Admittedly, it had not yet been completed, but the majority had fallen into Shimizu’s hands. However, since it was written in German, Shimizu couldn’t read a word of it himself, so he had no choice but to ask someone to translate it. But since he couldn’t act recklessly, he secretly summoned Furuta and had him translate it in exchange for favorable terms. However, since Furuta had left home without permission, causing an uproar at his residence, and with various dangerous incidents occurring around that time that threatened to draw public attention, Shimizu had no choice but to send him back once midway. The second time Furuta was translating at Shimizu’s residence, Muden Kozō—though he detests this moniker—the notorious thief targeted Shimizu, lured him out using that bankbook, entered the empty house only to unexpectedly find Furuta in the midst of translating, and promptly pilfered the manuscript. Of course, it was only a portion. Shimizu, being cautious, had been handing it over to Furuta little by little. When Muden Kozō returned to his residence and read it, he found it quite interesting and gradually realized it could be profitable. So while he kept observing the situation, the third time Furuta was summoned by Shimizu, that Furuta fellow had a burglar—who didn’t even break in—stage a fake robbery, got himself inflicted with just a slight scratch, pretended to have suffered a terrible ordeal, and stashed all the remaining manuscripts into his own pocket. The newspapers sensationalized it as Muden Kozō’s handiwork. Thereupon, Muden Kozō became enraged, broke into Furuta’s residence, tied him up, and searched—but he couldn’t quite figure out where the manuscript was hidden. Well, this is the truth behind those four mysterious incidents that occurred to Furuta. After that, Muden Kozō realized that the origin of the manuscript was with the Professor. In other words, this is how the research manuscript came to be divided among Furuta, Muden Kozō, and the Professor—the last one being the Professor. Thus, Muden Kozō plunged into the lion's den. If he stayed at the Professor’s place, he could snatch away the portion in the Professor’s possession whenever an opportunity arose, and by devising a scheme, he could lure Furuta there, threaten him, and make him hand over the manuscript.

And so one day, Muden Kozō had Furuta write a forged letter from Shimizu, telling him that the final portion was hidden in the Professor’s study bookcase and ordering him to come steal it. After arranging this, he left the examination room window slightly ajar. If Furuta came, he meant to capture him, threaten him, and force him to cough up the manuscript. Yet whether by fortune or misfortune, that night through someone’s scheme, a sedative was slipped into the tea, plunging them into senseless slumber before they knew what was happening.

That night, the Professor lured Shimizu to his study and, in the midst of their conversation, turned off the light switch—plunging the room into darkness while simultaneously dropping the paperweight bearing Shimizu’s fingerprints onto his own neck to commit suicide. In his panic to flee, Shimizu would have been caught by us. This seems to have been the intended plan. However, since Shimizu never arrived, had Muden Kozō woken up and made any clumsy moves, he might have found himself in an even worse situation. Drinking the tea may have been a blessing in disguise after all.

The Professor must have known Furuta had sneaked in; he let him search thoroughly and only after confirming his departure executed that ingenious suicide. I was awestruck by Mr. Uchino’s brilliance that day. Without Mr. Uchino present, I might never have resolved matters that very day. Then there was his razor-sharp instinct when he bolted into the attic like a startled hare. He instantly discerned how the Professor’s final research findings lay concealed alongside the attic’s electrical contraption. What truly astonished me was his preemptive maneuver with the examination room window. That window had been left ajar by Mr. Uchino himself. By framing me for it, he sought twofold advantage—to silence my objections through preemption and to isolate me while leisurely retrieving manuscripts he’d stashed somewhere in the attic. I deliberately fell for his ploy, feigning escape en route to the police station before accompanying detectives to Furuta’s residence. This proved most fortuitous. Furuta had been moments from incinerating manuscripts stolen from the Professor to destroy evidence—another moment’s delay would have consigned that research to oblivion. Mr. Uchino likely planned to comb Furuta’s hiding places after his imprisonment but never anticipated this desperate destruction. You’ve surely realized by now—Mr. Uchino is Muden Kozō himself. As for me? I am a private detective. Though ostensibly hired to protect the Professor, I now see he meant me to ensnare Shimizu. The sedative-laced tea thwarted both his design and mine. However well-intentioned, whoever drugged that tea committed no small offense.

“Well then, goodbye—please take care of yourself.”

As I read it, I was truly shocked. Somehow I was afraid to look at Mr. Uchino’s letter, but I gathered my courage and opened it.

"My dear Yae-chan.

Farewell. You must still find this aggravating. Thanks to that, I’m in fine fettle.

You must have figured out about me by now. That day was truly a hard-fought battle. After all, my opponent was Mr. Shimomura—or rather, Mr. Kimura Kiyoshi—a formidable one at that. Merely escaping that situation would have been simple enough, but I wanted to take the entirety of the Professor’s research for myself. Since I was the one who originally lured Furuta into sneaking in, I knew full well—even without evidence. In truth, I had intended to apprehend him on the spot and make him reveal the manuscript’s whereabouts, but being drugged by the tea made it impossible. So by turning that situation to my advantage—by making a big deal about Furuta—I aimed to gain the prosecutor’s trust while trying to send him to prison. Of course, I intend to steal the manuscript from his residence while he’s away.

Therefore, I swiftly slipped the fragment of his translated manuscript—which I had previously snatched from Furuta’s hands—between some books and used it as evidence to claim Furuta had been there. While I succeeded in deceiving the prosecutor and others, Mr. Kimura apparently saw through it right away. I realized I was done for. When I noticed the Professor’s contraption and slipped into the attic, just as expected, I found the final research manuscript but couldn’t manage to get it out. Thinking Mr. Kimura had likely noticed I’d left the examination room window open, I took preemptive action—though looking back, it was a risky move.

In any case, this is how I ended up obtaining the beginning and end of the Professor’s manuscript—only to have the middle section unexpectedly snatched from Furuta’s grasp by Mr. Kimura. Mr. Kimura suggested we combine them for submission to the Army Ministry—both for the nation’s sake and the Professor’s legacy. In exchange, since there wasn’t a shred of solid evidence against you either—and with him vowing silence—I surrendered my portion without protest. Thank you for that tea you treated me to. It proved both a blessing and a curse for my plans. Oh, and about that photograph I once received from you— “Since you’d surely despise having my identity exposed through it, I’m returning it.”

Even though you didn't have to return it, I blurted out before I could stop myself. Finally tearing to pieces the unmounted half-length photo of myself that had fluttered from the envelope—that snap where I'd ripped it clean through. It wasn't like there was any real reason. Still, they're both so impressive though—they saw right through me putting Carmotin in the tea, you know? That must've been why they had that huge argument that night, I suppose. Then getting summoned by the Professor afterward... If they'd gone on with all that afterwards, I couldn't have borne it. Thinking they might actually come to blows, I made them both drink it. Then when that whole mess happened midnight? Truly had me in knots. If I hadn't put those two to sleep like that—would the Professor have lived? No way that's possible though—right? His suicide was planned through and through! Or maybe if they'd suspected Shimizu more—wouldn't they have figured out that mechanical contraption faster? Or if someone like Mr. Uchino got suspected instead—might everything've gotten even more tangled? Any case—was I wrong about how I treated the Professor? If so—I'll just despair completely then.