Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was the morning of the fifth day since Harada Kizaburō and Yamada Genzō—two workers employed at K Shipyard’s Dry Dock No. 2—had gone missing.

Upon receiving word that the brutally murdered corpse of Harada Kizaburō—one of the missing men—had surfaced at sea not far from the shipyard, Aoyama Kyōsuke and I bundled into our warm overcoats and hurried to the factory. Harada Kizaburō and Yamada Genzō were both dry dock workers directly employed by K Shipyard—laborers who made their living repairing ships in dry dock, scraping and cleaning hulls, and repainting them. The two men had vanished five days prior in the evening, and despite exhaustive efforts by both land and maritime police stations—which had failed to uncover any leads—the case was on the verge of fading from memory. Thus, even though we had half-expected it, hearing that the missing man’s brutally murdered corpse had been discovered was enough to startle us into action—a reaction hardly unreasonable under the circumstances.

After getting out of the car at the gate, we headed straight into the grounds of K Shipyard. As we rounded the corner of the office building, two large, deep dry dock trenches lay before us, backed by the blackened structure of the ironworks. Between the two trenches, a sturdy cluster of cranes towered blackly, beneath them a white-painted sailors’ lodging house that seemed on the verge of being crushed. The discovered corpse had been laid out on a straw mat in front of that building.

The police contingent had apparently completed their autopsy and departed, leaving only five or six workmen in drab uniforms who peered pitifully at the figure of a woman—likely the wife—clinging to the corpse and weeping. Kyōsuke immediately approached the corpse, informed the bereaved family of his findings, and began examining Harada Kizaburō’s body. The victim’s corpse, clad in drab work clothes, appeared to have been submerged for a long time: its bearded face—that of a man around forty—along with its exposed shoulders and legs, were uniformly blanched, the skin terrifyingly slack. Across this lifeless canvas, deep abrasions lay scattered without restraint, countless in number. On the exposed chest, precisely above the heart, a slender hole gaped open, its edges ringed with white flesh torn outward.

“Stabbed with a scalpel.” “This is the fatal wound.”

After Kyōsuke finished telling me that, he continued examining the corpse. The face was not particularly distorted, but the left side being entirely covered in freckles somehow struck me as eerie. Kyōsuke—true to form—brought his face close to those freckles and began examining them with meticulous care. But upon turning the corpse over, he looked back at me with exasperation. There on the back of the skull gaped a hole as if struck by an iron rod—shattered bone fragments exposed in a brutal breach. Across the corpse’s back ran deep abrasions mirroring those on the front, while fresh black machine oil had been smeared thickly over the work uniform’s torn jacket beneath the coat. What shocked us most were the wrists bound tightly behind with hemp rope—the remaining length protruding from its knot as if tied to some weight—roughly torn about a foot from its end. Black machine oil clung thickly from wrists to rope.

Having completed his preliminary examination of the corpse, Kyōsuke quietly turned to the woman beside him and began to speak.

“I must apologize for the intrusion,” Kyōsuke began with a slight bow. “Though I regret pressing you so soon, might I ask you to describe that evening when your husband disappeared?” “What do you mean?” she sniffled. “To clarify,” he continued, “the circumstances when he last left your home.” “Yes.” She dabbed her eyes with a sleeve. “That night—he’d come back from the factory after dark, eaten supper, then rushed out again saying there was sudden night work.”

“Wait a moment,” Kyōsuke said to one of the workmen in drab uniforms standing nearby. “There was night work that evening, correct?”

“No.” “There was no night work,” the laborer answered. “None?” “Hmm.” “Since he claimed there was something that didn’t exist, there must have been circumstances he didn’t want known.” “Mrs. Harada, do you have any idea what that might be?”

“No, I can’t think of anything in particular…”

“I see. So your husband went out alone that night?”

“No. “Mr.Gen—that Mr.Yamada Genzō—came to call,and they left together.”

“Was he a neighbor of yours?” “Yes, he lived right nearby, and since we were on close terms, he came by. As they were leaving through the front gate, I secretly eavesdropped on them talking—things like ‘That young pup was trembling all over’ and ‘Tonight we’ll finally get to drink again.’” “Hoh.” “You remember that conversation quite well, don’t you?”

“Yes.” “Until the previous day, Mr. Yamada had been bedridden with paralysis, but that day he strained himself by going to work and accidentally tore a muscle in his right arm at the factory.” “With his weakened, paralyzed body already injured like that—to go drinking again... Though it wasn’t my business, I felt concerned, which is why I remember that conversation so clearly.”

“No, thank you. So neither of them returned home after that?” “Yes, that’s correct.” “Thank you.”

Kyōsuke politely expressed his gratitude and left their side, then jerked his chin at me and began walking toward the dry dock. “Well, I must say, that’s shocking.” “They sure killed him with fucking meticulous care.” While drawing near to Kyōsuke, I said.

“Exactly.” “His entire body’s covered in wounds.” “A stab wound to the heart and savage blunt force trauma to the back of the head—two fatal wounds have been inflicted on a single body.” “And on top of that, horrific abrasions cover every inch of its body.” “That’s a brutally cruel murder.” “Of course, they bound the corpse tightly with hemp rope as you saw and sank it with weights into the open sea.” “The criminal’s intellect isn’t exactly high, is it?” “Well, it’s ninety-nine percent certain he’s not from the educated class.” “However, when constructing a deduction, I must still exercise thorough caution.” “Now, the first thing I puzzled over was the sequence in which those various wounds and machine oil were applied to the victim’s body.” “I certainly don’t believe that many changes occurred all at once.” “No, far from it—each of these changes shows a clearly defined sequence.” “Recall the blunt force trauma to the back of the head and the severe abrasions across the body.” “Those two types of wounds—compared to the stab wound to the heart—had horribly scraped away the surrounding skin.” “When we speak of human skin—of course not the thin epidermis of a living person, but rather the thicker layer beneath like that of a corpse’s—that’s precisely what we’re dealing with here.” “Could that kind of skin really peel back around the wound so easily?” “I just don’t think so.” “However, in a corpse that’s already stopped breathing—one that’s on the verge of breeding maggots or has been submerged in water for days—such a thing becomes believable.” “Now, following this line of reasoning, when establishing the most plausible sequence of events—first and foremost—the victim was fatally stabbed through the heart with a sharp blade.” “Next, he was bound from behind, weighted down, and thrown into the sea.”

“After some time had passed, those fatal blunt force injuries and terrible abrasions were inflicted upon the somewhat softened skin.” “Here’s an interesting piece of evidence I observed.” “The front sides of both arms—bound behind his back—had abrasions, but there wasn’t even any clothing damage on the backs of the arms or from the sides of the chest to parts of the back.” “As for those black machine oil stains—judging by how dissolved and soaked-in they were—they must’ve been underwater for some time. But they were applied after all the other wounds.” “Because that oil was smeared everywhere—from the upper back of his coat through the torn jacket and abraded skin beneath it, right onto the outer surface of the bound hemp rope.” “Well, I believe that covers this aspect thoroughly.” “Now then—let’s go inspect the murder scene.”

Having said this, Kyōsuke briskly started walking toward the ironworks. I involuntarily let out a cry in surprise.

“What?!” “The murder scene?” “How do you know that?”

Kyōsuke, who had smiled at my question, continued speaking as he walked.

“Hmm. It’s nothing.” “You remember those unsettling freckles on the left side of the corpse’s face?” “The moment I saw them, I found it odd they only covered one side.” “Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be iron filings embedded across his skin.” “In short—those spots we took for freckles were actually metal shavings pressed into him when he collapsed face-first onto galvanized iron after being stabbed through the heart.” “This line of reasoning led me straight to the crime scene.” “A lathe workshop.” “That lathe shop must be part of the ironworks over there.” “Walking to the scrap heap behind it will tell us everything we need.”

I followed silently behind Kyōsuke. After asking one of the workers we encountered along the way about the location of the scrap heap, we soon arrived at the rear corner of the ironworks. There were old iron filings blackened with oil and new iron filings still gleaming silver, piled in heaps and discarded.

Kyōsuke immediately put on gloves, then stooped down beside a pile of comparatively fresh iron scraps and began sorting through them purposefully. For a while he rummaged through them thoroughly, but nothing came to light. Gradually I began to feel weariness.

Then, Kyōsuke’s complexion suddenly flushed crimson. Sure enough, when I looked at his hands, a large stain mottled with brown rust had emerged atop a layer of freshly dug-up, still relatively new silvery iron filings. It was the trail of blood that had flowed from the victim’s heart. While I was staring transfixed at the bloodstain, Kyōsuke picked up something that glinted and sidled up to me. “You—I found this here.”

Kyōsuke, laughing, held out before me a sharp jackknife adorned with exceptionally fine decorations. Thoroughly soiled with oil and fine powder from iron filings, the blade was tinged with reddish rust that looked like bloodstains.

“It’s unfortunate, but with it being this soiled, detecting fingerprints is utterly impossible.”

Kyōsuke used the fingertips of his gloves to brush away the dust from the base of the handle. As he did so, two vividly engraved English letters—G·Y—came into view. The moment I saw them, a deduction like lightning flashed through my mind. G·Y—this was the arrangement of initials formed when "Yamada Genzō" was spelled in Roman letters.

At that moment, I promptly spoke up. “Look—these are Yamada Genzō’s initials.” “So the culprit is Genzō, then?”

“Hmm.” “Well, that’s not a bad line of thinking,” Kyōsuke said calmly, “but concluding Yamada’s guilt based solely on this while ignoring how numerous other conditions align—no matter how you consider it—is fraught with risk.” “First—what reason would the victim have for coming to a place like this?” “I want to examine that aspect first.” “And you—do you recall that secret conversation between the two men which the victim’s wife mentioned earlier? The one where they spoke of ‘the youngster trembling all over’ and ‘being able to drink tonight for the first time in ages’?” “That conversation implies a third party—referred to as ‘the youngster’—was involved between those two men that night.” “Of course, this third-party man was likely younger than both of them—and furthermore—”

Kyōsuke stopped speaking here and, stooping down, picked up something from among the iron scraps. Upon closer inspection, it was a still-new advertising match with plentiful contents, though soiled with oil from iron filings. Within the label’s design were listed "Appetizers·Kantodaki."

Kyōsuke smiled and resumed his explanation.

“And as for that man, you see—he’s likely someone who traveled west recently.” “Why? Look—this advertising match found by the knife lists ‘Appetizers·Kantodaki’.” “Kantodaki is what we Tokyoites call oden.” “In rural areas, they often use ‘Kantodaki’ for oden.” “I’ve heard that term frequently in Kansai.” “So this match—just having ‘Kantodaki’ on its label—proves it’s not from a Tokyo restaurant.”

“No, that’s enough.” “I get it already.” I felt a twinge of jealousy toward Kyōsuke’s deduction and cut in. Kyōsuke wrapped the jackknife in a handkerchief, tucked it into his pocket along with the advertising match, and placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Alright, you. Let’s go find where that machine oil—the thick, gloopy black oil that was smeared as if scraped off the victim’s back—spilled.”

There, I followed Kyōsuke and entered the large ironworks building.

Amidst rotating iron rods, belts, gears, lathes roaring like wild beasts, and enormous magnets, we searched for the spilled oil's location while being guided by a laborer. But we couldn't find any location that matched Kyōsuke's deductions. Disheartened, we left the factory and this time came to a forest of cranes between two dry docks. There, when we encountered a man who appeared to be an engineer wearing work clothes over a suit jacket and a large hunting cap, Kyōsuke promptly seized him and launched into questioning.

“May I ask you a few questions?” “Within the shipyard’s premises—in the last day or two—hasn’t there been an incident where someone accidentally spilled machine oil?” “It’s just a minor detail, but if you could—” Faced with Kyōsuke’s abrupt and meticulous questioning, the young engineer appeared somewhat flustered, but before long, he pointed to the dry dock before our eyes and began to speak.

“It seems someone overturned an oil can in Dry Dock No. 2 yesterday.” “If you’d like, I can show you the way.” The engineer said this and began leading us away. Soon, we climbed down a ladder and reached the bottom of the large, empty dry dock. The engineer came to a position five or six *ken* (about 9–11 meters) from the caisson gate blocking seawater, then turned back to us while pointing at a section of the concrete dock floor. “This here, you see—”

Indeed, there remained a machine oil puddle measuring about three by four shaku, half-blurred as if it had once been submerged in water. The central portion of the spill appeared to have been scraped away by the victim’s back, revealing a pale concrete floor beneath and splitting the pooled oil into two halves on either side.

“Who spilled it?” “A sailor.” “A sailor from the cargo ship Tenshōmaru of the Imperial Mail Steamship Company that had been docked for repairs since five mornings ago until last night.” “He apparently went out to apply oil to the propulsion machinery and accidentally spilled it.” “Ah, I see...”

Having said this, Kyōsuke hung his head as if disappointed and sank into gloom, but soon—as if struck by a thought—he cheerfully raised his face and—

“Where did the steamship called Tenshōmaru come from?”

“It departed from Kobe,” the engineer answered.

“Kobe—?” “And ports of call?”

“Only Yokkaichi.” “Huh! Yokkaichi?” “That’s it.”

Kyōsuke involuntarily cried out. As if remembering something, he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out the advertising match he had earlier, wiped away the grime with a handkerchief, and scrutinized the label for a moment. Soon, he resumed speaking energetically. “And where is the Tenshōmaru currently located?”

“It’s currently anchored in Shibaura.” “Apparently because cargo loading was delayed, the shipowner pressed them to hurry. Once repairs were completed after nightfall last night, they immediately had a tugboat tow it out in haste.” “Let me see... They say it’s scheduled for noon today, so in about four hours, it’ll set sail.”

“Thank you.” “You said that ship entered dry dock five mornings ago, correct?” “Meaning that’s the morning the victim vanished—the morning he was killed, yes?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” “So that means the Tenshōmaru’s crew stayed in the shipyard’s lodging quarters that night, correct?” “In other words, even without night work, the Tenshōmaru’s crew were within this shipyard’s premises that night, correct?”

“Yes. Well, a few were, I suppose.”

“Meaning?” “In other words—eighty percent were at prostitutes’ establishments. That’s what I mean.” “Understood perfectly.” “And were there any other ships in dry dock that day besides the Tenshōmaru?”

“There weren’t any.”

“Thank you.” The engineer, having finished his conversation with Kyōsuke, headed off toward the other dry dock, saying there was a ship in Dry Dock No. 1. So I, having been invited by Kyōsuke, followed the engineer half out of amusement. In front of the dock gate of Dry Dock No. 1, a 1,000-ton cargo ship waited, towed by a small steam vessel. Shortly after we arrived, the valve on the upper seawater injection port of the caisson gate opened, and foaming white seawater began gushing into the dry dock with a terrifying roar. Next, the large lower injection port valve—about two shaku five sun in diameter—was also opened, and startled fish sucked into it began being dashed against the concrete dock floor. As I stood entranced by this exhilarating spectacle, Kyōsuke lightly tapped my shoulder.

“You there.” “Do me a favor and wait here for a while, watching the ships enter the dock.” “I’m just going to go catch the culprit now—” With those final words, Kyōsuke dashed out of the shipyard without so much as a glance back at me standing dumbfounded. Having no choice, I decided to wait for Kyōsuke’s return while observing the dry dock’s opening and closing operations. Even after an hour had passed and the dry dock filled completely with water, Kyōsuke still hadn’t returned. Even after draining the seawater from the caisson made the massive steel structure buoyantly rise above the dock gate’s waterline; even after that floating caisson was towed away by a small boat; even after the incoming ship hauled by a steam vessel was pulled into the dry dock where swirling currents still raged—Kyōsuke remained absent. When pumps began draining the seawater from the now-sealed dry dock, an automobile finally entered through the front gate. I initially thought it was Kyōsuke, but it turned out to be a Metropolitan Police Department car. Just as I privately concluded the case had grown more complex, a man energetically pushed open the car door and leaped out before my eyes—none other than my close friend Aoyama Kyōsuke. Before my astonished gaze next appeared a fierce, dark-skinned young man who looked every bit a sailor—securely bound with rope and exuding menace from his very being. He was guarded by two police officers.

When the group accompanied by Kyōsuke reached the vicinity of the quay facing the sea at Dry Dock No. 2, Kyōsuke spoke to me for the first time—to me who had been following them in a flustered state.

“You,” he said. “Let me introduce you to the Tenshōmaru’s chief sailor—and our murderer—Yajima Gorō.” With that declaration, Kyōsuke presented the bound sailor to me. I had still clung to the belief that Yamada Genzō was the culprit—or rather, I’d stubbornly maintained my deduction built upon those knife-carved initials—so hearing “Yajima Gorō” sent a jolt through me. But Kyōsuke soon steered the trussed man away from our group and began his explanation.

“When I heard from the engineer earlier that the Tenshōmaru had docked at Yokkaichi, I suddenly remembered that on the back label of that advertising match—not the side with ‘Kantodaki’—there were several katakana characters starting with ‘Yo,’ crammed together in tiny cluttered print.” Kyōsuke held out the match before my eyes as he continued, “So I promptly took it out and wiped off the grime—” “See? Beneath the shop name ‘Kappō,’ it’s written small here—‘Adjacent to Yokkaichi Kaikan,’ right?”

“Hmm.”

I nodded deeply. “And so I developed my reasoning thus: that the Tenshōmaru crewman who had this match and the two missing men had encountered each other that night at the scrap pile behind the lathe workshop.” “Now then—listen here—you.” “Yamada Genzō was paralyzed and should have had an injury on his right arm.” “Do you think Genzō could have stabbed Kizaburō’s heart that cleanly?” “It’s a rather tricky matter.” “So upon leaving here earlier, I promptly visited Yamada Genzō’s family and confirmed that Genzō was right-handed.” “To make things even more convenient, you see, Kizaburō and Genzō had both been sailors on the *Tenshōmaru* until three years ago.” “So with full confidence, I went out to Shibaura and carried out my planned course of action, you know.” “Nothing complicated.” “I met with the captain of the *Tenshōmaru* before its departure and had him check how many men among the crew had initials arranged as G.Y.” “So there were two: Chief Clerk Yagi Minoru and this Chief Sailor Yajima Gorō.” “However, Chief Clerk Yagi Minoru is already an old man approaching fifty.” “In contrast, Chief Sailor Yajima Gorō here is so skilled that even the captain marvels at him, but at just twenty-nine years old, he belongs to that so-called ‘youngster’ category everyone talks about.” “So I promptly arranged a secret meeting with Yajima and tested the waters about buying that jackknife from him.” “Then, when Yajima saw the knife, he immediately flared up and, trembling, slapped down a hundred-yen bill for me.” “So instead of taking the bill, I had Yajima restrained.” “Professor, I did throw a bit of a tantrum, you see.” “Nah, it was nothing major, you know.”

Kyōsuke, having said that, laughed and rolled up the sleeve of his right arm to show me. Around his wrist was a white bandage, lightly stained with red blood where it had been wrapped. “Then what on earth happened to Yamada Genzō?”

I gulped down a mouthful of saliva and asked. “Well, here’s the thing—”

Kyōsuke turned around, approached Yajima Gorō who had been kept at a distance, and without so much as a glance at the nearby officer, spoke these words.

“Yajima.” “Come now—why don’t you give me an honest confession?” “I’m asking where you took Yamada Genzō’s corpse and sank it in this sea.” “Probably the same spot as Harada Kizaburō, yes?” “...”

Yajima remained silent, glaring at Kyōsuke.

“Can’t you speak?” “Hmm?” “Well, then there’s no help for it.” “I’ll show you the location.” Kyōsuke dashed off toward Dry Dock No. 1 with a composed expression and soon returned with one diver who had just finished the installation work on the docked ship. The diver came to the quay near where we were standing, received some instructions from Kyōsuke for a while, then called over two workers and had them prepare the air hose and pump. Soon after, he lowered a ladder down the quay and entered the sea right before our eyes. After about ten minutes, slightly to the left of where we stood, countless bubbles surfaced alongside pitch-black muddy water in the sea roughly three meters from the caisson of Dry Dock No. 2.

At that moment, a terrifying beast-like growl reached right by our ears. When I turned around, Yajima Gorō stood there—the tip of his nose soaked with sweat, deathly pale as he clenched his lips tightly and stomped his feet in frustration. Kyōsuke smiled and turned his gaze back out to sea.

After about five minutes, the diver returned beneath the ladder. Looking closer, he was carrying on his back a corpse with both arms bound behind its back, just like Harada Kizaburō’s. “Ah! It’s Mr. Gen!”

One of the workers who had been operating the pump until now shouted in an outlandish voice. Yajima slumped forward, buried his face in his hands, and collapsed into a seated position on the spot. Yamada Genzō’s corpse bore no bruises or abrasions like those seen on Harada Kizaburō’s body. Only a similar stab wound over the heart remained. “There was a large old iron gear used as a weight.” “Since it was simply too heavy to bring up, I cut through the rope halfway.” “Come to think of it, there was another rope that looked torn off midway still attached to the weight—that must’ve been what Mr. Kizaburō’s corpse was tied to——”

The diver who had finished his work took a deep breath after saying that. Kyōsuke placed his hand on Yajima’s shoulder and said, “You.” “There’s one more thing I need to ask.” “When you met those two behind the factory, why didn’t you settle things peacefully instead of doing something this terrible?” At Kyōsuke’s question, Yajima jerked his head up and began speaking in a shrill, reckless voice.

“Now that it’s come to this, I’ll spill everything.” “Until three years ago, those two were crewmen with me on the Tenshōmaru.” “This was back when the ship was still new—right during her maiden voyage to South China.” “They found out I’d tossed that bastard Kakinuma—the old captain who’d been hauling this loot—overboard one stormy night, then swiped all the cash he’d grabbed up like Judas.” “That night they came waving that bastard’s ghost in my face, trying to bleed me dry.” “So I had to clean house.” “That’s all there is to it.”

“Well, thank you for all that.”

Kyōsuke said that and signaled to the officers with his eyes.

Kyōsuke stared at the oppressive winter sea and began to speak. “You’re asking how I knew Genzō was also killed? Well—I pieced together the circumstances and made an intuitive leap.” “Then you’d wonder why Genzō’s sunken corpse was so easily located.” “That explanation suffices if I outline how Harada Kizaburō’s corpse—murdered alongside Yamada Genzō—came to be discovered this morning.” “In short: both corpses stabbed behind the ironworks were brought here, weighted down, and dumped into the sea.” “Right beside Dry Dock No. 2’s caisson.” “Four days passed—then last night.” The *Tenshōmaru*, repairs completed, had to bid farewell to K Shipyard and race to Shibaura. There began the undocking operation. The sluice gate valves of Dry Dock No. 2 opened, seawater surging into the dock with ferocious force. So what became of those corpses weighted near the sluice gate—floating like kelp on their ropes?” “No different from fish caught unawares.” “Battered and bruised, they were sucked through a seventy-six-centimeter iron aperture and smashed against the concrete dock floor.” “That same day, machine oil spilled by a *Tenshōmaru* sailor drifted across its surface through sheer inertia.” “When the dock filled completely, they opened the sluice gate and towed out the *Tenshōmaru* with a steam tug.” “Buoyancy carried Harada Kizaburō’s corpse—clinging to the hull—out to open waters.” “Of course, Genzō avoided that fate—factors like his corpse’s distance from intake ports or rope length must’ve spared him——”

Kyōsuke, having finished speaking, flicked his cigarette butt into the sea.

“So essentially, the motive behind this case was those two extorting Yajima and refusing to settle things amicably.” “How on earth did you figure that out?”

I posed the final question.

“Ha ha ha—Even I had no idea about that guy until Yajima confessed. I just considered the circumstances and tried to bait him into revealing why he didn’t settle things peacefully—that’s all there was to it.”