Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Female Detective's Melancholy

Kazama Mitsue had returned to Tokyo after decisively shaking off the mysterious burning hand of passion that Viscount Rokujō, the prosecutor in "The Wife with a Departing Soul" case, had extended toward her. Yet when she found herself back in her former solitude, she suddenly became acutely aware of her own body's clammy sweat and felt utterly forlorn.

"How excruciating it is to live resolutely?"

She grew timid unlike her usual strong self ever since then.
That something as trivial as that could make her suddenly grow timid must ultimately stem from being born a woman - yet how frustrating it all was! In the dead of night she secretly stood before the mirror and gave my own smooth arm a sharp pinch.

Regarding her acute melancholy, even within the Hoshino Private Detective Agency to which she belonged, it could not have failed to become a topic among the perceptive colleagues. However, since they all knew full well that dire consequences would follow if anyone dared to make unnecessary remarks about Mitsue, each and every one of them had resolved to play the role of feigning ignorance.

However, one day—Director Hoshino summoned Kazama Mitsue to his private office and

“You there—have you heard of a young detective named Homura Sōroku?”

came the abrupt question.

Homura Sōroku—speaking of him, he was a man who came from the peculiar academic field of being a Bachelor of Science.
That much Mitsue knew, but beyond that, her knowledge didn't run deep.
When she mentioned this, the director continued:

"That Homura Sōroku fellow hails from my hometown—we're connected through certain ties—but he's something of an eccentric."
"He's requested assistance from a young female detective for some business, so he asked if we could spare someone."
"How about it? Will you take this on?"

“Oh.”
“What sort of case might this be?”

“Well now, as for what sort of case it is—I know nothing at all about it.”
“But this much I can say plainly—that fellow’s thoroughly reliable and conducts himself with utmost propriety toward women. On that count you needn’t have any concerns.”

The director’s words somehow seemed to carry an implicit reference to Viscount Rokujō.

In any case Kazama Mitsue thought this was a perfect opportunity to dispel her daily melancholy; promptly obeying Director Hoshino’s orders she set out for Homura Sōroku’s office—the man who had requested her assistance.

Homura's detective office was located in Marunouchi, but within a gloomy brick building that had fallen out of fashion. When she climbed the stairs—sodden as if drenched—to the second floor, there hung his office’s nameplate. She stood at the entrance and hesitated for a moment, then resolved herself and knocked on the door. Then, from inside,

“Please come in.
The door isn’t locked, so please open it and come in.”

A youthful, clear voice responded. Kazama Mitsue, unusually aware of her body tensing, pushed the door. Then, upon entering the room, there was a large partition screen immediately inside, blocking the view beyond. From beyond the partition screen, a voice called out again.

“Please come in.
“Have a seat in that chair and wait a moment.
I’m occupied with something at present, so please sit and wait.”

“Oh, thank you.
Then I’ll take my leave.”

Kazama Mitsue returned the greeting and settled into the reception chair at the left corner near the entrance.
Beside her stood a door likely leading to another room, shut tight.
Above that door hung a steamship company calendar showing its September side facing outward.

From where Mitsue sat, the space beyond the partition remained hidden. She stayed motionless for some time. The voice from behind the screen must have been Homura's, yet he made not a sound—whatever he was doing back there.

The wait began to wear on her, and drowsiness crept in. As she stifled a yawn with her hand, the door beside her seat suddenly burst open with a thud, calendar flapping. A tall gentleman materialized before her. In his hand were several sheets of photographic paper still dripping water onto the floor.

"Who in the world was this person emerging from the back?" Kazama Mitsue wondered inwardly.

“Ah, good day.
Thank you very much for coming so promptly.
Has Director Hoshino been well lately?”

“Oh.
Yes, that is correct.”

“That’s quite all right,” said the tall gentleman as he sat down in the chair across from Mitsue and stared fixedly at her.
Even though Mitsue hadn’t yet introduced herself, the gentleman already behaved as if he knew everything about her.
An indefinable eeriness crept up her spine.

“Excuse my rudeness, but would you be Detective Homura—Mr. Homura Sōroku?”

“Ah, I’m Homura,” he answered casually. “Ms. Kazama’s height measures 1.57 meters with leather sandals on, making her net height approximately 1.54 meters—an ideal proportion.”

“What? When did you measure that?” Mitsue blurted out in astonishment.

The Scientific Detective's Skill

Detective Homura wore an utterly unperturbed expression,

“This is confidential, but since you’re a fellow detective, I’ll explain—we have it set up to automatically measure visitors’ heights when they stand at the entrance.”
“Naturally, it’s easily done using a phototube.”
“Look above the entrance.”
“You’ll see ‘1.57’ projected there by magic lantern apparatus—just like a shop register’s display.”

“What? How could...”
When Mitsue turned to look, there indeed appeared the numerals ‘1.57’ on the wallpaper above the entrance.

“Do this, and they disappear.”
Whatever he had done, when Homura said that, the numbers vanished instantly.
It was as though she were watching sorcery unfold.
Indeed, Detective Homura was an eccentric man, Mitsue thought with admiration.

“Since you’re an insider, perhaps I’ll let you see another one of these for your amusement."
“Well, what do you think of these photos?”
With that, Homura flipped over the three narrow, still-damp photographs he was holding and pushed them toward Mitsue.

“Oh my!”
Mitsue let out such an absurdly shrill voice that even she herself would later feel embarrassed.
For across three elongated photographs Homura had presented lay fifty-odd sequential bust portraits of Mitsue brimming with expression.
Frontal and profile views were simultaneously recorded.
Upon closer inspection—there it was! From her first entry into this room and settling into this chair through her drowsy final moments yawning mouth agape—every motion stood preserved with startling clarity.

“Oh my.”
“Oh my. What am I to do?”
Kazama Mitsue let out another cry of astonishment.

“Today I experimentally installed this camera. I tried using you as test material for a bit, and it turned out rather well. It can take up to sixty shots per minute. One lens is positioned at the front, inside that thick dictionary. Because there’s a piece of black gauze attached in front, you can’t see it from this side either. The other lens has what appears to be a wavy black pattern beneath the calendar—there’s an aperture there designed to capture images from beyond the door. No, it’s surprisingly simple.”

Having said that, Homura did not offer a single word of commentary regarding Mitsue’s shifting expressions or anything of the sort.
That alone made Mitsue feel awkward.

“Detective Homura, you’re truly wicked, aren’t you?”

“Oh, not at all.”
“This is business, you understand?”
After saying this, Homura stared intently at Mitsue’s figure, but soon—

“By the way, you have quite a figure.”
“When I speak of ‘a delectable woman,’ I mean you.”
“Come over here.”
“There’s no one here, so it’s fine.”
Homura said this and rose from his seat, then suddenly grabbed Kazama Mitsue’s wrist and pulled her close.

“Oh! Detective Homura!”
Mitsue’s breath nearly stopped from the shock.
Before coming here, President Hoshino had gone out of his way to vouch for Homura’s integrity, but contrary to that assurance, he was an outrageous pervert.
Even more blatant and base than in Viscount Rokujō’s case.
While struggling against Homura, Mitsue suddenly had a flash of insight—like a bolt of lightning—cross her mind.
It was that she remembered the man behind the nearby partition screen who seemed engaged in some work he couldn’t step away from.
That man had apparently been there quietly continuing his work since she entered this room.
Because there was no sign he had moved elsewhere, he must still be there without a doubt.

“Oh! Detective Homura. Please refrain from such behavior! Don’t you feel ashamed before the staff member working behind that partition screen either?” she said, forcibly shaking off the wrist Homura had seized.

“What? A staff member, you say?”
“There’s no such person here.”
“Today it’s just me here.”

“But earlier, from behind that partition screen…”

“Ah ha ha! That voice?”
“That wasn’t a staff member speaking—it’s a voice recorder.”
“It’s an automated greeting device.”
“If you think I’m lying, come over here and look behind the partition screen yourself.”

“That’s a lie,” Mitsue retorted, but she couldn’t help glancing behind the partition screen.
Taking advantage of Homura having stepped back, she quickly peeked there and gasped in astonishment.
Indeed, there was no one behind the partition screen.
On the small desk sat only what appeared to be a voice recorder.
In that vicinity existed neither a door through which a person could exit nor any hiding place where a human body might conceal itself.
It was indeed exactly as Homura had said.

This fresh shock—and then the realization that she was truly alone with Homura in this room—sent a tremor of fearful dread creeping up her spine! Mitsue's heart pounded as she realized she'd stumbled into a most improper situation. Having arrived here in complete confidence from the very beginning, she found herself utterly disoriented by this ambush. That entrance must surely have already engaged its automatic lock that securely fastened when the door closed. The walls were this thick to begin with, and there were no windows whatsoever. No matter how much she screamed, it would prove futile now. This must be fate. She resigned herself completely and closed her eyes.

Bizarre Mission

At that moment, Homura’s voice reached Mitsue’s ears.

“Oh, I must apologize for my rudeness.”
“Regarding the job I’m about to entrust to you, I wanted to test in advance your... let’s say, virginal resistance.”
Homura suddenly blurted out something unexpected.

“Wh-what? That’s…”

“But this matter can’t be trusted on hearsay alone.”
“After all, I must conduct the experiment.”
“Now, please sit back down there again.”

Mitsue—unsure whether she was angry or suddenly relieved—sat back down with peculiar stiffness.
Up until this age—not that she was elderly (this being quietly disclosed to the reader)—Kazama Mitsue’s true years numbered exactly twenty.—Never had she endured such relentless shocks.
She fixed Homura with a glare sharp enough to etch glass.
The urge to storm out gripped her—what self-respecting detective would endure this?—yet through clenched resolve, she smothered her fury and waited for his next words.

“Hmm, I am satisfied. If it’s you, you’ll surely manage it well,” said Homura, his face returning to its usual coldness as he nodded repeatedly to himself.

“Now then—about this job I want to entrust to you.”
“At a certain mansion, the master is looking for a chambermaid.”
“However, I bribed the previous chambermaid and made her resign by claiming her parent’s illness.”
“Therefore, I need a replacement chambermaid—and I absolutely want you to take on that role.”
At last, Homura began speaking about the major case that had caused her such trouble.

“How’s this sound?
The mansion in question is a newly built Western-style residence.
You’ll maintain your chambermaid role as discussed, but per the Master’s requirements, you’ll need to switch to Western clothing.
Become a vivacious young woman.
Though permanent waves are currently problematic under national policy, this being operational necessity, I require you to courageously get an intense perm—tightly curl your hair.”

Mitsue had initially listened wondering what nonsense he was spouting, but found herself growing increasingly intrigued the more she heard.
This resembled some meticulously orchestrated adventure play.

“Now, regarding the work you’ll be doing once you go there—since you’re naturally a chambermaid, you mustn’t put on an intellectual air.”
“Look—those frivolous young women you’d bump into anywhere on Ginza-dori these days, as insubstantial as cheap Western sweets and utterly oblivious to the gravity of our times!”
“You must learn to mimic their expressions.”
“Ah, seems I’ve made a bit of a slip of the tongue in front of a woman.”

Mitsue felt irritation rising within her again, so she remained silent.

“Now listen.
“When you get there, be careful and break things.”
“Break them vigorously.”

“Oh my, whatever for?”
When told she must vigorously break objects upon arriving and carefully break objects at that, Mitsue was utterly shocked.
Everything Homura did and said was too outlandish; common sense simply couldn’t keep up.

“Please smash things like coffee cups, vases, ashtrays, lamps—all those sorts of items—by dropping them to the floor while exclaiming ‘Oops!’ or ‘Oh dear!’”

“If I do such a thing, I’ll be dismissed immediately.”

“Not to worry. Since you don’t need to worry about dismissal, go ahead and break things vigorously.”

“Won’t I have to pay compensation?”

“No need to worry about compensation. What I particularly want you to keep in mind is that within two or three days of arriving, you must absolutely break the large blue-green vase placed atop the bookshelf—please be sure to do this. And the next morning, you will take the postcard to the mailbox yourself. Is that clear?”

“I understand about breaking the large vase, but when you say I should go mail a postcard the next morning, what postcard am I supposed to take out?”

“It can be addressed to anyone—and the crucial thing is to behave in a way that never lets them realize you’re a female detective. Even when breaking things, don’t show any guilty conscience or saintly compassion—do it with bold audacity, as if to say, ‘It’s because they make me handle such fragile stuff that things get broken!’ In any case, please behave like a somewhat dull chambermaid,” said Homura, pointing a finger to the top of his head.

"My, what a tiresome ordeal this will be."

"Oh, don't say that—just do it."
"No matter what the Master says or does, you must stick to that somewhat dull chambermaid's routine."

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish by having me do all that?"
"What exactly is this case about?"
"You could at least give me some clue, couldn't you?"

"No, that won't do," said Homura, shaking his head vigorously.

"You mustn't put on such detective airs like that."
"I'll handle the rest, so just follow the script without getting flustered."
"Keep playing the innocent girl to the hilt."

“And you’re telling me to fully embrace my inner dimwit, aren’t you?”
Having said that, Kazama Mitsue glared at Homura with a sidelong glance, her expression dripping with spite.

Destruction Mission

That evening, Kazama Mitsue, fully prepared and accompanied by Homura disguised as a labor broker’s clerk, passed through the back gate of the mansion in question.

From the back gate to the back entrance.
Though called a back entrance, it was an imposing structure—the sort of grand entryway one wouldn’t expect even from a residence renting for a hundred yen.

“Oh, Ōkiya.
“You’re too damn late—I’ve gone and hired someone else already.”
“I ain’t got no use for ya! Get out, get out!”
An obese man who was undoubtedly the master of this house—well into his fifties—emerged from the back entrance wearing a white linen yukata, shuffling along.
He appeared to be quite sensitive to heat.

“Oh dear, I do most humbly apologize.
“You see, I’d secured a gem of a girl guaranteed to meet your standards—a sure success—and rushed to fetch her. But as she was out in Saitama’s hinterlands, it proved quite time-consuming.
“The candidate waiting here is that very girl—one with a modern mindset rare in rural parts…”

“Hey, Ōkiya.
“I’ll let it slide this once as a special favor, but next time—no mercy.”
“Next time means an absolute entry ban.”
“Specially just this time—hey! What’re ya dawdlin’ for?”
“Get that—uh, that damn brat upstairs now, I said!”

The Master made quite a commotion.

Homura had deliberately refrained from explaining anything about this Master, yet through the entrance steps alone, she felt she had clearly grasped the course of his life thus far. To Mitsue, it was as vivid as a painted canvas—this was a man who had clawed his way up through some murky enterprise to become nouveau riche, devoid of proper education yet ravenously devouring avant-garde culture.

Thereupon, Mitsue began diligently serving as the Master's personal chambermaid starting that very night.

"Hmph."
From time to time, Mitsue heard behind her a sound somewhere between a throat-clearing and a groan.
At such moments, when she glanced back, there would invariably be the Master's gleaming eyes—whereupon he would immediately burst into a flustered panic like a chicken set upon by a dog.

The Master was an exceptionally taciturn man.
However, this taciturnity applied only to the new chambermaid Mitsue; the other maids and servants were harshly scolded in dialect-inflected speech.

That very night, Mitsue dropped a coffee cup in the hallway and smashed it with a loud crash.
That was the grand opening.
She had reasoned that if she didn’t begin this job promptly that very night, it would prove rather difficult to start the next day—and so resolved to carry out at least one act of destruction before the night was through.

With a tremendous crash, the saucer of the coffee cup shattered into countless fragments that scattered about.
As for the cup itself, vexingly, only the handle had broken.

“W-w-w-what have you done?!” came the Master’s roar from the parlor.
Following that, there was a sense of the Master’s massive frame thudding down the hallway toward her.
From the opposite direction came a group of servants, rushing in response to the commotion.
They had rushed over not so much because they were startled by the sound of the shattered coffee cup, but rather in response to the Master’s angry shouts.

“Ugh—so it was you, Ginya?”

Ginya—whether it should be written as 銀や (silver) or 銀弥 (silver + ya)—was unclear, but regardless, this served as Kazama Mitsue’s undercover alias within this mansion.
The Master had seemingly been intent on bellowing, but upon realizing this was the work of the new, refined modern chambermaid, he gave several strained *ahem* coughs and retreated hastily into the inner rooms.
Instead, the other servants scolded Mitsue for her blunder in unison, their clamoring and grumbling showing no signs of ceasing.
Then once more, from deep within the mansion came the thudding, stomping approach of the Master’s booming footsteps,

“This racket will go on forever if you keep it up! What’s broken can’t be helped. Hurry up and clean this mess! Keep it down! You blasted wretches!”

What this "blasted wretches" meant remained unclear, for the Master’s speech occasionally erupted with utterly incomprehensible phrases.

In any case, thus was carried out the grand opening of Ginya—that is, Kazama Mitsue’s furniture destruction business.

What Mitsue felt in that moment was that breaking things was unexpectedly satisfying.
Of course, this act ran counter to the current national policy advocating material conservation, but in Mitsue’s case, there was a reason to break them.
In other words, since she was acting on Detective Homura’s request for the sake of solving some case, there was reassurance that it couldn’t be said to run counter to national policy.
That is to say, in the moment she heard the crash, Mitsue felt the pent-up frustration in her chest—though temporarily—instantly dissipate like mist.

However, as for the true reason why she had to carry out this furniture destruction work, Mitsue knew nothing and could think of no explanation.

The Sacrificial Grand Vase

By the second day, Ginya the chambermaid's furniture destruction work had reached a fever pitch.
First thing upon waking, she smashed the lampshade with a crash, broke a gargling cup in the kitchen, then went to the Master’s room and pretended to knock an ashtray off the table (though in reality she’d merely nudged it with her fingertip)—instantly sending the Master tumbling from his bed to the floor.

“Wh-wh-what’s happening here?!”

"I'm terribly sorry."

"Oh, Ginya."
"What? You broke the ashtray."
"Can't have you makin' such a racket first thing."
"My heart's been a mite weak lately—when you go breakin' things, try keepin' it quiet-like."
With that, the Master burrowed back into bed.
When Mitsue looked, she saw he'd turned to face the wall, that great mass of flesh squirming at a furious pace.

“You’ve got some incurable disease.”
“Can’t even put proper strength in those fingers.”
Despite being supervisor, Omon ladled sarcasm over Mitsue.

“I don’t have any illness, but I am rather clumsy.”
“I’ll take more care.”

“Clumsiness counts as illness too.”
“Not a child anymore—sixteen? Seventeen? Wait, how old are you really? Western-dressed girls’ ages baffle me.”

“Oh, how rude! I am older than that.”
“So eighteen then?”

“Ohoho, though I’m actually a year older at nineteen,” Mitsue lied.

“Well now—nineteen, are you?”
“How shocking!”
“I’d have sworn you were sixteen or seventeen!”
“So you’re plenty ripe now—the Master’s plan is thorough indeed.”
“Nineteen you say…”
Omon remarked with feigned admiration.

“Um…what exactly is the Master’s line of work?”

“Oh my, you came here without even knowing that?”

“Yes.”

“What a carefree girl you are. If you don’t know, I’ll tell you—the Master is in possession of a ‘mountain,’ you see.”

“Eh? A ‘mountain’?”
“It means a mine.”

“Yes yes, that mine. Gold, silver, copper, iron, lead, coal—they say it yields everything. This is a secret, but when our Master was young, he worked himself black with grime, scurrying here and there across every mountain in Japan with dynamite and a pickaxe—or so they say. In other words, he was a miner, you know. I don’t want you saying I was the one who talked about such things! I only told you because I like you, you know.”
Omon wrinkled her nose and let out an unpleasant snicker.

(So he was a mining nouveau riche?) As for Detective Homura—he'd entrusted me with this job without even explaining what business the master of the household I'd be working for was engaged in.
Now that Omon had divulged this much, it sufficed.
Thinking Detective Homura resembled nothing so much as a perfect specimen of foolishness, Mitsue privately turned up her nose.

But just how were the master of this mining household and the detective case that Homura was painstakingly working on connected?
Regarding this, Mitsue had not a single lead to go on, but being a female detective after all, she declared in her heart that she would surely uncover this intriguing fact before long.

Thinking it best to act quickly now that things had come to this, Mitsue splendidly smashed the large vase Homura had entrusted her with that very afternoon—with a resounding crash.
After all, the Master’s parlor had brick flooring—drop something there and it would shatter completely without fail.
Admittedly, a splendid rug had been laid over those bricks, but it was small—beneath the bookshelf, only the bare bricks remained exposed.

“Oh no—”
Mitsue let go of the large vase while producing a convincingly distressed cry.
When she released her grip, the sizable vessel produced a spectacular crash—fragments spraying everywhere as one shard struck her leg.
A searing, electric pain instantly lanced through her.

“Ah, I’ve hurt myself!”
The chocolate-hued silk stocking tore diagonally with brutal precision, revealing pale shin beneath from which fresh blood streamed forth unimpeded.

(Oh no—) At that moment, the toilet door clattered violently, and from within emerged the Master, shaking his boiled octopus-like head vigorously.

“What’s this? What’s this?”
“You! Ginya again?”
“What’d you break?”
“Huh? The large vase that was on that shelf?”
“Hmm, that…”—and in that instant, the blood drained from the Master’s face.

“Hmm...” The Master suddenly grew restless, ignoring the shattered vase as he scanned the room—then began knocking his chest with a fist while...

“Ah, I’m shocked,” he moaned.

Thereupon, head maid Omon and a group of helpers came scrambling in.

“Oh dear—did Ogin-san break something again?
“That’s seven today!”

Mitsue pressed on her wound and sat down right where she was,

“Ouch!” she cried.
The Master finally noticed Mitsue’s injury.

“Whoa, that’s one hell of an injury you’ve got there.”
“That needs tendin’ to right quick.”
“Here, crush this tobacco and put it on the wound.”
“Press down with this handkerchief and call a doctor.”

“Oh dear, Ogin-san, you’ve hurt yourself?”
“That’s divine retribution in action.”

“Hey! What’re you sayin’?”
“Tie it up with a handkerchief for her quick, then clean up this wreckage fast—” the Master barked, but for some reason suddenly grew flustered again,
“Hey, everyone! Get over there quick.”
“Cleaning up can wait. Get over there quick.”
While saying “Yes, yes,” Omon was attempting to tie a handkerchief around Mitsue’s injured leg. Seeing this, the Master raised his voice even louder,

“Hey! No need to tie it here.”
“Carry Ginya over there quick.”
“Hey! What’re you waitin’ for? Get a move on!”

That even Ginya—whom the Master wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head—was abruptly ordered to withdraw suggested no small measure of anxiety now churned within the Master’s breast.
What was this anxiety?

Interim Report

In accordance with her prior arrangement with Homura, Mitsue left the mansion immediately after the commotion over the destroyed large vase had settled to mail a postcard.
As she approached the postbox, from beyond it—

“Ah, it’s gotten quite cool, hasn’t it?” called out a voice.
Of course, that was Homura Sōroku.
Mitsue, flustered,

“Oh my, Detective Homura!” she exclaimed.

“Well then, let’s get this over with quickly.
Did you already break the large vase?”

“Oh dear, was I too early?”

“Not at all.”
“That’s perfectly fine.”
“By the way—as you’re a detective—I’m sure you’ve noticed this—since that large vase was broken—hasn’t our Master rearranged any furnishings in his room?”

“Oh my—Detective Homura—you only treat me like a detective when it suits your convenience—don’t you?”
“There’s no such thing as your arbitrary whims!” she retorted—though inwardly—Mitsue felt her heart race—they had finally grazed against the case’s core.

“That’s beside the point.”
“We’ll bundle all your complaints together and deal with them later.”
“So? What’s your answer?”
“You’re not seriously claiming you noticed nothing about that?”

Homura was becoming oddly impatient—uncharacteristically so for him.

“Well now,” Mitsue replied with deliberately drawn-out hesitation, savoring Homura’s growing irritation as she continued, “regarding furnishings in the Master’s parlor whose positions have changed—”

“What do you mean by ‘the rearranged items’?”

“The wood-carved plaque of the Nikkō Yōmeimon Gate was just slightly warped.”

“Hmm, just as I suspected. There should be one more altered item besides that.”

“No, there’s absolutely nothing else.”

“No, that can’t be right.”
“There must surely be one.”
“Or perhaps your dull detective’s eye simply failed to notice it.”

“Well, I—” Mitsue seethed, but

“Say whatever you please.”
“But I’m telling you, there’s absolutely nothing else that’s changed.”

“That’s impossible.”
“That’s precisely the most crucial point— Tch, never mind.” Homura bit his lip in frustration. “In any case, we’ll urgently replace the broken furniture.”
“And please ensure the large vase is properly returned to its original location.”

“But wasn’t the large vase broken today?”

“That’s precisely why I’m saying we need to urgently replace the remaining items, aren’t I?”

“Ah, so another new vase is coming?”

“You’re not half what the rumors made you out to be.”

Mitsue pretended not to hear that,

“And you’re keeping it safe, Detective Homura?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Detective Homura, what about...”

“Just do what I asked.”
“I’m being much more careful now.”
“Good day.”

Homura, in an extremely foul mood, made no real effort to listen to Mitsue’s words and headed off in the opposite direction.

Mitsue returned to the mansion with an inexplicably lonely feeling.
That lonely feeling soon shifted into a kind of inferiority complex.

Could it really be that my detective instincts were as dull as Homura claimed, leaving me unaware of the furniture rearrangement that should have occurred in the Master’s parlor?

Mitsue entered the Master’s parlor.
The Master was not there.
Where could he have gone?
Perhaps he had a visitor.
Seeing her chance, she glanced around to confirm no one was present before quickly approaching the wood-carved Nikkō Yōmeimon Gate plaque.
After all, this plaque alone had changed position following the large vase’s destruction.
Some crucial meaning lay hidden within this plaque.
What in the world could it be?

As Mitsue stood on tiptoes to examine it, the plaque revealed itself to be an exceptionally intricate piece of carving.
From the plaque’s deepest recesses to the protruding eaves of the Yōmeimon Gate at its forefront, there was a depth of over two inches, every surface adorned with exquisitely delicate carvings.
This was likely a standard single-piece carving, yet she had never encountered one executed with such meticulous precision.

But marveling at the craftsmanship alone would not suffice.
Some secret lay concealed within this plaque.
What manner of secret could it possibly be?

Ah—could it be—
At that moment, what flashed through Mitsue’s mind was that this thick single-piece carving of the Yōmeimon Gate might not actually be a unitary sculpture—could it be that only the Yōmeimon portion itself was a snugly fitted insert?
And if that were removed, this plaque would actually turn out to be a box.
In other words—a secret hidden box.

"It must be just as I thought."

Mitsue abruptly stretched out her hand toward the plaque to verify it.
At that very moment.
A loud eh-hem cough resounded behind her.

She thought—I messed up!—but it was too late.
That cough belonged to the Master.

Unexpected Discovery

“Ginya, what’re you doing there?”

“Yes, sir. This plaque appears slightly warped.”

“Warped? Ha ha ha! Let ’er stay warped. Leave it be.”

“But it’ll only take a moment—”

“Don’t touch it! Try fixin’ some lil’ bend an’ next thing you know—crash! Smashed t’bits. Can’t risk that again.” His mining-camp drawl thickened with exasperation. “Had m’fill o’ breakages already.”

“My apologies.”

“Ain’t needin’ sorries.” He waved a calloused hand, tobacco-stained fingers trembling near her sleeve. “Keep you ’round ’spite th’wreckage ’cause…” A shout echoed down the corridor. Mitsue slipped away like a mouse evading a viper’s strike.

After some time had passed, Mitsue appeared carrying a large vase filled with chrysanthemums.
And then she gently placed it on top of the bookshelf.
And then she turned on the light.

The Master was already dozing in his armchair.
But it seemed to be feigned sleep; every so often his eyelids would twitch spasmodically, and his eyes would open slightly.
Of course, the Master’s gaze was piercing through Mitsue’s body through her kimono.

“Master, your bath is ready.”

“Nah, ain’t goin’ in today.”

The Master, who should have been sleeping, responded clearly.
The Master, who normally loved his baths, was uncharacteristically refusing to take one.

Mitsue went Ah! in realization.

*Oh! So that’s how it was.*
(So when Detective Homura said there should be one more place where something had changed position—this is what he meant?)

The reason was simple enough:
Indeed, a single important object had been extracted from that Yōmeimon Gate plaque.
And it had been moved to some other location in this living room.
Homura had questioned Mitsue about where it had been moved.
However, when Mitsue answered that she didn’t know, Homura grew despondent—but even he likely hadn’t realized that the crucial item had been removed from the Yōmeimon Gate plaque and transferred to the Master’s pocket.
However, Mitsue had noticed that fact one step ahead.

There were facts still unknown to Detective Homura that Female Detective Kazama knew.
She felt a touch of satisfaction.

But what that crucial object actually was, Mitsue hadn't yet figured out.
Homura probably knew its general nature.
Precisely because he knew, he'd stationed someone like Mitsue here and deployed such extravagant investigative measures.

(All right, I'll just swipe that crucial item before Detective Homura does.)
Having resolved herself, Mitsue waited until late into the night, listened for her fellow maids' breathing, and attempted to stealthily approach the Master's bed.
But it ended in failure.
The bedroom housing the bed—the Master's living quarters—had its lock securely engaged, leaving no means to open it.

The next morning, Mitsue entered the Master’s living room.
The Master was awake and smoking tobacco.
She greeted him and took the morning newspaper to the bed.

The Master appeared to be in a foul mood today, uncharacteristically refraining from even a single joke.
And he had a pale face, his eyes bloodshot.
Even during that time, Mitsue did not forget to thoroughly scan every corner of the room.

*Ah, there it is!* An anomaly reflected in her small, keen eyes!
It was that the ventilation grille in the corner of the high ceiling was ever so slightly warped.
Noticing this, when she looked at the towel hanging by the marble washbasin, she saw that it was completely black and soiled.

*That's definitely it,* Mitsue realized. *The important item must have left the Master's pocket—he must've lifted that ventilation grille and hidden it in the ceiling space!*

Her chest began pounding again.
This was truly a major discovery.

Mitsue, unable to remain still, gripped the postcard and went to check the mailbox.
She never imagined Homura would already be there this early in the morning, but staying cooped up at home became unbearable.

“Hey—so you’ve finally pinned it down, eh?”
Homura suddenly popped his face out from behind the mailbox and blurted those words, startling Mitsue.

Mitsue's report made Homura leap up in delight.
Then the two walked side by side back toward the mansion.
As Homura rapidly explained along the way:

"There's no need for secrecy now—that Master has been hiding an important mineral vein he discovered with a partner."
"This partner was found as a skeleton from an apparent hanging suicide in the mountains, without any suicide note."
"But during his life, he'd sent one postcard to his family saying he'd made a big discovery with the Master and would soon repay all their hardships with wealth."
"Yet it never specified what they'd found or where."
"That's why we had to investigate the Master's surroundings."
"What did they discover? Where did they find it?"
"We'll confront him with irrefutable evidence and make him confess."
"Now you go on ahead."
"I'll request entry through the main gate," Homura said, finally revealing the case's full details.

When Mitsue returned to the mansion, there was an unusual commotion.
What had happened?

“Oh, you there.”
“It’s terrible!”
“In the Master’s living room, there was a loud noise—we all tried to get in, but the door was locked tight.”
“The windows had their curtains drawn too—couldn’t see a thing inside—what a mess.”
“And it’s dead quiet in there where the Master ought to be.”
“Gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?”

Omon trembled violently.
But then the men smashed through a window from outside and forced their way into the room.

“Hey—emergency!”
“The Master’s been strangled!”
Opening the door from inside，the male servants said.

The Master was indeed lying dead, spread-eagled on the rug in the living room.

Beside him lay toppled small tables and chairs, with a large paulownia wood box sprawled nearby.

At that moment, someone carried a folding ladder into the room—and that someone was none other than Homura.
He nimbly and effortlessly climbed up it, removed the ceiling grille, and took out a small bag from there.

“Yes, this is it.”

When he opened the small bag’s mouth and turned it upside down, a yellowish mouse-gray ore rolled out.

“Hmph—this is molybdenite.
“Remarkably high-quality for something so rare.
“Ms. Mitsue—this is a brilliant success!”

Now that the ore hidden there had been uncovered but neither map nor documents indicating the mineral vein’s location could ultimately be found, Mitsue was disappointed.
But Homura softly brought his mouth close to her ear,

“Too early for despair.
“I’ve another trump card up my sleeve.”

“Well, that’s certainly true.”
“And what might that trump card be?”

“It’s inside that new large vase.”
“Eh?”

“In other words, that large vase contains the voice recording device that once startled you.”
“Last night, that voice recorder stayed in this living room all night, capturing the Master’s sleep-talking.”
“I’m counting on that sleep-talk recording.”

“Oh—so you went and did such a thing!”

Mitsue's astonishment reached its peak when Homura later extracted the Master's sleep-talking from the recording device he had installed in the large vase. The Master, anxious that the secret of the illicit mineral vein might be exposed, had finally ended up repeatedly divulging the mine's location in his sleep. There, the case was resolved.

Though Mitsue had not been the main contributor in this case, stimulated by scientific detective Homura's dynamic work, she regained her former cheerful self.