Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was not long after the great earthquake had struck Tokyo. As evening passed ten o'clock that day, the sky indeed grew ominous—with the typhoon's roar came the intermittent spattering of heavy raindrops. That morning I had seen the newspaper warning—"Typhoon to strike imperial capital around midnight"—and though at my government office, I'd spent all day in anxious dread; unfortunately, the meteorological observatory's forecast proved devastatingly accurate. This anxiety stemmed from my obligation to stand night watch from twelve until two—keeping vigil through a raging storm being anything but welcome. This accursed night watch system had begun with Tokyo's Great Earthquake barely a month prior—when severed transportation networks and rampant rumors drove survivors in Yamanote to arm themselves with whatever came to hand and form so-called self-defense groups.

To confess, when I saw from Shibuya-cho's heights the billowing white smoke blazing in the distant skies over the low-lying town, and at my feet the crowds of refugees scrambling up Dōgenzaka slope—their tabi socks torn off, their clothes caked in mud—I truly wondered what would become of this world. And so, startled by all manner of terrifying rumors, I became one who patrolled around my house in broad daylight with our family's ancestral sword at my side.

Now as days passed for these self-defense groups, public sentiment gradually settled until they were eventually prohibited from carrying deadly weapons and daytime vigilance was abolished altogether. Yet nighttime vigilance proved remarkably difficult to discontinue. In essence, the self-defense groups had transformed into night watch groups—several neighborhood units where each household contributed one man, taking turns patrolling their designated area nightly with a fixed number of participants. Though eventually even the Metropolitan Police Department came to support abolishing them, and many members themselves strongly opposed their continuation, the groups were always maintained through majority vote. Even someone like me—a clerk at the XX Ministry, already over forty and nearing pension eligibility, with no other man in the household besides myself—had no choice but to put up with striking wooden clappers in the dead of night roughly once a week.

Now, to the story of that night. From around midnight when the shift changed, the tempest truly began to rage. When I arrived slightly late for the shift change, the previous watch members had already left. In the crude guard hut sat two men still wearing their overcoats: retired Army Colonel Aoki Shinya and a young man who called himself Matsumoto Junzō, claiming to be a newspaper reporter. This man called Aoki was effectively the leader of the night watch group, while the journalist—probably a reporter—was someone who had evacuated from downtown to a house two or three doors down from mine. The sole benefit of the night watch group might be said to lie in two things: first, that it broke through the habits of Yamanote’s so-called intellectual class—those who lived in houses resembling seashells (some large as turban shells, others small as clams), each with gardens narrower than a cat’s forehead partitioned by fences, pretending not to see neighboring yards even when visible, never exchanging words with those next door—and forced property owners within one block to become acquainted; second, that evacuees from all quarters joined their ranks, allowing members to glean miscellaneous knowledge from people of diverse professions. Yet this knowledge proved so unreliable it eventually came to be dismissed with remarks like “Ah, just more night watch tales.”

Aoki was a man who seemed slightly older than me—an ardent supporter of the night watch group and a longtime advocate of military expansion. Matsumoto, precisely because he was young, stood as the foremost advocate for abolishing the night watch group and a proponent of military reduction—an utterly insufferable combination. In the intervals between their thirty-minute rounds of striking wooden clappers, they would wage their debates with such ferocity that even the howling storm seemed no match for their fervor. “I concede your point,” Colonel Aoki said. “Anyway, during that earthquake disaster, a hundred self-defense group members armed with bamboo spears and swords could not match five armed soldiers.”

“Therefore, you can’t claim that’s why we need a military,” said the newspaper reporter. “In other words—the Army until now adhered too rigidly to an elite soldier doctrine—they believed only soldiers needed proper training.” “We civilians had far too little.” “Especially Yamanote intellectuals—all talk and no action—despising subordination yet utterly incapable of teamwork.” “Self-defense groups being useless doesn’t prove we need more troops—those are separate issues.”

“However, even you would acknowledge the military’s contributions after the earthquake disaster.” “I certainly acknowledge that,” the young man said. “But using that as grounds to argue against military reduction simply won’t do.” “There seems to be an argument that material civilization was easily defeated by nature in this disaster—that’s utterly preposterous.” “Our culture cannot be destroyed by an earthquake of this magnitude.” “Aren’t there buildings remaining completely intact? If we properly apply our scientific knowledge, we can withstand nature’s fury to some extent.” “We failed to establish true cultural foundations in the imperial capital.” “Had half the military funds spent after the Russo-Japanese War been allocated to cultural infrastructure, the capital wouldn’t have suffered such devastation.” “Now military reduction remains our only viable course.”

While listening halfheartedly to the young man's grandiose arguments intermingled with the storm's roar, I had been dozing off. But then Aoki's booming voice suddenly pierced through, startling me completely awake.

“No matter what anyone says, we cannot abolish the night watch group. Regardless of right and wrong—when every household makes sacrifices to keep watch, that Fukushima wretch shows contempt for decency. We ought to burn his damned house to ashes.” The Colonel had likely been bested by Matsumoto in their night watch debate yet again. His lingering frustration now found its usual target—Fukushima, whose sizable new residence stood directly behind Aoki’s own home, perpetually inviting the Colonel’s scorn.

Startled, I was thinking of intervening if a quarrel broke out when Matsumoto fell silent, and so nothing came of it.

And past 1:35 a.m., the two men left me in the hut and set out on their final patrol. The storm seemed to have reached its very peak.

1:50 a.m.—the reason I remember this time so precisely is that there was a clock in the hut, and with nothing else to do outside, one inevitably checked it whenever something occurred—Matsumoto returned alone to the hut while clacking the wooden clappers. According to what I heard, Aoki had said he would stop by his house briefly, so they apparently parted ways in front of his residence. At two o'clock, Aoki returned. Soon after, the next shift members arrived, so after talking for a while, Matsumoto and I parted ways from the guard hut heading left, while Aoki went to the right.

When we just reached the vicinity of our homes, I thought I heard a human scream from within the raging storm in the distance.

The two of us started running. The people from the guard hut also started running. I saw Colonel Aoki shouting frantically, "Fire!!"

I suddenly caught a whiff of burning sugar. I thought the sugar had burned. We worked strenuously to extinguish the fire amidst the storm, drawing water into buckets that had been prepared beforehand alongside people who had rushed from the neighborhood.

Through the efforts of many, we managed to extinguish the fire before it could escalate into a major disaster, but what burned was none other than the problematic Fukushima residence. The fire had apparently started in the kitchen, burning through both the kitchen and dining area as well as the maid’s quarters, yet it never reached the formal living rooms at all.

Exhausted from their efforts, the people celebrated that disaster had been averted while letting out breaths of relief.

Finding the inside of the house too quiet, I thought it strange. Shining my flashlight, I entered the tatami room only to find a dark mass lying sprawled near what seemed to be the boundary with the living room.

When I shone my flashlight, it became clear that it was indeed a man. In the next instant, I involuntarily cried, “Ah!” and stumbled back two or three steps. It’s a corpse! The tatami mats had turned a deep, sickly black from the dripping blood.

At my scream, the people who had finally extinguished the fire and were catching their breath came swarming in noisily.

By the light of the people’s lanterns, it became unmistakably clear that this was a corpse—brutally murdered. No one approached. Amidst them, by the light of a lantern someone held aloft, I looked into the inner room. Though bedding had been laid out there, I saw a woman and a small child collapsed in postures suggesting they had crawled out from it. Soon, from the words of the people gathered there, it became clear that the deceased were the caretaker couple of this house and their child. Fukushima’s entire family had evacuated to their hometown, leaving only the master behind—but apparently even he had returned to his hometown that evening.

As I listened intently to these people’s whispers and glanced toward the corpses, I was astonished to find Matsumoto had arrived unbeknownst to me and was examining them almost cradling the bodies in his arms. His manner carried the air of someone thoroughly inured to his role as an investigative reporter. While shining his flashlight, he entered the inner room and continued his detailed examination. I found myself utterly awed by his audacity. All through this, the night gradually paled into dawn.

Before long, Matsumoto—apparently having completed his examination of the corpses—emerged from the inner room yet paid no heed to my presence as he began surveying the living area. As I followed his gaze across the somewhat brightened window area, I noticed a single tatami mat lifted in the corner with its floorboard raised beneath. Matsumoto darted there like a bird of prey. I involuntarily chased after him. Looking down, I saw a scrap of paper lying near where the floorboard had been lifted. Matsumoto—who had keenly spotted it—looked momentarily startled and reached to pick it up before abruptly stopping himself to instead retrieve a notebook from his pocket. Stealthily peering at the paper from beside him, I found what appeared to be incomprehensible symbols scrawled there. When I glanced at his notebook, identical symbols were already transcribed on its pages.

"Oh, it was you?" Noticing that I was peeking, Matsumoto hurriedly closed his notebook and said, "What do you say? "Shall we take a look at the fire now?"

I silently followed him toward the burned area. Half-charred utensils lay scattered in disarray, while blackened wood hissed and emitted white steam. The fire had clearly started in the kitchen, but not a single unusual item suggesting arson could be found. “You see? The sugar’s scorched after all.” What Matsumoto showed was the base remnant of a large glass jar, its bottom bearing a blackened plate-like mass fused to the surface. While inwardly marveling at this young man’s sharpness—he’d evidently heard my muttered “The sugar must’ve burned” when I rushed over at Aoki’s shout—I could only confirm the substance in the jar was indeed charred sugar.

He began meticulously examining the area. Amidst this, he pulled out a brush from his pocket, swept something from the floor onto a torn page from his notebook, then carefully picked it up and showed it to me. They were several small white balls rolling around on the paper. “It’s mercury, isn’t it?” I said. “That’s correct. Probably must have been inside this one.” As he answered, he showed me a fragment of a glass tube about six millimeters in diameter.

“Couldn’t it just be a broken thermometer?” I said, feeling a certain superiority toward him. “Or does it have something to do with how the fire started?” “A thermometer wouldn’t leave this much mercury behind.” He answered. “I don’t know whether it has any connection to the fire.”

Of course—there was no way he could have known. Due to this young man’s intense activity, I had momentarily thought he had discovered the secret key.

The front grew noisier. A large crowd came bustling in noisily. It was the prosecutor and a contingent of police officers.

The young journalist and I answered one of the police officers that we were members of that night’s watch and had rushed there upon hearing the shout of Aoki, who had been the first to discover the fire. The two of us were told to wait for a while.

The man was around forty years old and showed considerable signs of having struggled. A sharp blade—it was undoubtedly the small peeling knife that had been abandoned at the scene—had stabbed him once through the left lung. The woman, in her early thirties, had leaned out from the futon to reach for the child when she was stabbed once from behind with a sickening thrust—this wound too piercing her left lung—and lay dead. The sliding doors separating the tea room and sitting room—the chamber where the three had been sleeping—had been hacked to pieces with a kitchen knife. On the bedside table were a box of sweets and a tray. In the tray were apple peels that had apparently been eaten just before going to bed.

Other notable findings were that the aforementioned floorboard had been lifted and that a suspicious scrap of paper had been left behind.

The interrogation began.

First was Aoki. "After the night watch shift had changed over, it was already about twenty minutes past two when I was heading home," Aoki said. "Since going around the front would have taken longer, I tried cutting through Fukushima’s garden to enter through my back door when I saw red flames in the kitchen ceiling." "That’s why I let out a loud shout."

“Was the garden gate open?” The prosecutor asked. “During night watch duty, we sometimes enter gardens—that’s why the gate’s kept open.” “Around what time did you conduct the patrol before discovering the fire?” “It was a little before two o’clock, Mr. Matsumoto.” Aoki turned to look at Matsumoto.

“That’s right. Since we finished patrol and returned to the hut five minutes before two o’clock, I’d say we parted ways in front of this house about ten minutes prior.” “What do you mean by saying you parted ways in front of this house?” “No—we patrolled together—but since I stopped by my house here at this point—only Mr. Matsumoto returned to the guard hut.” “Did you go through the garden again?” “Yes.” “Was there anything unusual at that time?” “There was nothing.”

“What was the reason you went back?” “It was nothing urgent.”

At that moment, a police officer came before the prosecutor. The autopsy revealed that the murders had been carried out around ten o'clock in the evening. Since the child's corpse showed no external abnormalities, it was decided to perform an autopsy. At the same time, the box of sweets was also sent to the Forensic Division. Due to the timing, whether there was any connection between the murder and the arson seems to have become a point of contention among the detectives. In any case, after struggling with the man, the assailant stabbed him to death with a peeling knife that had been by the bedside, then killed the woman from behind as she tried to flee with the child. Then, he tried to conceal the bodies by lifting the floorboards but failed to accomplish it. The reason he slashed the sliding doors—wasn’t it to use them as firewood to burn the bodies?

“But how did they get in and escape right under our strict night watch? I wonder...” One of the detectives said. “That’s easily explained.” Matsumoto interjected. “Since the night watch begins at ten, they could have sneaked in before then, escaped by blending into the crowd during the fire’s commotion, or even slipped away between patrols.” “What on earth are you?” The detective seemed irritated. “You’re putting on such airs of knowledge—did you perhaps witness the perpetrator fleeing?”

“If I see them, I’ll catch them.” Matsumoto answered.

“Hmph.” The detective seemed even more irritated. “Quit your impertinent talk and stay out of this!” “I can’t simply withdraw.” Matsumoto answered calmly. “There remains something I must report to Mr. Prosecutor.” “What exactly do you need to tell me?” The prosecutor interjected.

“It appears the detectives are operating under a slight misunderstanding.” “While I can’t speak definitively about the child’s case, these other two victims were not murdered by the same individual.” “The person who killed the woman and whoever slaughtered that man are distinct perpetrators.”

“What?!” The prosecutor raised his voice. “What did you just say?”

“I’m saying the one who killed those two is a different person.” “Both were killed with the same weapon.” “And both had their left lungs pierced.” “However, one was stabbed from the front, and the other from behind.” “Stabbing the left lung from behind would normally be rather difficult, wouldn’t it?” “Furthermore, examine the cuts in the sliding doors.” “All of them are single strokes running from left to right.” “When a blade is thrust in, it creates a large entry wound that narrows as it’s withdrawn—this should make things clear.” Then turning to the detectives: “Did you inspect the apple peel? It remained largely intact but spiraled counterclockwise.” “The apple was peeled by a left-hander, the door was slashed by a left-hander, the woman was stabbed by a left-hander—but the man was killed by a right-hander.”

The prosecutor, the detectives, and I—no, everyone in the room—listened in a dazed half-trance as this young man laid out his explanation without any particular air of triumph. “I see.” At last, the silence was broken by the prosecutor.

“In other words, the woman was stabbed by the man lying dead there?” “That’s correct.” The young man answered simply.

“So you’re saying the man was stabbed by someone with his own weapon?”

“Rather than ‘someone’—” The young man said. “It would be more precise to say ‘that man’.”

The entire room was once again stunned. Everyone silently stared at the young man.

“Inspector, don’t you recognize that scrap of paper?”

“That’s it!”

The Inspector thought for a moment, then groaned out his words. “That’s it! Now that you mention it, I remember. This definitely comes from that man’s case…” “That’s correct.” The young man said. “I was involved in the case at the time as a mere reporter, but I have seen this scrap of paper in the room of Iwami Keiji, known as the ‘Mysterious Man’s Shoplifting Case.’”

When I heard Iwami’s name, I too was startled. Iwami! Iwami! Is that man involved in this case again? At the time, I too had taken considerable interest in the Iwami Incident—sensationalized with grandiose headlines—and had pored over every detail. I see—so that’s why Matsumoto had been comparing them with the symbols he’d noted in his notebook earlier!

I shall now present to the readers the story exactly as it was published in the newspapers at the time.

Such was the account given by this mysterious young man who identified himself as company clerk Iwami Keiji.

It was a certain sunny afternoon in late June last year. Iwami was dressed in white striped trousers, a black alpaca coat, straw hat, white shoes, and of course a bow tie—an impeccable outfit just like any young company clerk of that era would wear—his chest puffed out with pride as it securely held both this month’s salary envelope and another containing an unexpected bonus he had resigned himself to not receiving that summer. With the carefree ease of a bachelor who had no one waiting for him, he subtracted his tailor’s monthly installments and the boarding house landlady’s advance payments, calculating what money might remain afterward. While envisioning things he wanted to buy but wouldn’t actually purchase, he walked steadily through Ginza’s shopping district, moving from one display window to the next with each deliberate stride.

After all, a stroll shouldn’t require any money. But there was a particular satisfaction in peering at display windows of things one desired yet would never buy—all while carrying money that could be spent without consequence—that those unfamiliar with such experiences could scarcely comprehend. Iwami too was now steeped in this peculiar gratification. He paused before a haberdashery. Had there been anyone observant enough to watch him closely at that moment, they might have noticed him subtly tugging his coat sleeve. This occurred when his gaze fell upon the gold cufflinks in the window—coveted items possessed by certain colleagues—prompting sudden shame at his own shabby ones and an unconscious effort to conceal them.

Having resolutely left that window behind, he proceeded further toward Shinbashi and this time came to a stop before a large clock shop. He again thought he wanted a gold-cased watch. But of course he wasn’t going to buy it. Then he slightly quickened his pace, all the while thinking about "shopping without buying," crossed Shinbashi, turned right at Tamakiya’s corner and went about two blocks before entering a certain side street to the left. At that moment, he suddenly put his right hand into his coat pocket. When something small he didn’t recognize touched his hand, he thought “Huh?” and pulled it out to find a small paper package. When he hurriedly opened it—Ah! Wasn’t this the very pair of gold cufflinks he’d been coveting moments ago? He rubbed his eyes. At that moment, he felt some weight in his left pocket as well. What emerged from his left pocket was a gold-cased watch. He could no longer tell what was what. It was as though he’d stepped into a fairy tale—through some wizard’s magic, everything he desired now suddenly sprang forth before him. However, he could not remain dazed forever. The hand clutching his watch was seized in a firm grip from behind. Behind him stood a large stranger. He was forced to go with this stranger back to the haberdashery he had visited earlier. Amid his utter confusion about what was happening, the clerks at the store confirmed that this was indeed the man in question but stated that nothing had been stolen. When he was next taken to the watch shop, Iwami finally began to feel as though he was piecing things together bit by bit. The moment the watch shop clerk saw him, he declared him unmistakably to be *this bastard*.

detective—this large man was undoubtedly a detective. The detective promptly began searching Iwami’s person and retrieved a ring from his hip pocket. It was shining brilliantly. “This isn’t something you see every day—” The detective said to Iwami. “You aren’t some amateur.”

“You mustn’t joke about this!” “This is getting serious,” Iwami desperately began to say. “I don’t understand any of this. What on earth is happening?” “Hey now, don’t you think that’s enough?” The detective said. “You buying cufflinks, buying a watch—that’s all well and good, but swiping a diamond ring while you’re at it is a problem. Quite a skill you’ve got there.” “I have no recollection of buying a watch or a ring.” He protested. “First of all, if you would examine the money, it would become clear.”

As he attempted to prove his innocence by producing the salary and bonus envelopes from his inner pocket, his complexion changed. The seals had been broken.

The detective, who had been observing the situation, softened his voice as he grew somewhat uncertain, "In any case, come along to the station," he said. When they arrived at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Iwami unhesitatingly recounted matters he had no recollection of. After hearing the young man’s account, the inspector tilted his head. If the young man’s account were true, this was indeed a truly peculiar case.

At that moment, something suddenly came to the inspector’s mind. Upon hearing that young Iwami was an employee of Tōyō Houseki Shōkai in the ×× Building, he found himself involuntarily recalling a daytime robbery case from two or three months prior. When they promptly interrogated Iwami, to their surprise, it was discovered that he was one of those most deeply involved in the incident.

The incident referred to as the daytime robbery was as follows.

It was early April, when the flowers were said to reach their peak in another two or three days.

At noon on a heavily overcast day, in the manager’s office of Tōyō Houseki Shōkai on the tenth floor of the ×× Building, the manager began opening the safe to store several diamonds that had arrived from the branch office that day. The so-called manager’s office was an alcove formed from part of a large rectangular room where all employees conducted their work, with its sole entrance leading directly into that main room. And near the entrance, clerk Iwami was stationed. The moment the manager turned toward the safe—seeming to hear some noise—when he looked back, a masked man stood pointing a pistol at him. At his feet lay a man. Glaring at the manager, who had turned rigid as a rod, the culprit gradually approached—but the moment he tried to seize the jewels on the desk, an eerie scream erupted from behind. It escaped from the mouth of the collapsed man—Clerk Iwami. At that moment, the culprit swiftly retreated toward the entrance.

In the next instant, the employees in the room clamorously rushed to the entrance of the manager’s office. At that moment, from inside came the cry: “The manager’s been attacked! “Get a doctor!” came the cry as Iwami came rushing out. As the employees were about to enter the room, they came face to face with the manager, whose face was deathly pale. “What happened to the culprit?” The manager shouted.

The employees were the ones completely bewildered. Iwami came rushing out, exclaiming that the manager had been attacked. Next, the manager came bursting out, demanding to know what had become of the culprit. When the employees finally got inside, they were shocked for the third time—for there lay Iwami, collapsed and gasping for breath.

The circumstances that had finally come to light were that an assailant who closely resembled Iwami or was disguised as him had passed through nearly deserted office corridors at noon wearing Iwami’s likeness, donned a mask afterward, and bided his time for an opportunity. And at precisely the moment when the manager turned his back toward opening the safe’s lock—leapt at Iwami with pistol raised—struck him across the temple with its weighted grip—then advanced upon his true quarry—Iwami’s unexpected groan from where he should have lain unconscious shattered everything—leaving their would-be thief no choice but retreat empty-handed into storm-lashed Tokyo streets below them both now long gone beyond reach or reckoning save these words here set down years later by one who knew too little yet saw too much firsthand during those chaotic postwar days when truth itself seemed little more than smoke upon wind…

As soon as the culprit fled, the manager hurriedly threw the remaining jewels into the safe, closed it, and immediately gave chase. By the time many employees rushed in, the assailant—disguised as Iwami—had already fled the room while shouting as if the manager had been injured. The entire staff was completely deceived; upon entering the room and seeing Iwami again, they were left utterly stunned. The culprit was ultimately lost sight of. However, the manager—nonetheless relieved that the jewels were intact—first restrained the clamoring employees, returned to his room, and cautiously reopened the safe to verify its contents. To his dismay, one of the diamonds he had hastily tossed inside, worth tens of thousands of yen at current value, was missing. The nimble culprit appeared to have already stolen it before the manager could place it into the safe.

The official who had rushed out upon receiving the emergency report was also at a loss as to what to do. The manager and Iwami were thoroughly investigated, but since the manager's account proved entirely credible and Iwami had been nearly unconscious at the time, there was no room for suspicion in this matter either. When the inspector learned that Iwami—the shoplifting suspect from Ginza—was connected to this daytime robbery case, he intensified his interrogation. Yet Iwami insisted he had absolutely no recollection of doing any shopping or such activities. However, given that he was actually carrying stolen goods, he was placed under detention and taken to the detention cell.

However, yet another incident occurred. Around 1 AM, during the jailer's rounds at the detention cell—where he had been ordered to pay particular attention to a certain peculiar young man—he discovered to his shock that Iwami had vanished from the cell without a trace.

The Metropolitan Police Headquarters was thrown into an uproar. Fearing the escape of a major criminal, an emergency cordon was immediately established. However, that night passed without incident. And around 10 AM, Iwami himself was apprehended without difficulty at his boarding house.

The detective, though thinking it futile, was staking out his boarding house when, around ten o’clock, he returned with a dazed expression.

His response once again took the officials by surprise. Around eleven o'clock, a police officer came to the detention cell, told him to come along, led him out, and announcing that his suspicion had been cleared, released him outside. Since the night had grown late, and fortunately he had money on him, and moreover—driven by sheer absurdity—he had resolved to stir up some commotion; he simply took the train to Shinagawa, went up to a certain house of pleasure, and had only returned that morning—or so he claimed.

“Just what are you people—” He said resentfully. “Aren’t you just toying with me—letting me escape one moment, capturing me the next?”

Officer XX was promptly summoned, and though the young man said, "This is the one," the officer responded that he didn’t know him at all. Meanwhile, the certain house of pleasure in Shinagawa was also investigated, and both the timing and all other details matched exactly what the young man had stated. Both the white-collar crime division and the violent crime division gathered their heads and convened for discussions. As a result, just as in the previous robbery case, it came to be theorized that someone might be manipulating Iwami—who knew nothing—and the view that Iwami might be innocent gained significant support.

However, this unfortunate young man was ultimately not released. This was because Officer XX, angered at having been exploited by the villain who had impersonated him, investigated Iwami’s boarding house to clear his own name and discovered a piece of paper bearing a strange symbol. While the gem case ended in acquittal due to insufficient evidence, the theft case—since he was found in possession of the stolen goods and the shop clerks had identified him as the perpetrator—led to his eventual indictment and a two-month prison sentence.

＊　　　＊　　　＊

“At the time, I was working as an investigative reporter,” Matsumoto said. “Having taken a deep interest in this case, I once examined Iwami’s boarding house—I still remember these strange symbols.” “Taking fingerprints from this scrap of paper would make matters more conclusive.” The prosecutor heeded his suggestion. As the prosecutor and police officer were discussing matters, a portly gentleman nearing fifty with a coarse face entered through the front, escorted by a patrolman. This was Fukushima, owner of the house.

When he saw the corpse lying there, he turned pale and began to tremble. The prosecutor abruptly tensed and began the interrogation.

“That’s correct—they’re undoubtedly the caretaker couple I left in charge.” He answered, finally regaining his composure. “That would be Sakata Otokichi—a carpenter who previously worked at my residence.” “He was from Hashiba in Asakusa, kept two or three apprentices, and went by Otokichi the Left-Handed—apparently somewhat known among his peers.” “He immersed himself in his work and was truly a mild-mannered man.” “But in this earthquake disaster, of their four children beginning with a ten-year-old, the three eldest disappeared. Only the youngest two-year-old survived because his mother held him tight and fled.” “His despair was pitiable to behold.” “As for myself, I had my entire family evacuate to our hometown—though of course, business matters prevented me from fully committing to that course, so I remained here while making occasional visits there.” “—It happened to be most opportune that I could have this couple serve as caretakers.” “I departed for my hometown yesterday evening and only returned this morning.”

“Did they show any unusual signs yesterday?” “They didn’t show any unusual signs.” “Have there been any visitors to Sakata’s place recently?” “There haven’t been any.” “Have there been any incidents where someone might hold a grudge against you?” “I do not believe there have been any incidents where someone might hold a grudge against me.” As he said this, he noticed Aoki standing nearby and added, “Well, actually, I’ve been rather hated by the neighborhood lately—because I don’t participate in the night watch. In fact, Mr. Aoki here has become so enraged that he even said it would be better if my house burned down—or so I’ve heard.”

The prosecutor glanced briefly in Aoki’s direction.

“Preposterous.” Aoki turned crimson and stammered, “A-are you suggesting I set the fire?” “No, that’s not what I meant,” he replied coldly. “I merely stated that you had made such remarks.” “Colonel Aoki—did you make such remarks?” “Well—I did say that in a moment of agitation.”

“What time did you discover the fire?” “As I mentioned earlier—it was a little past 2:10.”

“Judging by how the flames had spread, the fire must have been burning for twenty to thirty minutes after ignition.” “Yet you were passing through this house’s garden before that—at 1:50—is that correct?”

“That’s correct.” Aoki answered uneasily. “But on the contrary, I—” “No—right now we’re gathering facts.” The prosecutor said sternly. Now turning to Fukushima: “Are you covered by fire insurance?”

“Yes—the house is insured for ¥15,000, personal property for ¥7,000, totaling ¥22,000 in coverage.”

“Were the household belongings left as they were?” “Since there was no freight train service, I only took the bare necessities back to my hometown and left everything else behind.” “Regarding these murders—do you have any leads?” “Hmm, I don’t recall anything.”

At that moment, a detective approached the prosecutor and whispered something. “Mr. Matsumoto,”

The prosecutor called the young journalist. "The results of the autopsy and other findings have come in." "This information should remain strictly confidential, but as a token of gratitude for your valuable assistance thus far, I will share it with you. Please step this way for a moment."

The prosecutor and Matsumoto moved to a corner of the room and began conversing in hushed tones. Since I had taken the nearest seat, I overheard fragments of their discussion.

“What?! Potassium chloride poisoning... Hmm.” I could hear Matsumoto speaking. From what I could gather of their conversation, the box of sweets on the table contained manjū, and within them was a small amount of morphine. The box of sweets had been purchased around 2:00 PM that day at a confectionery called Aokidō in Shibuya’s Dōgenzaka area, and the appearance of the person who bought it closely resembled Iwami. However, the manjū remained untouched, and the child had collapsed from potassium chloride poisoning.

Before long, the prosecutor returned to his original seat and resumed the interrogation.

“Colonel Aoki, I would like to hear your reason for returning home so soon after the night watch shift change.” “Well—that’s—” Aoki answered. “It’s nothing significant—there’s no particular reason worth stating.” “I must warn you—if you don’t state your reason, it will work against you.” The Colonel remained silent.

I couldn't help worrying. "According to your earlier statement—" Fukushima said. "Colonel Aoki—did you come to my residence at the time of the fire?" "That is something you need not inquire about." The prosecutor answered instead. At that moment, Matsumoto emerged from the adjacent room carrying some large volumes.

“Ah, Mr. Fukushima—I hear you once studied pharmacology and have an impressive collection of books. I too dabbled in that field years ago. Mr. Yamashita’s Commentary on Pharmaceutical Law is quite an excellent work.” “I had nearly forgotten, but seeing this book reminded me.” “I also found it rather unusual that the poisoning involved potassium chloride.”

Matsumoto said to the prosecutor—who seemed somewhat taken aback by the abruptness—“I consulted Mr. Yamashita’s Commentary on Pharmaceutical Law, and in the section on potassium chloride, it states that a large dose can be fatal—so in the child’s case, it must have been poisoning.” “However—” He showed the prosecutor the open book, saying, “I’ve made such a discovery.” “What is this?” The prosecutor skeptically looked at the indicated passage, where it read: “Potassium chlorate. When mixed with oxidizing metals such as manganese dioxide or copper oxide and heated to between 260 and 270 degrees, it releases oxygen—this accounts for its potency as an oxidizing agent at high temperatures……………… Furthermore, when combined with twice its amount of sucrose and a single drop of concentrated sulfuric acid is added to this mixture, it ignites immediately, etc.”

“When we first discovered the fire, we smelled burning sugar.” “At the scene investigation, we found a large glass sugar jar with its shattered bottom coated in jet-black carbon.” “In short, my hypothesis is that someone exploited potassium chloride’s property of decomposing through sulfuric acid to generate chlorine peroxide.”

“I see.” The prosecutor nodded for the first time. “So you mean the perpetrator mixed sugar with potassium chloride for arson and added sulfuric acid?” “No—I don’t believe I’m the perpetrator. There’s a significant time gap between when these murders occurred and when the fire was set. Moreover,the chemical mixture was likely prepared much earlier—probably around evening.” “Meaning?” “The child died because its mother presumably added sugar—already laced with potassium chloride—to milk or something. That’s what caused poisoning.”

“Hmm,” the prosecutor nodded. “With this, I believe I have somewhat resolved the case. Assuming the child began suffering from poisoning and ultimately died. Having witnessed that, the father—who had already lost three children and his home in the earthquake disaster—now lost his last remaining child as well, and likely snapped. Suddenly going mad, he stabbed the mother to death from behind and rampaged about, slashing through tatami mats and sliding doors without restraint. Just then, Iwami—the man in question—had infiltrated the scene for some reason, so he struck him down, I suppose. A struggle ensued, and he was finally stabbed to death by Iwami, I suppose. That Iwami wasn’t responsible for the arson—he likely lacks chemical knowledge, and in that situation, he wouldn’t need to resort to such a roundabout method.”

“Then who is the arsonist?” “Likely someone who wanted this house burned down. Given the substantial insurance policy involved.” “How dare you make such baseless claims!” Fukushima bellowed, breaking his prolonged silence. “To allege I committed arson for insurance without any evidence is preposterous! I wasn’t even home that night!” “Had you been present to set the fire, potassium chloride would have been unnecessary.” “You persist with these absurd accusations? I’ll have you know this won’t go unaddressed—even before the prosecutor!”

Perhaps the prosecutor also showed respect for the young journalist’s calm and composed attitude, for he made no particular attempt to intervene.

“If you insist,” I’ll explain it to the prosecutor instead. “Though I must admit—even I was impressed by the ingenuity of your invention.”

I collected fragments of a glass tube and a small amount of mercury at the scene. I had been unable to identify anyone through this evidence until now—but upon learning about the child’s death from potassium chloride poisoning and examining Yamashita’s Commentary on Pharmaceutical Law—the truth finally came into focus.

“Mr. Prosecutor.” He turned toward the prosecutor and continued. “A mixture of potassium chlorate and sugar requires only a single drop of sulfuric acid—yes, just one drop—to ignite with tremendous force.” “Could there not be a device to automatically release that single drop of sulfuric acid at precisely the right moment?” “The mercury column mechanism was an astonishingly clever design.” “Take a glass tube one centimeter in diameter—about the size of this fragment—bend it into a U-shape with one end sealed. While tilting it, slowly pour mercury through the open end until the sealed side is entirely filled.” “When you return the U-shaped tube to its upright position, the mercury column will sink slightly.” “If both ends were open, the mercury would settle at equal heights on both sides. But with one end sealed, atmospheric pressure maintains a fixed level, creating a difference of approximately seven hundred sixty millimeters between the columns.” “That represents atmospheric pressure. Thus when atmospheric pressure decreases, the mercury column’s height must logically drop.” “Last night around two o’clock, Tokyo lay directly within a low-pressure system—meteorological records show seven hundred fifty millimeters at five PM, falling to seven hundred thirty by two AM.” “A twenty-millimeter differential.” “Meaning one mercury column descended ten millimeters while the open side’s column rose ten millimeters.” “Now suppose a small quantity of sulfuric acid were placed atop the mercury in the open end?” “The acid would naturally overflow.” “Mr. Fukushima.” Matsumoto turned to face Fukushima—now pale and speechless—and declared, “You murdered first the caretaker’s child, then his wife, and finally even the man himself—all because you deluded yourself into chasing mere tens of thousands in fraudulent gains.” “And now you attempt to lay these atrocities at Colonel Aoki’s feet.” “Is this not heaping crime upon crime?” “Why not make an honest confession?”

Fukushima, without offering the slightest resistance, was utterly overwhelmed.

The prosecutor marveled at the young journalist’s lucid analysis while, “No, Mr. Matsumoto, you are a fearsome man. It would truly be a boon if someone like you were to join our police force.” “So… what about Iwami’s reason for sneaking in, and his reason for bringing the poisoned box of sweets?” “On that point, I must admit I cannot quite grasp it either.”

Matsumoto Junzō, the young journalist, answered in a decisive tone.

＊　　　＊　　　＊

Two or three days later, the newspapers reported Iwami’s capture. His confession matched Matsumoto’s statements exactly as if fitting tally sticks. Yet regarding why he had infiltrated Fukushima’s house, he too never spoke a word.

After that, I had no opportunity to meet Matsumoto. I returned to my former life, commuting day after day through Shibuya Station as it bustled like a battlefield on my way to the government office.

One day, as I was clacking up the slope as usual, I was called out to. When I looked, it was Matsumoto. With a faint smile lingering on his face, he said there was something he wanted to ask and requested I accompany him partway. I went along with him, and we entered the Tamagawa Electric Railway’s upstairs dining car. "I hear Iwami’s been captured." I opened my mouth.

“He’s finally been caught, I hear,” he answered. “Wasn’t it just as you deduced?” I said approvingly. “It was just a fluke,” he answered nonchalantly. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about—that Fukushima house. When was it built?” “That one? Let me see... I believe construction started around May this year and was completed just before the earthquake.” “Was the lot vacant until then?”

“Yes, it had been a vacant lot for quite some time. Though I should note—the cliffside had been properly reinforced with a stone retaining wall, and stone steps had been built there as well.” “Ah, I see.”

“Does this have something to do with the case?” “No. “Oh, it’s just something I wanted to check for reference.” After that, he never touched upon the Iwami case again and instead entertained me with various stories from his experiences as a journalist. Then he took out a magnificent pipe with a golden ring set in amber from his pocket and proudly showed it to me while puffing on his tobacco.

After parting with him and returning home, as I began changing my clothes, I suddenly reached into my pocket and felt a small hard object. When I took it out, it was Matsumoto’s pipe from earlier. I turned it over in my mind from every angle but could not fathom how it might have found its way into my pocket.

I was perplexed; I wondered what to say to return it to Matsumoto. For several days after that, I kept thinking of returning it to Matsumoto, but the opportunity never arose, and time simply passed by.

One day, a thick sealed letter arrived. When I turned it over, the sender was Matsumoto. I hurriedly tore open the envelope and read through its contents—involuntarily gasping, “Ah!” I exclaimed.

The contents of the letter were as follows.

It has been some time since we last met—indeed, we may never meet again.

I have at last succeeded in deciphering the meaning behind Iwami’s peculiar actions and those cryptic symbols. As you maintained such profound interest in this case, I shall provide a complete explanation.

First, allow me to recount that shoplifting incident. In that incident, Mr. Iwami was likely innocent. Because he not only lacked such skillful cunning, but even when considering the surrounding circumstances, his actions undeniably proved his innocence. Then what became of the items he currently possessed? You must remember how the culprit in the daylight robbery at the XX Building disguised himself as Iwami. In the Ginza incident too, this villain disguised as Iwami was at work. When this villain saw Iwami stopping at a haberdashery and eyeing cufflinks, he entered the shop after Iwami left and purchased them. Next, he similarly bought a watch and threw it into Iwami’s pocket. At Shibaguchi, when Iwami first saw the cufflinks and was standing there bewildered, the villain snatched the bonus pouch in that moment. Next, while Iwami was occupied with seeing the watch and being startled twice, [the villain] took the money from the bag and returned it to his pocket, then swiftly threw the stolen gem into [Iwami’s] trouser pocket and retreated. After that, he was arrested by detectives, and his guilt was proven all the way up to the store manager. Why would the villain, having once framed Iwami, risk disguising himself as a detective again at night to take him out? That was likely to tail Iwami. If Iwami had committed some wrongdoing and hidden the stolen goods somewhere, then when he was arrested on suspicion of theft and later released, wouldn’t he have gone to check on that hiding place out of concern? That was the villain’s objective. What could Iwami have been hiding? It is one of the gems lost in that famous incident. The thief who had broken into the commercial firm had fled without obtaining a single item due to Iwami’s cry. And as the manager hurriedly grabbed the jewels on the desk and put them into the safe, the single most valuable gem among them fell to the floor.

When the manager chased after the thief, Iwami must have found that gem, conceived a wicked idea, hastily hidden it under a rug or something of the sort, and then feigned death. The thief who learned of the gem’s disappearance through the newspapers must have concluded it was Iwami’s doing. When the villain realized his plan had been thwarted and that gem had been taken from him, how he must have vowed to retrieve it. Undoubtedly, he must have conducted as thorough an investigation as possible. And he had deciphered that those cryptic symbols indeed marked the gem’s hiding place. However, it remained solely within Iwami’s memory—a certain point (one that Iwami could easily remember)—and from there onward, he had committed the rest to memory using a code. Thus, even if the code were deciphered, without knowing that starting point, there was nothing one could do. Therefore, that villain first had Iwami apprehended by the authorities, then chose the desperate measure of having him released by his own hand. But even that plan was foiled by Iwami’s ironic decision to go to Shinagawa. Admittedly, when considered afterward, Iwami’s hiding place had reached a state beyond even Iwami’s own control.

However, the villain had accidentally discovered the gem’s location. He realized that since Iwami had broken into a house during this incident, the gem must certainly be hidden somewhere within that residence. From there, everything became simple. The rectangular symbol with an arrow at its corner points to the stone steps’ edge. S.S.E denotes south-southeast by compass bearing. 31 naturally means thirty-one shaku, while the inverted T-shape represents a right angle. W-15 indicates fifteen shaku westward. In essence: from the stone steps’ corner, proceed thirty-one shaku south-southeast, then turn at a right angle and continue fifteen shaku west. When Iwami originally hid the gem, this was vacant land containing only those stone steps—though you’re well aware the entire area was grassland then. After Iwami received his prison sentence for shoplifting and lost his chance to retrieve it, Fukushima’s house rose on that very plot. Upon release, Iwami fixed his attention on Fukushima’s residence and waited for his moment. He finally plotted to send morphine-laced sweets to incapacitate the caretakers, then leisurely recover his prize. He infiltrated the house under cover of the storm’s fury. Yet instead of finding his targets drugged into slumber, he encountered violent resistance ending in slashed bodies. That was why he had been crawling across the floorboards—to search for the gem.

But what became of the gem? That I have indeed obtained. You must have already surmised this, but I am the perpetrator of the daylight robbery at the XX Building. To spare you undue alarm—and partly to evidence my prowess, partly for my lasting memorial—I have placed that amber pipe within your inner pocket. It harbors nothing illicit; pray employ it without misgiving. (Published in *Shin Seinen*, June 1924)