Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Yes, I’ll tell the story—I’m a chatterbox anyway.” “But you really must promise not to tell anyone, please.” “Because I’d feel awful about that person, you see.”

“It’s been a year now, hasn’t it? Last year around this time—when the chill was settling into our bones and the cholera panic had mostly died down. What a dreadful year that was! The papers were full of nothing but gruesome stories every single day—suicides, murders, people going mad. You remember all that, don’t you? Then there was that bizarre burglar—the one who only targeted grand estates? No one ever figured out how he got in or out, yet precious things kept vanishing. The more security people added, the bolder he became—slipping through cracks you’d never imagine! They said he moved like radio waves through walls, which is why the papers dubbed him ‘Radio Boy.’ Caused quite the stir! And then... in the end... even the Professor who’d been so good to me wound up dead like that. Don’t you think? I’ve truly lost all hope.”

“Speaking of Radio Boy, don’t you know that story? There was this incident last spring where someone put a bankbook and seal in the mailbox of a mansion in Ushigome—along with a polite note claiming to return money from an old defaulted loan. It was in the papers, wasn’t it? The owner was this councilman named Kiyomizu—puts on a proper gentleman’s airs, but really he’s just some upstart nouveau riche who crawled up from the gutter, a merciless loan shark without an ounce of compassion.” “Now he’s rotting in police custody, gone senile too—not that anyone cares anymore—but that wretched man’s why the Professor died in the first place! All because of his greedy moneylending.” “That’s how stingy he was—when some stranger’s bankbook showed up in his own mailbox? Any normal person would’ve found it suspicious and reported it! But he went waddling off to the bank thinking it was repayment for some decades-old bad debt!” “Except the bank had already filed it as stolen—so they dragged that old fool straight to the police! I’ve said it a hundred times—dressing like a pauper despite his fortune, calling it ‘frugality’—no wonder even as a councilman, the police didn’t believe a word he said!” “So they locked him up overnight—served him right! But then came the real kicker—the very night he spent in custody? Radio Boy broke into his house! This never made the papers, but I know why—planting that bankbook was all part of Radio Boy’s scheme from the start! Serves that miser right!”

“I truly couldn’t stand that old man, but he’d inevitably come to the house once or twice every month.” “He’d examine the clinic’s ledger, order the students and me around—it was so domineering.” “The Professor was such a kind person, wasn’t he?” “He’d just sit there silently watching without a care, wouldn’t he?” “I couldn’t stand how frustrating it was.” I’m such a fool. Even after serving for a whole year, why couldn’t I understand that Kiyomizu’s greed would lead to something like this? Men are indeed clever. Judging by kimono patterns is no good though. “Mr.Shimomura and Mr.Uchino—the students’ names—both came after me but had figured everything out properly and taught me.” “Apparently,the Professor had financial troubles with his research funds and ended up borrowing money from Kiyomizu through predatory terms making repayment impossible—interest compounding into an unmanageable sum.” “So both residence and clinic were seized as collateral while Kiyomizu took most monthly income—only crumbs reached the Professor,I heard.” “Kiyomizu controlled all accounting—meaning,the Professor worked daily just fattening that man’s coffers.” “The Professor wrote acclaimed books worldwide—a master diagnostician too—so valuing honor endured Kiyomizu’s cruelty silently.” “Moreover,the Madam had been bedridden with chronic illness throughout.” “By then whenever grasping his true feelings tears naturally welled up.”

“For a normal person, no matter how much they earned—since it only lined someone else’s pockets—they’d naturally grow tired of working eventually. But the Professor was so kind to his patients, and as I mentioned before, his diagnoses were masterful, so his practice did quite well.” “But you see, starting a little before he passed away, he became even more engrossed in his research, so naturally the number of patients wasn’t what it used to be.” “So the number of domestic staff had decreased somewhat compared to when I first arrived.” “The clinic side had one pharmacist and an elderly accountant—both commuters—and besides them, there were two live-in students: Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino, whom I mentioned earlier.” “There were two nurses outside.” “This lineup had changed quite a bit, hadn’t it?” “But nurses—when they’re awake, they treat patients like piglets or something, and once they fall asleep, they turn into fat pigs themselves, snoring away so loudly you couldn’t wake them even if you kicked them. Nobody pays them any mind.”

“In the residence quarters there was one cook, one attendant for Madam, and me attending to the Professor.” “Yes, I never called him ‘Master’—always ‘Professor’.” “The cook was quite elderly and stayed in the kitchen mostly, while Madam’s attendant was Okome-san—a woman who’d been married once and was about ten years my senior.” “She kept quiet anyway, what with tending to Madam bedridden all day long.” “Never had time for proper chatting.” “Well—no children of course.” “So you could say I ended up being practically the only one dealing with clinic folks.” “Partly ’cause I’m helpful like that—but being Professor’s personal maid meant clinic business came my way naturally.” “Yes—this here’s Chinese-derived vocabulary.”

“So those students Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino were simply marvelous, you know.” “They were such handsome men!” “Oh my, if you’re going to tease me like that, I’ll stop talking right now.” They were both twenty-four or twenty-five. “Mr. Uchino arrived around March or April I think, then Mr. Shimomura came about a month later.” “Both proper Edo natives through and through.” “Of course they hadn’t known each other beforehand.” “What a perfectly matched pair they made!” “Such fine figures they both had.” “Real physical beauty I tell you—not flabby fat but lean and toned.” “Mr. Shimomura had this fair complexion and charming smile though his eyes held a certain sharpness that made him seem rather brooding.” “Mr. Uchino was more sun-kissed—what modern folks might call radiant-faced—so even when chatting freely with Mr. Shimomura I always felt some stiff corner remaining in my heart, but with Mr. Uchino I could relax completely and speak my mind freely—that’s how different they were.” “Well if I absolutely had to choose I suppose I preferred Mr. Uchino slightly more, but really I liked them both—it was terribly confusing!” “And it wasn’t just me either!” “Anyone would’ve been flustered choosing between them!” “Their academic talk went right over my head but they both seemed frightfully knowledgeable—brilliant minds really.” “Always debating complicated matters late into the night.” “Perfectly fine during daylight hours but when they carried on arguing in the students’ quarters till all hours...” “I couldn’t sleep a wink some nights!” “Didn’t understand half of it myself but I thought maybe they were dabbling in that socialism business or whatever it’s called.”

When I think back on it now, the Professor was acting rather strangely around that time. He would shut himself in the study at every spare moment, writing feverishly as if racing against time itself, while carrying an air of despondency that drained him of vigor. I simply couldn't shake this growing dread that something momentous was about to occur.

That night, you see. Early that evening, Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura had themselves quite the heated debate. The Professor was in his study as usual, absorbed in his work. As I sat in the adjoining room, I could clearly hear them arguing loudly in the students' quarters. I grew worried they might come to blows and was about to go intervene when the Professor summoned me. When I hurried to his room with a "Coming!", he told me to fetch Shimomura and Uchino. I thought I'd surely get scolded and felt my blood run cold. Once they entered, I pressed my ear to the wall of the next room—but it seemed to be a solemn discussion, for I couldn't make out a word. After some time, the bell must have rung for me to bring tea. Seeing they weren't being reprimanded after all, I breathed a sigh of relief.

After serving the tea—it must’ve been around eleven o’clock—the two returned to the students’ room and went to sleep. The Professor still seemed to be up working on his research, but since he’d said I could go to bed, I retired to my room and slept. I was dozing off when I suddenly awoke to a strange noise from the study. Thinking the Professor was still awake, I tried to turn over and looked toward the hallway—pitch black. If the study light had been on, its glow would’ve made the shoji screen white in the darkness, you know? Coming fully alert, I groped open the shoji screen—still dark—and right then sensed someone emerging from the study. Trembling all over, I burrowed under my futon and pulled the quilt over my head. After what felt like ages in dead silence, I timidly turned on the light. Finding nothing amiss after holding my breath awhile, I mustered courage and crept down the corridor. From outside their room I called, “Mr. Shimomura! Mr. Uchino!” They’re usually light sleepers, but this time they just kept snoring away—hopeless! Back to bed I went, too rattled to check the study myself.

I couldn't fall asleep for the longest time but must have dozed off toward dawn. When I noticed the outside growing faintly light, I got up and—since it weighed on my mind—first peeked into the Professor's bedroom, only to find everything just as I'd prepared it the night before: the futon perfectly laid out with no sign he'd slept there at all. Startled, I hurried to the study and knocked on the door, but there was no response. With my heart thudding, I timidly tried opening the door. There sat the Professor turned away in his chair, leaning against the large writing desk before him—slumped over as if he'd dozed off in that posture. I called out "Professor! Professor!" but received no reply at all. Unable to bear my growing unease, I rushed to the students' room and woke the two of them. Neither Mr. Uchino nor Mr. Shimomura would stir easily, you see. I was at my wit's end. When I finally roused them and said something was wrong with the Professor, they bolted from the room like arrows shot from a bowstring. As I chased after them, I found the two talking at the door.

“You there—wait,” came Mr.Shimomura’s voice.“Let’s glove up before going in.” “The room looks ransacked—we mustn’t disturb any prints.”

Since Mr. Uchino apparently had no objections, the two of them returned to the students' room, put on gloves, and entered the study. I thought they were being oddly meticulous about it. When I stealthily entered the room afterward, I was shocked. Nearly every book from the bookcases had been taken out—some left splayed open, others stacked still closed—and every last drawer had been yanked out, leaving the entire room in utter disarray. The Professor remained perfectly still. I briskly approached the Professor's side. I thought to place my hand on his shoulder to wake him when I suddenly noticed something pitch-black clinging thickly to his neck. When I looked closely, that was blood. If Mr. Uchino hadn't held me back, I surely would have collapsed right there.

“This must be what did it,” Mr. Shimomura said as he crouched by the Professor’s side. When I looked, a bloodstained paperweight lay fallen near his feet. This paperweight—you see, the Professor had it specially made to hold down those large Western-style foolscap papers when spread out—was over a shaku in length. It was nickel, I heard. I’d often held it when cleaning, but that thing was heavy, you know. There was a time when the Professor had jokingly said, “Yae, getting whacked full-force with this would finish someone off,” but he’d truly ended up being struck by it in earnest.

Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino were such odd ones, you know. They told me not to touch anything, then the two of them frantically rummaged through everything with their gloved hands—though I must say, they were quite meticulous about it. They made sure to put everything back exactly where it belonged. They didn’t utter a single word. Checking the windows, crawling across the floor, tapping on the walls—I thought to myself: Surely both of them had gotten caught up in those detective novels that were popular lately and were competing to find the culprit while putting on airs as great detectives. They did compete quite often, you know. Oh—it’s because I was there. That was a joke. Both of them really weren’t that type of person. So because the two of them were searching around so much, I thought about teasing them a little—but given the circumstances. And they were being far too serious about it.

Feeling both listless and unsettled, I was about to leave the room when Mr. Uchino said, “Yae-chan. Best not tell outsiders yet,” so I returned to my own room—but didn’t know what to do with myself, couldn’t sit still or stand still at all.

Before long, Mr. Shimomura seemed to have called the police. It must have been around eight o'clock. Officials came noisily by car, and all of us were questioned one after another. Officials are such strange creatures—a splendidly bearded man in fine clothes bowing obsequiously to some gaunt, shabby old fellow who looked like he could be his grandfather. That old man must have been what they call a judge or prosecutor. Well, I'll just say "the prosecutor." I told them exactly what I knew. They took my fingerprints and such. The outsiders seemed to get through quickly enough, but Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Uchino were questioned quite thoroughly. In the end, they even questioned the two together. You see, it was suspicious that both had slept soundly without knowing anything. And whether it was robbery or a grudge—the police figured whoever killed the Professor must've come through the clinic window, passed the students' room, entered the study, struck him from behind with the paperweight in one blow, calmly ransacked the place, then escaped through the back door. What's more, since only one clinic window had its latch undone from inside, that made them even more suspect. "As for where the paperweight was kept—" "You're talking just like a prosecutor now." When they asked me that, I got flustered. It's strange—even things you see daily become uncertain when suddenly asked their exact location. I thought it was probably on that other desk to the left of the Professor's writing desk. Huh? Yes, they determined from the state of the body that the crime happened around two o'clock the previous night.

After Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura finished their interrogation and returned to the students’ room, they started whispering furtively about something, you know. When I heard someone mention "black tea," I instinctively pricked up my ears,

“Why didn’t you tell the prosecutor about drinking black tea in front of the Professor?” came Mr. Uchino’s voice,

“And why did you hide it?” came Mr. Shimomura’s voice. “I didn’t mention it because I thought it might bring trouble upon the Professor.” “Well, I suppose I had the same reason as you—and another was that I worried you might get into trouble.” “What—me?” Mr. Uchino seemed shocked. “What do you mean?” “Is it really true that you were sleeping soundly and knew nothing?” “Unfortunately, it’s true—no matter what you did, I didn’t know about it.”

“That’s a strange way to put it,” Mr. Uchino said. Mr. Shimomura remained surprisingly calm. “I’m the one who didn’t know whatever you did.” The two of them were suspecting each other, you know. Since I knew both of them had been sleeping soundly, I was thinking I should tell them so if they started to argue, but then their conversation seemed to end at just the right moment.

While all this was going on, a serious matter came up, you know. Madam was, as I mentioned before, a critically ill patient, you know. The officials had apparently been hesitating about letting news of the Professor’s affairs reach her ears—who knows what might happen—but there were things they needed to ask, and they couldn’t just leave it unsaid. So Ms. Okome took charge and began broaching the subject indirectly. To their surprise, Madam remained perfectly composed—what a strong woman she was. “And since the Professor had long ago instructed Ms. Okome, ‘Should anything ever happen, if you slightly shift the wainscoting panel in the northwest corner of the study, there’s a keyhole. Open it and you’ll find a will inside—do check it,’ Madam produced the key she had been keeping safe, you see.”

Officials really do panic after all, don’t they. Ms. Okome probably asked me to bring the key because she didn’t want to take it herself. Since there was no other choice, I took it to the study. Then Mr. Prosecutor—this gaunt superior-looking man—received it with an overly solemn face and asked me, “Which way is northwest?” “We always just say ‘right and left,’ you know.” Suddenly demanding we figure out west and east like that—it’s not something you can manage easily. As we were puzzling over it, another round-faced, portly official started to take out a magnet. But then the chain got caught on his trouser belt and wouldn’t come off easily. Because he was portly, he probably couldn’t see his own waist area very well. His panicking just made it harder to get free. The prosecutor seemed a bit irritated, I tell you. When the chain finally came off, look—that gold-colored magnet has a lid attached to it, you see. That’s it, you see. So the lid just wouldn’t open. The prosecutor finally lost his temper and must have intended to call either Mr. Shimomura or Mr. Uchino. He frantically pushed the button attached to the wall. He probably intended it to be a doorbell, but that was actually the light switch, you know. No one showed any sign of coming. You'd think an old man would know about modern switches. I was just thinking of telling him when the magnet’s lid finally opened.

“Well... This way’s north, this way’s west—so this corner here,” I said, pointing to the exact rear corner behind the desk. The old man finally released his grip on the wall and scurried over to that corner. Then the two of them went shaking each wall panel one by one, but not a single one budged. At last they gave up and told me to fetch the students. When I brought back Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura, Mr. Prosecutor pointed to the corner they’d been searching and declared, “You—the northwest corner’s this one here, yes?” The two of them—men really are something—immediately pointed to the corner directly opposite the desk. “No,” they corrected, “it’s this corner.”

“What on earth did you see?” the prosecutor shouted. “I looked at the magnet,” the young man retorted angrily. “Let me see that,” the old man snapped as he snatched away the magnet and scrutinized it.

“That’s absurd! You’ve lost your mind—since this is north here, the direction you’re pointing to would be northeast!” “That’s impossible,” the young man retorted indignantly, snatching back the magnet. Then he let out a shrill cry.

“Huh, that’s strange. The needle’s pointing differently from when I checked earlier.” “Don’t talk nonsense. A compass needle doesn’t go haywire in five or ten minutes.” “...That doesn’t make sense.” The young men fell silent, staring fixedly at the magnet. Putting aside their debate, we had to retrieve the will anyway. The northwest corner meant the area with the large bookcase, you understand. With everyone working together, we shifted the bookcase aside. When Mr. Prosecutor inspected the wall—well, they soon found the loose panel and discovered the keyhole. The key fit perfectly of course, and out came the will without a hitch. Since only Madam could open it properly, I carried it to her bedside and unsealed it there. Inside were all sorts of trivial details written out, but then there was this separate page with something truly shocking. You could tell he’d written it in a frenzy—the letters all shaky and uneven, some big, some small, lines wandering every which way. Reading it made me go pale as a sheet.

“I will surely be killed by Kiyomizu. Through a mere trifle of debt, I have endured Kiyomizu’s torment these many long years. I survived only as his slave. I swallowed my tears and endured. My research was dear to me. I simply wished to complete my work. Yet Kiyomizu secretly schemed to exploit my precious research if it could turn a profit. He both fears my retaliation and obstructs me to seize this research. I will certainly be killed by Kiyomizu. Should I meet an unnatural death, know it came by Kiyomizu’s hand—”

I don’t remember exactly, but I think the wording went something like this. Following Madam’s instructions, when I took this will to the prosecutor’s office, even that seasoned old man seemed genuinely startled. About an hour later, Kiyomizu the notorious loan shark was brought into the study. His face had turned ashen pale, like a corpse’s. After all, they’d evidently found his fingerprints clearly imprinted 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 his relationship with the professor—and then there was the professor’s own written statement. Seeing him sitting there pallid and despondent with no possible escape, I couldn’t help feeling it served him right. When I thought how this bastard had murdered the Professor, I burned with hatred.

That’s what I thought. That Kiyomizu bastard killed the Professor with the paperweight—well, the wound matched the paperweight perfectly, you know. There was no doubt he’d struck him with it. And I figured he must’ve somehow known about the will that mentioned him and searched the whole room trying to steal it. How utterly shameless!

The three of us were again summoned before Mr. Prosecutor and questioned about Kiyomizu.

“Do you know that the victim sent a letter addressed to Kiyomizu?” they asked me. I didn’t know a thing about that. Mr. Shimomura and the others hadn’t known either. Since I was usually the one who delivered the Professor’s letters, I would’ve naturally known about them. Then Kiyomizu came out with this story. He claimed he’d received a letter from the Professor yesterday afternoon about some secret business to discuss late that night, so he went out after dark. But having been tricked before with that bankbook business, he lost his nerve—came all the way to the house only to turn back home. Doesn’t that sound fishy? The Professor’s letter had nothing to do with any bankbook incident! And get this—he says he tore it up because the letter told him to. How convenient! And when they mentioned the research? He went white as a sheet. It had to be Kiyomizu who did it—who else? But he just won’t admit it.

“This may be presumptuous of me,” Mr. Shimomura abruptly said to the prosecutor, “but I believe there are one or two contradictions in this case. First, while clear fingerprints exist on the murder weapon—the paperweight—and it’s acknowledged that the perpetrator searched the entire room, the absence of similar fingerprints elsewhere makes it inconceivable by common sense that they would don gloves after committing the crime. In other words, either there were two perpetrators, or these fingerprints had been left before the crime—”

“That’s not true!” I blurted out to Mr. Shimomura. “But the Professor was always fretting about that paperweight rusting—he’d wipe it constantly—and I make sure to give it a proper polish every single morning without fail!”

“I also agree with Shimomura’s theory,” Mr. Uchino said. “The man who searched this bookcase was clearly a man of exceptionally short stature. “As you can see, he piled up books taken from below to make a stepping stool.” “If it were Mr. Kiyomizu, he could reach it without any stepping stool.” I felt somehow hateful that the two seemed to be supporting Kiyomizu. I wondered if they were Kiyomizu’s plants. But wasn’t Kiyomizu the one who had tormented the Professor so terribly? I didn’t think he needed any defending—Kiyomizu turned his stiff, death-mask-like face toward the two men, seeming to entreat them with his eyes, I tell you.

“About how long is the paperweight?” Mr. Shimomura asked without any regard for my thoughts, I tell you.

“About one shaku in length,” answered Mr. Prosecutor. “I would like more precise measurements.” What must have been a detective—the man stuck to Kiyomizu’s side like glue—reluctantly pulled out a tape measure and took the measurement, I tell you.

“Eleven and three-quarters inches.”

“Huh? Are you certain there’s no mistake?” “Are you certain—Mr. Uchino?” He turned toward him. “You and I made that bet about the paperweight’s length two or three days ago, remember? Do you recall how long it was?” “Eleven and seven-eighths inches,” Mr. Uchino answered clearly. They must have all been thinking to themselves. For a while, no one spoke. I also tried to think about it, but I couldn’t understand at all what it was about. Mr. Shimomura assumed an air of deep contemplation, while Mr. Uchino seemed to begin rustling around the bookshelves to investigate something.

“Please shave the paperweight!” Mr. Shimomura suddenly shouted, startling me. Since his suggestion seemed reasonable, the officials shaved it as instructed, but it remained nickel throughout. He must have suspected it might be plated. “Is it nickel all the way through?” he said dejectedly, crossing his arms and sinking back into thought.

Then this time, Mr. Uchino started shouting.

“That’s him!” “That’s right—it’s him!”

Everyone looked at Mr. Uchino in surprise. "Ladies and gentlemen," he declared. "That German teacher Furuta Shogoro—he's him!" "The very man who snuck into this place!"

I was surprised twice, I tell you. Because this Furuta business was connected to that Radio Boy after all—it's that strange incident that made such a big splash in the papers just recently, you see. Nowadays there probably aren't many who remember it anymore, but back then, everyone knew about it. Furuta was a German teacher at some private school who did translation work on the side. There was a photo of him in the paper—he had this crumpled face like a pug, you know? But with a relatively large head and exceptionally short stature, so he might've been closer to a monster. But they say his mind was sharp as a tack and he was skilled at translation work. This man suddenly vanished into thin air. His wife worried herself sick—they even published her photo in the papers too, and let me tell you she was a real looker. Me? Well now, I shouldn't joke about such things. When they couldn't find hide nor hair of him despite searching everywhere, she went to the police. Then four or five days after he'd run off, a letter arrived for his wife saying he couldn't come home for two or three weeks due to unavoidable circumstances—but she shouldn't worry none because he was living high on the hog—and would you believe there was money tucked inside? The police apparently didn't think much of it. Right on schedule three weeks later he came sauntering back looking fit as a fiddle. The police grilled him good but he never gave straight answers, they say. That time they let it slide, but then a month later he up and disappeared again. There was a note saying he'd be back in two or three weeks, so his wife didn't make a fuss this time—but when two weeks passed he came back looking pale as a ghost, they say. The third time was the real doozy—after being gone two or three days like usual, they found him at Old Man Kiyomizu's place with a slashed wound and out cold. Turns out he'd been doing translation work for the old man that night when a burglar broke in—should've kept his mouth shut seeing as it wasn't even his own house, but he must've put up a fight. He was slashed and beaten unconscious. The wound wasn't deep but they really worked him over good. The police combed through everything but came up empty-handed.

Moreover, Old Man Kiyomizu was quite cautious because he feared burglars, so it shouldn’t have been easy to get in. With that bank passbook incident happening earlier too, it was definitely the work of that Radio Boy, I tell you. The newspapers sensationalized it just the same, I tell you. So then Radio Boy got angry and submitted a letter to the newspaper, mind you. "I am no audacious thief! I’ve never called myself Radio Boy, but if people say so, they’re probably talking about me—and as they so kindly put it, my superior skill lies in moving about undetected. I’ve never been seen by anyone! Let alone waving blades around or inflicting wounds—when have I ever done such things? Whenever some slightly puzzling incident occurs, they try to pin everything on Radio Boy to hide their own incompetence—this one’s Radio Boy, that one’s Radio Boy—but I refuse to take responsibility for their failures!" he declared with great fervor. The police searched frantically but never caught him, I tell you. Then after a while, Furuta apparently disappeared again for two nights. The madam had no choice but to leave it be, but on the second night, she heard groaning from the closet. Being the resolute woman she was, she opened it—only to hear moaning from inside the trunk. She and the maid fearfully opened it together to find the master himself bound hand and foot with a gag in his mouth—poor thing had been trapped in his own household trunk for two days straight. He was half-dead by then, they say. Poor soul—apparently someone tied him up from behind suddenly, so he hadn’t the faintest idea who did it. This time he was undoubtedly done in by the real Radio Boy through and through, I tell you. This must be true—after all, Radio Boy didn’t even send a letter to the paper this time. Still, pulling all that off without anyone in the house noticing—I must say that’s something!

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

“Take a look,” Mr. Uchino said while surveying everyone’s stunned faces. “These books left open here are all large German volumes, right? The drawers too—notice only the big ones have been pulled out? I’ve long heard from the Professor that someone’s been trying to steal his research. That’s why he’d hide it in a secret place whenever he finished writing. As you can tell from the desk, all the Professor’s work is written on foolscap paper. So to conceal them, he needed either oversized books or large drawers. Furuta can read German. Which means he must be part of the gang trying to steal the Professor’s German-language research. He’s short-statured. And most conclusively—this slip of paper wedged here proves it.” He held up the evidence. “To avoid confusion while searching through numerous books, he inserted small paper markers as he went through them. He meant these to be blank slips, but seems a discarded draft from his translation work got mixed in—this scrap bears his handwriting.” Mr. Uchino’s voice rang clear as a bell. “The truth is, I once studied German under Furuta myself—I know his penmanship intimately.”

He must have declared boldly in a crisp tone, his cheerful voice almost as if reciting aloud. I was completely spellbound. The others were all just as entranced. But— Mr. Shimomura was different. This man had been standing there with arms crossed, lost in thought since earlier—yet at that moment, he glanced at Mr. Uchino’s chattering face and smirked. But he immediately schooled his features back to neutrality, so surely I was the only one who noticed.

The prosecutor, apparently already aware of Furuta, immediately dispatched detectives to apprehend him upon seeing the paper slip Mr. Uchino had handed over. Old Man Kiyomizu was still standing there rigidly like a fossilized statue, his face contorted.

“We need to find the other paperweight,” Mr. Uchino said to Mr. Shimomura after a while. “Yes, there must indeed be two.” “Because even by a slight margin, their dimensions differ.” “However, even if the other one were iron plated with nickel, how could they have substituted them?” “If what had fallen here wasn’t iron, there’s no explaining this,” Mr. Shimomura muttered as if to himself.

“Ah, got it!” Mr. Uchino boomed. I nearly leapt out of my skin.

“Your idea is splendid.” “You—nickel works just fine.” “What a terrifying plan that was.” “Now, to the attic!”

No sooner had he said this than Mr. Uchino swiftly scaled the window frame, gripped the eaves to haul himself onto the Western-style mansion’s roof, and started prying loose that small shutter window—the one like a train’s sunblind—from its casing. Mr. Shimomura scrambled up right behind him. After a moment, when Mr. Uchino had wriggled fully into the attic space and Mr. Shimomura moved to follow, it appeared Mr. Uchino handed something out from within. Soon after, both men descended bearing what resembled a hefty electrical apparatus.

“This is the coil, and this is the magnet.” “When you run a strong current through the coil, the magnet produces a powerful magnetic force.” “Let me show you.” Mr. Uchino rummaged under the desk, found a thick cable and connected it, then pressed the wall switch from earlier. As he brought the Nickel Paperweight close, there was a sharp snap—and it clung tight. I gasped.

“If the paperweight had been iron, Mr. Shimomura would have likely solved this mystery an hour ago.” “The fact that pure nickel gets attracted to magnets isn’t common knowledge.” “The Professor installed this mechanism in the attic—ran an electric current to make the paperweight stick to the ceiling, then cut the power to drop it on his own neck.” “Suicide.” “You all saw how that gentleman’s compass went berserk earlier, yes?” “At that moment, since the prosecutor here had accidentally pressed this switch, the magnet pointed toward the desk.” “Two paperweights had been prepared beforehand—he used the one carrying Mr. Kiyomizu’s fingerprints.” “I believe there was ample justification for framing Mr. Kiyomizu like this.” “Right beside this machine lay another nickel paperweight—and a second copy of the Professor’s will.”

Because this will was addressed to the police, it was opened immediately. As the prosecutor read it, I shed hot tears of bitter frustration streaming down my face.

“Dear police officers. I do not know how many days after my death this second will shall be opened. Needless for me to reiterate, the day this will is discovered is the day my death is revealed to be suicide and the day suspicion against Kiyomizu is cleared. I pray that the timing of this will’s discovery strikes that necessary and sufficient balance—neither too soon nor too late—for exacting full vengeance upon he, Kiyomizu, for the tyrannical cruelty he inflicted upon me.”

It was too short. Even though the Professor couldn’t take revenge while alive and went to such great lengths to exact vengeance in death through all that planning, for it to be uncovered so easily... Why hasn’t that greedy moneylender been met with a more severe divine punishment? I couldn’t stop the endless flow of my tears. Everyone must have felt the same way. For a while, no one spoke, their faces dark.

But from here on out, it was just Furuta’s problem, wasn’t it? Since it wasn’t murder after all, the prosecutors began packing up with visible relief. Kiyomizu stood there blankly, looking utterly deflated—I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or just empty.

Then suddenly, Mr. Uchino called out to the prosecutor.

“Mr. Prosecutor.” “There still remains part of the case.” “I wish to formally accuse Mr. Kiyomizu as the one who conspired with Furuta to steal the Professor’s research.” “Furthermore, this Mr. Shimomura is not innocent either.” “He left the examination room window open and facilitated Furuta’s break-in.”

Oh!

Did Mr. Shimomura really do such a thing? So was Mr. Shimomura Kiyomizu’s henchman, I wonder? But isn’t this some sort of misunderstanding on Mr. Uchino’s part, I wonder? If it’s a misunderstanding, that’s really awful. Or is it revenge for their usual arguments, I wonder? That would be even more terrible, I tell you. How utterly troublesome it must be to have such things said in a situation like this. But Mr. Uchino has no intention of doing such a cowardly thing, and I was quite conflicted, I tell you. But Mr. Shimomura was rather unfazed, I tell you.

When this was stated, even Mr. Prosecutor couldn’t very well sweep it under the rug, could he? They heard out Mr. Uchino’s statements. I was made to go outside. And then, somehow, Mr. Shimomura and Mr. Kiyomizu were taken off to the police, I tell you.

Bad things tend to continue. That night, the Madam finally passed away. Mr. Uchino took charge of everything and held a lonely funeral a day later—the servants each took their leave and went home—but things got awkward between me and Mr. Uchino, you see? Whenever I thought about how we’d sent Mr. Shimomura off to the police, Mr. Uchino didn’t seem like someone reliable anymore, and things just didn’t go back to how they were before, I tell you. Even so, when we parted and he said, “Yae, goodbye—if fate allows, let’s meet again,” I somehow felt so forlorn that tears welled up.

You probably already know what happened next from the newspapers. Kiyomizu and Furuta were imprisoned for trying to steal the Professor's research, I tell you. They say Kiyomizu got so shocked thinking he couldn't escape murder charges that day that his mind went completely addled afterward—utterly useless now. Divine punishment, just as expected. The Professor's research was all meant for the war effort, they say. It got safely delivered to either the Army or Navy—not sure which—but properly handed over regardless. What I never saw coming was Mr. Shimomura running off while being taken to the police. Never would've thought him capable of that. Always figured people were impossible to understand. Then two or three months later—right when everything with Kiyomizu and Furuta settled—wouldn't you know it? Letters came from both Mr. Uchino and Mr. Shimomura on the same day! Strangest part—how'd they even know where I was staying? I read Mr. Shimomura's first.

“Dear Yae-chan. I am glad to hear you are living safely. I rejoice for you from afar. I too remain safe, thanks to you. You must have been surprised when I fled on our way to the police that day. I too struggled considerably that day. After all, my opponent was none other than that formidable Mr. Uchino. There must be many things you still don’t understand. So I shall quietly share the truth with you alone. It began with Kiyomizu’s theft of the Professor’s research. The Professor’s work involved poison gas for wartime use, kept in strict secrecy. Kiyomizu caught wind of it—though unaware of its exact nature—and seized it through debt coercion, caring only for profit. While incomplete, most of it fell into Kiyomizu’s hands. But written in German as it was, he needed translation—yet couldn’t act openly. Thus he secretly summoned Furuta, offering generous pay. However, when Furuta left home without permission—causing uproar at his vacant house—and with dangerous rumors spreading, Kiyomizu sent him back midway. During Furuta’s second translation session at Kiyomizu’s residence, that thief Radio Boy—who detests the nickname—targeted Kiyomizu. Luring him out with the bankbook, Radio Boy entered the empty house only to find Furuta translating. He promptly pilfered the manuscript. Naturally, only a portion. Kiyomizu had been cautiously doling it out piecemeal. When Radio Boy returned home and read it, he found it intriguing—something that might gradually turn profitable.

So while keeping watch when Furuta was summoned by Kiyomizu for the third time, that scoundrel Furuta got himself lightly grazed by a thief who didn't even break in—part of a staged robbery—making it appear as though he'd suffered terribly, then pocketed all the remaining manuscripts himself. They wrote it up in the newspapers as Radio Boy's doing, didn't they? So Radio Boy got angry, broke into Furuta's residence, tied him up and searched—but he couldn't quite figure out where the manuscript was. Well now, this is the truth behind those four mysterious incidents that happened to Furuta. After that, Radio Boy realized the manuscript originated from the Professor's place. In other words, this is how the research manuscript came to be divided among three people—Furuta, Radio Boy and the Professor (the last one being him)—you see. And so Radio Boy plunged into the tiger's den. By staying at the Professor's place, he could snatch away whatever portion was in the Professor's possession whenever an opportunity arose—and through a scheme—he could lure Furuta in and threaten him into handing over his manuscript.

And then one day, Radio Boy made Furuta forge a letter from Kiyomizu and told him to steal it, claiming the final portion was hidden in the Professor’s study bookcase. After doing that, he quietly left the clinic window slightly ajar. If Furuta came, he planned to capture him and force him to cough up the manuscript. But whether fortunately or unfortunately, that night someone’s scheme resulted in anesthetic being slipped into the black tea, leaving them completely unconscious and fast asleep.

The Professor lured Kiyomizu that night and, in the midst of their conversation, turned off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness while simultaneously dropping the paperweight bearing Kiyomizu’s fingerprints onto his own neck to commit suicide. As Kiyomizu hurriedly tried to escape, we caught him. This appears to have been the plan. However, since Kiyomizu never came, had Radio Boy awakened and begun fumbling about, he might have found himself in grave danger instead. Drinking the black 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, after seeing him leave, executed that ingenious suicide. That day, I found myself deeply impressed by Mr. Uchino's intellect. Had Mr. Uchino not been there, I might never have resolved matters that day. Then there was his sharpness—how he dashed into the ceiling space like a startled hare. He instantly saw through it all: the Professor's final research findings lay hidden there alongside the electrical contraption. What truly astonished me next was his preemptive move regarding the clinic window. That window had been left open by none other than Mr. Uchino. By pinning this on me, he sought two advantages—to silence my objections before they formed, and to keep me away while leisurely retrieving the manuscript he'd stashed somewhere above. I deliberately fell in with his plan, feigning flight en route to the police station before heading to Furuta's house with the detective. This proved most fortuitous. Furuta stood moments from burning the manuscript stolen from the Professor—any later arrival would have consigned those researches to oblivion. Mr. Uchino apparently meant to hunt for the papers after Furuta's imprisonment, assuming they lay hidden in some obscure nook, never dreaming he'd attempt destruction. You've surely realized by now—Mr. Uchino is Radio Boy himself. As for me? I'm a private detective. Though engaged to protect the Professor's person, I now see he meant me to ensnare Kiyomizu. The tea's drugging thwarted both his design and mine. However well-intentioned, whoever laced that tea committed no small mischief indeed.

"Well then, goodbye—take good care of yourself."

I was truly shocked as I kept reading. Somehow I felt scared to even look at Mr. Uchino’s letter, but I steeled myself and opened it anyway.

"My dear Yae."

Good day. Still as frustrating as ever, I suppose.

I too am in good health, thanks to you. You must have figured me out by now. That day was truly a hard-fought battle. After all, my opponent was Mr. Shimomura—or rather, Kimura Kiyoshi—a formidable man, you see. If it were just about getting through that situation, it would have been simple enough, but I wanted to take possession of the Professor’s research in its entirety. Furuta’s sneaking in was originally something I had lured him into doing, so even without evidence, I knew full well. I had actually intended to apprehend him on the spot and make him reveal the manuscript’s whereabouts, but being intoxicated by the black tea rendered it futile. So I turned that around, made a big deal about Furuta, and while gaining the prosecutor’s trust, tried to have Furuta sent to prison. Of course, I intended to steal the manuscript from his residence while he was away.

So, I quickly slipped the fragment of his translated manuscript—which I had previously taken from Furuta—between some books and used it as evidence to insist Furuta had come, and while I managed to deceive the prosecutor and others, it seems Mr. Kimura saw through it almost immediately. I knew I was done for. When I noticed the Professor’s device and sneaked into the ceiling space, I found the final research manuscript as expected, but couldn’t manage to remove it. I had taken preemptive action, thinking Mr. Kimura had probably noticed I’d left the clinic window open, but looking back, it was a dangerous move.

In any case, through these means, we obtained the beginning and end of the Professor’s manuscript, but the middle section was unexpectedly taken from Furuta’s hands by Mr. Kimura. Mr. Kimura proposed that since this was for both the country and the Professor, why don’t we combine them and submit it to the Army Ministry? In return, since there was no solid evidence against you either and he said he wouldn’t mention anything, I too cleanly handed over the manuscript. Thank you very much for the black tea treat. That was both fortunate and unfortunate for me. And then there’s the photo I received from you sometime ago, you know. “Since you’d probably hate knowing my true identity from that, I’m returning it.”

"He didn't need to return it," I thought before I could stop myself. Finally, with a sharp rip, I tore my unmounted portrait photo—the waist-up shot that had fluttered out of the envelope—clean in two. There was no particular reason for it. Still, those two were so clever. They'd discovered I put carmotin in the tea. Well of course—that night they'd had that huge argument, hadn't they? Then the Professor summoned them, right? If they'd kept arguing afterward, I couldn't have borne it. Thinking they might start fighting, I went and made them drink it. Then that awful thing happened in the night, leaving me utterly helpless. If I hadn't put those two to sleep like that, would the Professor have lived? No—that couldn't be it. The Professor resolved to kill himself after all. Or if they'd suspected Kiyomizu more... might they have uncovered that mechanical contraption sooner? Or if Mr. Uchino had been under suspicion instead—would everything have gotten even messier? Did I wrong the Professor somehow? If so... I'll just drown in despair.