Pathway to Japanese Literature

High Alert

A bone-chilling wind slid along the paved road, letting out a shrill, keening whine.
The night had deepened considerably.
In the distance, the whistle of a Chinese noodle vendor drifted through the air.

Around that very time, a rigorous high alert net was deployed from behind Tsukiji Honganji Temple to Akashi-cho.

However, there were only two uniformed officers; the remaining fourteen or fifteen were all plainclothes detectives. They hid under the eaves of silent houses and in unlatched alleyways, concentrating their watchful attention on the canal-side paved road. What in the world was about to begin?

“Hey, they’re here!”
“They’re here? What about pedestrians?”

“Ah! They’re waving a blue light vertically from the rooftop over there.”
“Fortunately, there are no pedestrians at all.”

“Well, that went smoothly.”

The police officers’ expressions were taut with tension.

Who could be coming?

Toward the canal-side paved road behind Hongwanji Temple, a staggering drunkard came weaving along.

"Mmm, feels good."
"Nah, ain't nothin' to say."
"All's right with the world now that you've graced us, eh?"

After his rambling monologue came a nasal folk tune sung full-throatedly.

Then from behind, another man came rushing into the same alley.

The staggering drunkard ahead wore a neatly tailored twisted coat with dapper flair, while the man who came after sported a shabby workman’s jacket and seedy look.

Behind the drunkard, who staggered so wildly he seemed to make the main road itself appear narrow, the man in the workman's jacket stealthily approached.

“Wh-what the hell are you—!”

As the drunkard let out a cry of shock, the man in the workman’s jacket grabbed him by the collar and hurled him violently onto the paved road.

“Guh—”

As he tried to rise, the man in the workman’s jacket mounted him from behind and rained down a flurry of blows with what appeared to be a stick—thwack-thwack-thwack.

As the drunkard slumped motionless, the man in the workman’s jacket grabbed him by the feet and dragged him scraping along the canal bank, then with a heavy kick sent him crashing into the water below.

A thunderous splash ripped through the darkness and echoed far and wide.

It was an exceedingly brutal act.

However, the police force remained as still as a forest. To them, this assailant seemed utterly invisible. What an utterly incomprehensible scene this was.

The assailant in the workman’s jacket stood at the canal bank, staring intently at the water’s surface.
Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds…

Then, as if struck by a thought, he hurled the aluminum lunchbox he’d been holding—letting it clatter to the ground—and in the same motion leaped into the canal with a tremendous splash.

“Hey, snap out of it!”

He hoisted the half-conscious drunkard under one arm.
Having fully assumed the role of a rescuer now, he helped the drunkard while clambering slowly up from the moat.
Both of them were mud-caked drenched rats.

“Hey, stay with me!”
“What’s wrong?”
“The wound’s shallow.”
“I’m taking you to a hospital now.”

and he earnestly tended to him.

Throwing [him] into the moat, then turning himself into a soaked rat by leaping into the moat as well—it was all absurdly meticulous.

What was strange was the police officers’ attitude.
It wasn’t as if they were watching a movie shoot—yet there they were, feigning ignorance while witnessing this assault right before their eyes.

Just then, an empty taxi slowed its speed and entered this alley.

“Hey, driver—could you lend me a hand?”

The man in the workman’s jacket raised his hand and shouted.

“Hey! What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

“Well, this drunkard fell into the moat here and was nearly drowned.”
“Since he seems pretty injured, could you take him to a hospital around here?”

“Yeah, got it.”

The taxi took in the two soaked men and drove straight off toward Akashi-cho.

Then, the police squad that had been hiding under the eaves came trooping out.

“Well done, officers.”
“Let’s head back to the station and grab a hot bite to eat.”

“I caught a cold from staying still.”
“Achoo!”

The police squad trooped off.

It was truly a bizarre Tsukiji night's tale.

Secret Construction

“Seems my Yoshi’s been puttin’ you to trouble here, what with—”

And then, at Simpson Hospital’s reception desk, there appeared a pale-faced man in his fifties who looked to be a contractor and had rushed in.

“May I ask who you are?”

A plump nurse inquired with maddening composure.

“Huh?” The fifty-year-old man floundered for a moment before continuing, “Name’s Kumagai Gorōzō—I’m a contractor for construction work. Our young worker Yoshi—his full name’s Genkichi Yoshiharu—got hurt somewhere, was helped by someone or other, and I heard he’s been causin’ trouble here…”

Then the nurse gave a slight nod and said,

“Please come in.”

said.

Genkichi Yoshiharu was groaning and moaning on the bed.

When he heard the Boss’s voice, he did momentarily stop groaning, but after a while, unable to bear it any longer, he started groaning even more violently than before.

“What’s wrong, Yoshi?”
“Didn’t I tell you that much?”
“Don’t drink and wander around.”
“If you’re gonna drink, do it at my house—that way there’d be no mistakes! I told you that plain enough, but look at this mess—now what’re we supposed to do?”

It was Boss Gorōzō—though whether he’d come to check on him or chew him out remained unclear.

“Boss, he’s got quite a severe injury here.”
“And if I hadn’t happened to pass by, he would’ve lost his life.”
“It’s too pitiful to keep harping on him like that.”

And said the bushy-bearded man who had been sitting in the corner. He was wearing two layers of a white flannel hospital gown that he seemed to have borrowed from the hospital.

“Oh—so it was you who’d notified me,”
“and Yoshi here was saved too—I’m right sorry for puttin’ you through all this trouble.”

“Not at all—it’s nothing.”

“I’ll be sure to give proper thanks later.”

“There’s no need for such worries.”

This man's words contained no falsehood.
Since he himself had thrown him in and then saved him himself, there was no reason he should be thanked.

Gorōzō wore a terribly troubled expression at the patient's bedside.
That seemed more than mere concern for the patient's condition.

"Damn... Useless bastard."
"This ain't gonna fly."
"Tomorrow mornin'—this is one hell of a mess."

Gorōzō kept muttering to himself, growing angrier by the moment.
Due to Yoshiharu’s injury, he seemed to be facing some terribly troublesome predicament.

The bushy-bearded man posing as a lifesaver appeared ready to take his leave, changing into his now-dry happi coat as he did so.

“Hey, you headin’ back already?
“Ah right—let me have one of your business cards.
“’Cause I gotta go give my thanks proper-like, see.”

Then, the happi-coated man said with a laugh,

“There’s no need for thanks.”
“Besides, I don’t have business cards or anything like that.”
“I’m a plasterer named Masaki Shōta living in Tsukishima Nichōme.”

“Huh? A plasterer.”
“So you—have you done any concrete work lately?”

“Yes, I’ve got some experience, though I’m not much of a hand.”
“After all, with no work to be had, I end up wandering around here and there every day, you see.”

“Heh, is that so?”
“Well then… Shōta-san—or whatever—there’s somethin’ I wanna discuss with ya.”
“No—of course, out of gratitude for saving our guy, I want to let you earn a little something.”
“Look—c’mere.”

And Kumagai Gorōzō led Masaki Shōta out into the hospital hallway.
Given that it was late at night, no other visitors were walking around, and the area lay as still as the depths of a lake.

“This ain’t somethin’ I can have you blabbin’ about.”
“Only ’cause it’s you I’m trustin’ enough to tell this—”

On this premise, Boss Gorōzō explained that there was a certain secret construction project currently underway and asked whether he would be willing to work there—after all, the personnel had been strictly selected, and even one missing worker would prompt complaints from them.
Due to Yoshiharu’s injury that night, there would be one less plasterer come morning.
When he considered what sort of grievances this might draw from the other party, he admitted without reserve that he was beside himself with worry, wiping the sweat that had drenched his forehead in the winter cold with a handkerchief.

“Fortunately since you can do plastering, this is a godsend.”
“Call it fate—why not give it a try?”

“But something feels off about this.”
“Secret construction work...”

“Nah—it’s just in your head. The work’s ordinary.”
“Only difference is they blindfold you comin’ and goin’.”
“Pays seven yen a day.”
“Double the usual rate!”

“But even if Yoshiharu can’t go ’cause he’s hurt—me being a total greenhorn—they won’t take me there, will they?”

“Well, about that—” Gorōzō replied, rolling his eyes nervously as if struggling,

“Ah well, you’re the one who saved his life after all—I’ll just tell ’em you’re some relative of mine so they’ll trust ya.”
“After all, if I don’t have the full number of craftsmen, the construction that’s been decided in advance won’t proceed as planned—so I’ll get an earful and be slapped with a hefty fine.”
“So if you go, you’ll be savin’ both Yoshī and me—a double lifesaver, see.”
“C’mon, that’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Just give me a solid yes here!”

The man in the happi coat who had introduced himself as Masaki Shōta finally accepted Gorōzō’s offer. After leaving Simpson Hospital, he gazed up at the cold night stars and muttered the following words to no one in particular.

"What a stale farce."
"But they say the older something is, the more reliably you can use it—and indeed, that does sound perfectly reasonable."

Loyalty Tower

At that time, ominous dark clouds loomed over international affairs in the Far East.

On the Chinese mainland, a great war raged unabated, while several major powers remaining uninvolved in that conflict had independently armed themselves and stood fully prepared to advance at any moment into the swirling heart of battle.

Consequently, foreign ambassadors' activities in Tokyo grew feverishly intense; as one knowledgeable elder observed, even London's bustling diplomatic theater during the Great War in Europe paled before this maelstrom.

Among these, what most strongly captured the nation’s attention was a certain foreign power renowned for its crafty diplomacy.

Shortly after the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War, this foreign power’s movements had already drawn public notice—though at that time, it had shown rather active sympathy toward China if anything.
However, upon learning that our Japanese military had achieved glorious victories across various regions and created a situation where nothing could be done in Far Eastern matters without Japan’s consent, this foreign power swiftly performed an about-face in attitude—setting aside its internal stance—and outwardly withdrew its sympathy toward China, transforming itself into something that single-mindedly curried favor with Japan.
It was an unsettling thing, like the servility of a middle-aged woman with finely wrinkled skin.

In late November of that year, as autumn gave way to winter, the aforementioned Certain Foreign Power announced news of an astonishingly large gift they would present before the Japanese people. It was their plan to create another memorial tower identical in shape and size to the Loyalty Tower—erected long ago during the European Great War for our volunteer soldiers who had traveled far to participate in its battlefields only to tragically fall—and present it to our nation.

To be honest, our nation’s people were taken aback by this goodwill from the Certain Foreign Power. From that Certain Foreign Power—which they had always regarded as that hateful bunch who did nothing but hinder Japan at every turn—to be sent this historic, monumental gift… who would not be stunned?

The Loyalty Tower was to be erected in Tokyo City.
For that purpose, city officials scoured parks for a suitable site and ultimately decided to erect it within S Park.
And so they decided to hastily create the granite pedestal.

Within Tokyo City, wherever one went, conversations about the Loyalty Tower blossomed.

“Well, seeing that, I guess the Certain Foreign Power does hold some respect for Japan after all.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been bad-mouthing them a bit too much usually.”
“I’ve seen that memorial tower in photos, but since they say it’s fifty meters tall, it’s really enormous.”
“And I hear the thickest part at the base of the tower has a diameter of nearly two meters, you know.”

“Oh ho, I see.”
“That’s quite something.”
“How on earth do they plan to bring something that big all the way to Japan?”

“Well…”
“Of course they’ll break it into smaller pieces partway up the tower, bring them over here, and assemble them. It’s not like they can haul the whole thing as-is—too big for ships or trains, let alone dragging it through streets.”
“It can’t be loaded onto a ship as-is, can’t be transported by train even if brought ashore, and dragging it through town would be impossible, you know.”

Amidst such talk being exchanged here and there, even more shocking news arrived to astound the nation’s people.

It was a report that the aforementioned Loyalty Memorial Tower would be specially loaded onto a first-class cruiser from the Certain Foreign Power and sailed all the way to Japan.

“In light of this opportunity, our government has decided to specially load the memorial tower onto the first-class cruiser *Maru* and deliver it to you in order to express our respect to the beloved citizens of Japan.”

This was what Mr. Patt, Ambassador to Japan from the Certain Foreign Power, had stated with a faint smile as he granted an audience to the press corps.

The nation’s people who read that newspaper article were even more deeply moved by the Certain Foreign Power’s goodwill.

However, a portion of the informed experts conversely frowned.

“This is rather odd, don’t you think? The Certain Foreign Power has suddenly started showering Japan with goodwill lately, hasn’t it? Even constructing a brand-new Loyalty Memorial Tower to gift us is already a grand gesture, but on top of that, dispatching their elite cruiser *Maru*—only built last year—as its transport ship? Don’t you think that’s a bit too extravagant?”

“Given the current situation, there’s also a point in conducting performance tests on the newly built warship *Maru*, don’t you think?”

“If that’s all there is to it, they needn’t have come all the way to the Far East.”
“Could it be this is meant to survey Japan’s coastal waters?”

“Then why go to the trouble of using the *Maru*? Couldn’t they just have the China Fleet handle it?”

“I just can’t make sense of it.”
“But one thing’s clear—we can’t afford to naively celebrate the *Maru*’s dispatch to the Far East.”

*Maru*, the Dispatch Ship to Japan

On December 1, the dispatch ship to Japan, the *Maru*, safely arrived at Shibaura Pier.

Through nearly 100,000 Tokyo citizens gathered to welcome and spectate, two hundred members of the *Maru*’s landing party solemnly marched through the city, the aforementioned memorial tower loaded onto artillery tractors.

Upon seeing this, the Loyalty Memorial Tower was not transported whole but had been divided into seven sections, each hauled by two tractors positioned front and back.

The lengthy procession of the dispatched unit marched down the city's main thoroughfare with great clamor, passed before S Park where the tower would be erected, and finally entered the embassy compound of the certain foreign power.

As officially disclosed beforehand, this disassembled memorial tower was to be uncrated within the embassy grounds, rigorously inspected for cracks or imperfections, then ceremoniously transported to S Park three days later for an elaborate dedication ceremony.

The night before, Ambassador Patt had announced the arrival of the Loyalty Memorial Tower via a nationwide broadcast from AK Studio,

“Please rest assured.”
“Through rigorous testing by factory engineers accompanying us from the homeland, we have conclusively demonstrated that each of the seven sections comprising the Loyalty Tower maintains impeccable integrity without even hairline cracks.”
“At tomorrow’s ceremony venue, you shall witness this firsthand, after which Japan’s preeminent civil engineers will erect it through scaffold assembly.”

With such greeting broadcasts, he once again moved the entire nation even more deeply.

The Loyalty Memorial Tower now stands resolutely within S Park, grazing the heavens.
And the citizens would gather before this new landmark nearly every day, reminiscing about the brave Japanese volunteer soldiers who had once shed crimson blood on European fields, moved to tears by their fierce fighting.

And now, the general public’s feelings toward the Certain Foreign Power had grown far calmer than before—but was that nation truly offering our Empire heartfelt reverence?

Alas, regrettably, that did not seem to be the case. For instance, considering the contents of the hints received days prior from certain channels by the famous young detective Homura Sōroku—who monitored foreign spy organizations—would lead to swift understanding.

"The defenses of the Certain Foreign Power in the South Pacific had increased fivefold within just half a year. Aircraft, bombs, fuel, food supplies, and military uniforms filled every warehouse to capacity—some even lay haphazardly thrown into hastily constructed barracks. The Certain Foreign Power was clearly adopting an offensive posture against Japan. It stood evident they awaited the opportunity to simultaneously bomb our imperial capital alongside other key locations nationwide. Moreover, what demanded utmost caution was how this cunning nation’s operational plans seemed intent on utterly destroying various institutions in the imperial capital during hostilities’ earliest stages. What we needed to know was precisely where that Certain Foreign Power aimed its sights. Were that understood, we could gain far clearer insight into the enemy’s future strategy. Homura." The voice hardened. "This is precisely why I now demand your utmost efforts—the Empire’s fate hangs entirely on this matter."

From this account, the Certain Foreign Power could only be seen as wearing a Kewpie mask while gnashing its fearsome fangs beneath it.

Thus, the war intentions of the Certain Foreign Power could be clearly discerned; however, what urgently needed ascertainment was what actual attack plan that nation would now adopt.
Speaking of Tokyo City—where exactly were the Certain Foreign Power’s bombers targeting?
Where did they intend to drop their armor-piercing shells?
How many incendiary bombs had they brought, and in which districts did they plan to unleash them?
Moreover, in what sequence and at what precise timing did they mean to scatter poison gas shells—these were matters requiring immediate clarification at this critical juncture.

Of course, within the military as well as various ministries and institutions, they were devoting their utmost attention to considering how to defend against this fearsome foreign enemy’s attack.
However, if they could ascertain what weapons the enemy possessed, it would not only make defense more manageable but also allow them to take more effective countermeasures.

Homura Sōroku raced frantically, forgetting food and sleep in his desperate bid to uncover the Certain Foreign Power’s secrets, but the enemy proved formidable, never letting him get a hold of their tail.
Even Homura—normally unshakable—was growing somewhat demoralized when a rumor-driven fine incident suddenly caught his attention.

It had been discovered within police interrogation records—an incident where at the washing area of a public bathhouse in Tsukiji, a bather who had eavesdropped on naked patrons who appeared to be coworkers chattering loudly was later arrested while eagerly retelling what he had heard to others.

According to the rumor, the man who had been speaking in the bathhouse’s washing area that night seemed to be a plasterer by trade.
His coworkers had teased him—“You’ve been splurging like mad lately—you mixed up in something crooked?”—to which the man, flushing crimson, replied, “Between you an’ me, I’ve landed this cushy job lately.”
Every morning he would go to a designated spot, get blindfolded and loaded into a car, then get driven around for an hour and a half before being dumped in some weird sealed room.
After plastering there all day, come evening they’d blindfold him again, shove him back in the car, and return him to where they’d picked him up.
He’d reportedly boasted with a touch of pride that while the work gave him the creeps, seven yen a day made it worth sticking around.

His coworkers had become utterly fascinated not by the money he was making, but by the bizarre tale of being blindfolded and taken somewhere. When they snickered and asked, "So what kinda work you doin' there anyway?" the man replied that while he couldn't quite figure out what the job was for, he'd been plastering the floor of this huge factory-like building—about three hundred tsubo in size with a high ceiling—using some strange plaster that was damn near impossible to work with.
Because of that, the work wasn't progressing as desired, and they'd only plastered about half so far, he explained.

When his friends then asked whether one could at least get a rough idea of where this mysterious three-hundred-tsubo factory with its high ceilings was located—like whether it might be in Koto or Omori based on the view from the windows or sounds from the neighborhood—the man shook his head violently. “Nah, how’d I know? That factory-like building I just mentioned doesn’t have a single window.”
It was completely sealed with walls, and electric lights were shining brilliantly.
No sounds came in at all.
He answered that it was as quiet as deep in the mountains.

When his friends suggested, “Then it must be some basement,” he denied it. When he looked up at the high ceiling and saw that the roof was covered with zinc plates, he asserted it wasn’t a basement but an ordinary building constructed above ground. The indicted rumor-mongering defendant—who had kept talking about this while mixing in his own bold imaginings—was ultimately fined fifty yen, as recorded.

Homura Sōroku found the contents of this interrogation report extremely intriguing. There he devised a plan and sprang into action—the earlier-described dramatic incident at the canal behind Tsukiji Honganji Temple being in fact an outgrowth of this rumor incident. Yoshiharu, who had been thrown into the canal and grievously injured, was none other than the man who had spilled secrets to his coworkers at that bathhouse with a “just between us” preamble. Though it concerned the Empire’s very survival, the plasterer named Masaki Shōta—who had reluctantly inflicted harm upon this Yoshiharu while making the police turn a blind eye—was unmistakably none other than Detective Homura’s alias.

Substitute Detective

Detective Homura, going by the alias Shōta the plasterer, skillfully slipped into Yoshiharu’s position.

The next morning, as instructed by Boss Gorōzō, he stood waiting at Minami-Senju Terminal—the group’s meeting point—a little before 6 a.m.
In his hands he clutched plastering tools and a lunchbox with apparent care.

Boss Gorōzō arrived last.
With this, all six faces of the group gathering at Minami-Senju Terminal were accounted for.
Unaware of Detective Homura’s infiltration, Gorōzō introduced the new plasterer calling himself Shōta to the others as his wife’s cousin, requesting they treat him well.

Detective Homura waited with secretly gleaming eyes of curiosity, wondering what would happen next, when after what felt like ten minutes had passed—

“Ah, here they come, here they come!”

As one of the coworkers said this, they looked in that direction to see a frail old woman approaching the group with an angry look on her face.

“Hey Boss, Yoshiharu ain’t here, huh?”

The old woman spoke with rough bluntness.

“Yeah, that’s the thing.
The truth is—”

Having said this, the Boss then had to explain—leaning close to whisper assurances into the old woman’s ear—that due to Yoshiharu’s unforeseen injury requiring hospitalization, he had brought his wife’s cousin Masaki Shōta as a replacement, vouching for this man’s reliability.

“Hey, you sure about this? Ain’t no mistakes here, right?”
The old woman glared at Gorōzō and Detective Homura, her eyes glinting sharply.

Homura bowed repeatedly while scratching his head, perfectly adopting the mannerisms of a craftsman.

Having finally gained the old woman’s trust, the group set off walking.
The place they eventually reached was the old woman’s shack-like house in a cluttered back alley.
Upon entering, they found the earthen-floored area structured to lead through to the rear.
There stood another crawl-through door, which the old woman opened for them.

Passing through it, they emerged into a musty, pitch-black warehouse.
As they wondered at being led to such an odd place, their eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness.
Then within this cavernous warehouse space, they noticed a single box-shaped truck of the type used for milk delivery.

Then someone emerged from out of nowhere and climbed into the driver's seat.
Another person flicked on a five-candlepower electric light.
The person carried a strangely shaped hood and slipped it over each member of Gorōzō's group from above their heads.

Homura too was finally made to wear this hood.
It was a hood made of suffocatingly thick cloth.
A band was tightened around his neck, and with meticulous care, the lock clicked shut.
With it secured like this, it stood to reason that no matter how much one tried to remove the hood, it couldn't be done.

Once that was done, Homura and the others were led by the hand into the box-shaped truck.
The door snapped shut and was locked from the inside.
It seemed that one guard from the employer’s side was boarding as well.
No one uttered a word.

Before long, the sound of the warehouse door creaking open could be heard, and at the same time, the truck gradually began to move.
At last, their journey to the secret location had begun.

Jolting and bumping along, Homura strained to memorize the truck’s route as it traveled.

When the truck turned right or left, due to the principle of inertia, his body would be pressed forcefully to one side—thereby allowing him to discern the direction.

On narrow roads, the truck jolted and rattled incessantly; when reaching wide roads, it glided smoothly as if skating along.

However, the driver seemed to be taking great care. After traveling for some time, his speed became nearly constant until he even stopped making turns altogether.
Of course, they never came to a single stop at any crossroads.
It felt as though they were steadily advancing along a single road toward the outskirts, but when he heard several fire trucks blaring their sirens through nearby streets, he realized they must still be within Tokyo proper after all.

After nearly another hour of rattling along—just as he began sensing they were rumbling down a slope—the truck jolted to a halt.

With this, they had finally concluded their long hour-and-a-half journey. As for where this place was, Homura had absolutely no idea. He had managed to remember the route at first, but midway through, it had become completely impossible to grasp.

The group slowly stepped down from inside the truck. Walking hand in hand down a long corridor, they soon heard the sound of a door opening and were led inside once more. Then the guard who had accompanied them clanked open the locks on their hoods. Homura ripped off the hood, heaved a deep breath, and surveyed his surroundings.

(So this was the place—the high-ceilinged three-hundred-tsubo factory mentioned in the interrogation report.)

Just as the stories said, there wasn’t a single window.
The electric lights blazed as bright as day, but here in this place, it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night.

Gorōzō gathered the five plasterers he had brought with him and assigned each of them their tasks for the day.
And they immediately set to work.

Homura’s job was to accompany a plasterer named Mr. Yone and together apply a special plaster to the floor.

When he casually observed his surroundings, he noted that aside from the group of six, there was one burly bearded guard who had brought them here, along with three other men in work pants who appeared to belong to the factory—all intently monitoring their work performance.

Kumagai Gorōzō referred to these three men as Mr. Matsu Supervisor, Mr. Take Supervisor, and Mr. Ume Supervisor—though these were undoubtedly code names used within their group.

Now this place had become a crucial battlefield for Homura.
This cavernous structure—a zinc-roofed building that might be called either factory or warehouse—was the great arena where he would need to marshal every ounce of his intellect to unearth the immense secret hidden within.
But what sort of clue could possibly be found in such a simple building?
It contained nothing more than a half-finished plaster floor, chocolate-brown walls, zinc-paneled ceiling, simple iron ribs, and electric lights—merely those elements assembled together.
Could he truly sniff out the kind of major secret he sought from this place?

The Study of Smells

Following Mr. Yone’s lead, Detective Homura continued silently moving his trowel with the practiced motions of a professional.

Being dexterous, he had made a habit of learning various trades whenever he had free time, training rigorously so that in contingencies like this, he could immediately assume the guise of any craftsman.

The floor beneath Homura’s feet as he stood was made of remarkably sturdy concrete.
They were applying plaster over it in a layer roughly two centimeters thick.

This plaster was different from ordinary plaster, just as previously rumored.
While using regular lime and red clay, they omitted funori seaweed glue and instead added some peculiar viscous substance along with two or three types of chemical agents.
Mixing them proved quite troublesome; once properly blended, if not applied quickly, it would harden immediately.
Unevenness formed while cracks and streaks emerged.
Then the three supervisors—Matsu, Take, and Ume—would come over and order them to redo the work.
It was grueling labor that tested their limits.

What characteristics could this special plaster possibly have?

What Homura had noticed was, first, that it dried remarkably quickly; second, that once hardened, it acquired a steel-like elasticity; and third, that this was an exceptionally high-quality plaster seemingly rich in heat resistance.
At least in the market, such superior plaster wasn't known.

What could be the purpose of laying such superior plaster here?

In an ordinary machine factory, there would be no need to apply such plaster—the concrete foundation beneath would suffice. Even in more extravagant cases, pouring a thin layer of asphalt over it would have sufficed. Yet for them to reinforce this plaster beyond ordinary strength meant there had to be an underlying purpose. What manner of object could possibly rest upon this perfectly level floor? Homura kept diligently working his trowel while contemplating this, feeling an involuntary chill creep down his spine.

Regarding his observations from that day, Homura later reported as follows before a certain high-ranking official.

"I thought of somehow bringing back a sample of that plaster—even a small amount sufficient for qualitative analysis—but refrained due to the strict surveillance."

“Couldn’t you hide it under your nails or sprinkle some in your hair? There must be some clever method like that.”

“They’ve anticipated every trick over there. When our work shifts end, they force us into baths. With women attendants, no less—scrubbing us from head to toe. They trim our nails meticulously and brush them clean for good measure. Then they make us change every stitch of clothing when we leave. Even our sandals and floor mats get swapped out. Their precautions are exhaustive.”

“Hmm, they’re being surprisingly meticulous about this.”

The high-ranking official appeared sincerely impressed.

“Say, Mr. Homura. This isn’t something I can say too loudly, but might the workplace you’re currently investigating be something along the lines of our security forces’ air-raid shelter?”

“Well, that’s—”

“If that’s the case, you’d end up investigating your own country’s confidential facility—a grave miscalculation.”

“That’s correct. I shared the very same doubt Your Excellency raised. In fact, I had been considering that from the very start. However, I have established proof that—at the very least—that building does not belong to our security-related facilities.”

“Well, well, that’s a relief. And what exactly is this evidence?”

The high-ranking official’s dark eyes flickered from behind his glasses.

“The evidence… it’s the smell.”

“What? The smell?”

“Regarding smells, people generally pay little attention,”
“But olfactory research shouldn’t be underestimated.”
“When Japanese gather, they supposedly give off a pickled radish odor.”
“This means a distinctive smell—stemming from dietary particularities—emanates from Japanese bodies.”
“Among themselves, sharing the same pickled radish scent, they don’t notice it—but foreigners detect it quite sharply.”

“Hmm, I see.”
“So, did you detect any peculiar odor in connection with that workplace?”

“That’s correct.”

“When I got off the truck and was being dragged down the corridor, I noticed that distinctive smell right away.”
“I also noticed it when changing clothes in the bathhouse.”
“Then, even when near the supervisors, I detected that smell.”
“That place is absolutely not one managed by Japanese people.”

“That’s serious.”
“But aren’t those supervisors Japanese?”

“They’re Chinese.”
“I believe the women in the bathhouse are also Chinese.”

“Then does that make it a Chinese factory?”

“No, smells are far more complex than that. There’s the particular odor of that location itself. While I believe that’s partly due to the chocolate-colored paint—and this is research I’ve developed some confidence in—I’m convinced that building has ties to the Certain Foreign Power.”

“I see—the Certain Foreign Power,” the high-ranking official nodded deeply.

“That is a great discovery—but unfortunately I do not know where this place lies.”

“Determining its location isn’t beyond us. Why not have someone shadow me tomorrow and tail that box truck?”

“Ah—so that’s how we should proceed.”

The high-ranking official smiled faintly.

Self-Recording Seismograph

It was the next morning.

Detective Homura once again carried his plasterer’s tools and lunchbox to the Minami-Senju terminal.

A special squad composed of plainclothes detectives kept watch over Homura’s movements from a distance.

The appointed time of six o’clock in the morning arrived.

“This is strange—no one’s coming at all.”

Even when the appointed time arrived, none of yesterday’s faces had gathered. Even the crucial Boss Gorōzō hadn’t shown himself.

“I’ve messed up.”

Homura shouted.
It was already too late.
The enemy had apparently become fully aware.

Reluctantly, he ordered a squad of plainclothes detectives to inspect the warehouse where the truck was supposed to be stored, but all they discovered was that nothing of the sort was inside, rendering the effort entirely futile.

How had they discovered Homura?

When he called Simpson Hospital and inquired about the injured Yoshiharu Genkichi’s condition, a nurse came on the line and said that he had been discharged the previous night.
He asked back in shock, but it was exactly as she had said.
When he asked about who had picked him up, it seemed to have been Boss Gorōzō.

The precious investigative net had snapped and been torn apart.
Homura stamped his feet in frustration, but there was nothing more he could do.

First, he reported this major incident to the high-ranking official and sought his instructions.

On the possibility that the injured Yoshiharu Genkichi might have been admitted to another hospital, they investigated throughout the Keihin region but found nothing.
At Simpson Hospital, since his injuries weren’t that severe, there had been talk that hospitalization might not be necessary.

In any case, the big fish had gotten away.

Now there remained nothing but to apprehend Boss Gorōzō when he returned home at night and admonish him.
He would tell him that being Japanese himself, he couldn't possibly claim ignorance about being employed by the Certain Foreign Power.
In such case there remained no alternative but to press him relentlessly until he divulged every secret he knew about that construction site.

However, when things didn't go well, failures kept piling up endlessly.
This was because Gorōzō had not returned home that night after all.

Yet late that night, a special delivery arrived at the house.
Written in Gorōzō's own hand, it stated that due to work requirements, he would be staying over there for the time being and not to worry about him.

It was a strange affair.
It was unclear how the information had leaked, but in any case, the other side had noticed and decided not to let the workers return home.
In that case, our investigation was left with almost nothing but despair.

“Hmm, failure upon failure—I’ve made a colossal blunder.”

Detective Homura clutched his head and agonized, but there was nothing more he could do.

Even so, a case of this magnitude could not simply be abandoned. As for the authorities, leaving that aside, Homura himself devoted himself day and night to studying how he might once again discover a path to reach that secret construction site.

It was about a week later.

Whether Homura’s fervor had reached the divine or not, he suddenly recalled a crucial fact.

It concerned ground vibrations he had heard while working near that construction site—not within it, but somewhere in the vicinity—that seemed to come from frequent pile-driving work.

Regarding this, he now discovered a significant clue he had completely forgotten until then.
This stemmed from how the pile-driving sound didn’t maintain a smooth *thud-thud-thud-thud* rhythm, instead catching at certain points in a distinctive *thud-thud-thud...thud* pattern.
Perhaps a gear tooth was chipped, or maybe there was a kink in the rope—whatever the cause, it emitted an irregular resonance.

He had nailed this down.
"If only I had realized sooner."

Homura leapt up and rejoiced.
How did he intend to utilize the irregular ground vibrations of *ton-ton-ton...ton*?

He immediately dashed out of the house and rushed to the seismology department at Imperial University.
There, he met with the professor and requested to borrow a portable self-recording seismograph.
The professor listened to the circumstances and not only gladly lent everything available in the classroom but also arranged for several assistants to accompany him.

Homura's eyes shone with fresh intensity for the first time in ages.
He intended to use this self-recording seismograph to pinpoint the source of those irregular *ton-ton-ton...ton* thudding vibrations.
Of course, he had initially considered starting with the area containing buildings related to the Certain Foreign Power, but even so, he harbored one particular location in his heart where he wanted to install this seismograph above all else.

Tokyo Fortress

Boss Gorōzō had come to realize his inescapable fate by this point.

At first, he had taken on the job thinking it nothing more than easy money, but for over a week now, he had recognized this work's true nature was anything but ordinary.
He couldn't help sensing mortal danger, yet by now there was nothing left to be done.
The group of six found themselves in conditions scarcely different from prison confinement.

The main construction had been completed, and the plasterers' work was no longer much needed.
Yet no matter who pleaded, the supervisors bearing Matsu, Take, and Ume name tags refused to permit them to return home.
The group of six were confined daily to a single room with nothing to do and were being overfed.

One day, Boss Gorōzō was summoned alone. Since they had told him to come out with his plastering tools, he thought this must mean work was finally available. This was unusual. So this meant they had spent four whole days without work.

Boss Gorōzō passed through a long corridor he hadn’t walked in some time and entered the usual construction site through the familiar small door. But in his entire life, there had never been a moment that shattered his courage like this one.

“Gah—!”

With that final cry, he lost all strength in his legs and collapsed limply onto the plaster floor.

Behold!
Until recently, it had been a desolate empty room with nothing inside. But now?
The giant cannon—its caliber estimated to be nearly fifty centimeters—was there not, solidly installed upon the plaster he himself had applied?
It was far shorter than the main guns of capital ships, yet even so, the entire length of its barrel measured nearly five meters.
At its base, the midsection of the cannon had a diameter of approximately one and a half meters.
It was a stout large siege cannon.

What was the siege cannon for?
He had never imagined a giant cannon would be installed inside this building.
Even someone other than Gorōzō would have collapsed at this sight.

From behind the giant cannon, about three officers appeared.

“Ah!”

Gorōzō’s entire body prickled with fear and trembled.

Those three officers were unmistakably naval officers of the Certain Foreign Power.
Gorōzō had seen and recognized the uniforms of that Certain Foreign Power’s military personnel countless times—in newspapers, in newsreels, and on the day of the Loyalty Tower unveiling ceremony at S Park.

(Am I dreaming?)

Doubting this, he pinched his thigh hard, but it still hurt.
Therefore, this was not a dream.
If this wasn’t a dream, then the scene before him was nothing short of horrifying!
The officer walking on the gun carriage beckoned Supervisor Matsu and issued some command.

Supervisor Matsu snapped to attention and rushed over to Gorōzō.

“Hey! There’s work needs redoing.”
“Get it done quick.”
“Can’t even stand up?”
“What good’s that gonna do?”
“Then I’ll fix it myself.”

With that, he mercilessly drove the tip of his boot upward into Gorōzō’s hipbone.

Gorōzō, driven by fury, managed to stagger to his feet.

“Hey, Supervisor.
“We’ve kept quiet and worked until now—but whose country’s cannon is this?”

With that declaration still hanging in airless space between them like plaster dust suspended mid-fall—he thrust out an unsteady hand toward artillery monstrosity; fingertips trembling not from fear now but white-hot outrage made flesh—index digit quivering arrow-straight at siege gun’s gargantuan breach.

“What?”
“You’re asking that now?”
“You know damn well.”
“This isn’t Japan’s cannon!”

“Hmm… So it’s some country’s cannon then.”
“What on earth do you intend to do by building such a secret artillery battery inside this building?”

“Do you think I know such things?”
“I’m just a hired hand same as you.”
“Whatever it is—as long as we follow the master’s orders, the one who pays us, there won’t be any mistakes.”

“Hmm… So that’s how it is.”
“So you’re just a pawn too.”
“I won’t work another minute starting now.”
“You think I’ll stay neatly exploited by those cowardly foreign dogs who planted this dangerous thing in Japan’s own soil?!”

“Do it quick—any damn way—or you’re dead!”
“If you stall, we’ll all get killed!”

Supervisor Matsu kept jabbing at Gorōzō with his boot, but Gorōzō wouldn’t budge no matter what was said.

The foreign officer who had been on the gun carriage descended with heavy steps upon seeing that.
And in fluent Japanese,

“Why haven’t you done it quickly?
“If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll fire this cannon.”
“Do you know where this cannon’s muzzle is aimed?”
“If this is fired, a large shell will fly and destroy an important government office.”
“If that happens, Japan’s mobilization plans, operation plans—everything will be reduced to ashes, and Japan will become unable to wage war.”
“How about it—should I fire it?”

“Coward.”
“There’s no bastard among the Japanese who’d plot such an underhanded conspiracy!”

“—Or would you prefer a peaceful resolution? My government has now submitted a peaceful treaty to the Japanese government. If that can be heeded, we can avoid firing this. If you persist in this violence and refuse to obey our orders, we will have no choice but to fire this cannon. Which will it be?”

With that, the blue-eyed officer seized Gorōzō and uttered what sounded like a childish ruse. Yet even within those threats, there was truth—this giant cannon truly was now aimed at a certain government office. In this age where surveying had advanced, artillery gunners could set their sights without seeing targets directly; through observational data from other methods, they could calibrate aim even without line of sight. Ah, but who could have known this fearsome siege cannon was concealed beneath a zinc roof?

Is there no way to inform others of this great secret?
Gorōzō had already resigned himself to his own life.

At that moment.

When the inner door was flung open， an officer from the certain foreign power with a deathly pale face burst in leading a squad of soldiers.

“Colonel， sir—it’s a crisis! A formation of nine Japanese heavy bombers has appeared and are circling overhead! It seems they’ve noticed this siege fortress， sir!”

“What? Are you telling me heavy bombers are circling?”
“Is that true?”

“It certainly is!”
“Ah! Can’t you hear it? The roar of enemy planes—”

“Hmm, I see.”
“This won’t do.”
“Where could the Tokyo Fortress Commander be?”
“I must receive orders at once!”

As he was saying this, a shrill telephone bell rang.

The officer referred to as the Colonel rushed toward it, grabbed the receiver, and bellowed into the phone.

"Yes, sir! Is that so?"
"Our preparations are complete."
"We can fire at any time."
"Hah! Are you ordering us to attack immediately?"
"Understood, sir."
"Then I'll give the order!"

After slamming down the phone, the Colonel wheeled to face his troops.

"Attention!—All personnel, battle stations!"
"Main battery, prepare to fire!"

At last, the demon-like giant cannon began its bombardment aimed at the heart of our Japanese Empire.
Gorōzō had already flown into a rage.
He suddenly pushed through the soldiers and tried to clamber onto the gun carriage.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

With a thunderous bang, smoke erupted from the pistol of the non-commissioned officer standing nearby.
Gorōzō became rigid like a stick and tumbled down from the gun carriage.

The moment of terror approached.
—

But there was no longer any need to continue this story.
For in the next instant, a tremendous roar—as if a hundred thunderclaps had fallen and shattered simultaneously—erupted within that room.
The instant it seemed a crimson curtain of flames had swept down through the zinc roof, the cannon barrel, the soldiers, and the building were blasted into the open sky with a thunderous crash and splintering roar.

Tokyo citizens, near and far, rushed outdoors at this untimely air raid and looked up at a pitch-black pillar of smoke—swelling and rising dozens of meters high into the overcast snowy sky—with puzzled expressions.—

Even now, Homura Sōroku proudly keeps the drum of the self-recording seismograph—which played a major role in discovering the location of the secret artillery battery that a certain foreign power had presumptuously dubbed the "Tokyo Fortress"—encased in a glass box.
On that black drum, the characteristic rhythmic thud thud thud thud earth tremors had been traced by a white line into a beautiful vibration curve.
And below that,

“Shōwa X, December 7th – Observed behind the embassy of a certain foreign power” was inscribed there.
And he triumphantly told a guest:

“That’s why I kept insisting at every opportunity, I tell you. Foreign embassies shouldn’t be kept in the Marunouchi area, at the very least.”
“That ‘Tokyo Fortress’ giant cannon?”
“That was brought over by the Maru from their home country. To put it plainly—they hid it inside that Loyalty Tower and smuggled it into the embassy compound. That certain foreign power certainly has some clever people, I’ll give them that.”