Pathway to Japanese Literature

Detective novelist Umeno Jugo had spread manuscript paper across his desk and sat utterly despondent.

When he looked at the shelf clock, its hands pointed to 2:15.
This was not afternoon's two o'clock but morning's.
Drawing back the curtain to peer outside, through glass doors fogged by stove-warmth sweat, he perceived how pitch darkness—black as ocean depths where pupils dissolve—had sealed him in.

A few more hours would bring dawn.
Then window-lit brightness would come, streetcars clanging into motion.
Then from those streetcars would descend one earnest high-collared boy, pacing measured steps through his gate.
Then when that boy's finger pressed the entrance button, inner rooms would scream with ZZZZNNN's electric bell.
Umeno Jugo knew with absolute certainty: that bell's first vibration would trigger cardiac paralysis, leaving him slumped pathetic across his all-night desk—this conviction brooked no doubt.

On the manuscript paper lay not a single line or half-formed phrase.
It was completely blank.
Not only was the top sheet of manuscript paper like this, but the one beneath it and yet another below that—no, even if he searched through every sheet of manuscript paper in the entire house, not a single character had been written.
And yet, when morning came, the high-collared errand boy would invariably arrive to collect manuscript paper bearing written characters.
The errand boy would salute Umeno Jugo’s wife with utmost courtesy and undoubtedly say something along these lines.

“Yes, I am an errand boy from the editorial department of New Detective, a magazine specializing in detective fiction.”
“I have come to collect Professor’s promised manuscript, here.”

When he thought of this, Umeno Jugo felt a terror akin to having a hungry circus lion thrust its gaping maw lined with pink flesh right before his face.
It was truly a shudder-inducing matter.

Why was it that he couldn’t write a single character or even half a stroke within the grid squares of the manuscript paper?
And why was he as utterly dispirited as a prisoner conscripted as a test subject for poison gas?

Of course, there was a reason for this.
Without reason, things cannot yield results.

In truth, these days there had been nothing more terrifying to Umeno Jugo than writing detective novels.
Were he to publish a detective novel this month, by the very next month that work would find itself dragged onto at least ten different criticism scaffolds, where executioners would massacre it according to their individual whims.

If this had been a human execution, it should have been easier.
Because a human life is a single entity—once executed, that's the finality of it, with no need to be killed again two or three times over.
However, with novel executions, they get hauled out ten or even twenty times to undergo meticulous execution—utterly intolerable. Though admittedly, no matter how many times they're killed off, they obstinately resurrect themselves, so even the executioners must have grown exasperated.

Many executioners, though divided into various factions, were all detective novel supremacists who proclaimed that any newly published detective novel must be an unprecedented lofty work. Therefore, if they dared publish a detective novel that failed to surpass the highest standard previously demonstrated by someone’s work, it would be equivalent to releasing a rabbit before a starving lion. Therefore, a bungling writer such as Umeno Jugo was always providing nothing but victim material.

And so, he was pinning the reason for his writer's block on such flimsy grounds. However, given that he was fundamentally born with this persecution complex masquerading as victimhood, it remained unclear how sincerely he believed these self-justifications. To tell the truth, he harbored a far more concrete reason for being unable to write.

To lay it bare - he didn't have a single detective story idea left in him. Until recently, one final concept had lingered in reserve, but having squandered even that days prior, he now found himself utterly bankrupt of material. Yet with dawn's approach demanding he somehow cobble together an entire novel regardless, this predicament left him no choice but to resist despondency - however desperately he might crave surrender.

Even as he pondered such things, the clock's hands turned dutifully onward, and what little time remained until dawn steadily dwindled away.
If I don't come up with something to write soon, what in blazes will become of me?
The time had now passed exactly 2:30 AM - just beyond the Hour of the Ox.
The surroundings had sunk into tomblike silence—no, wait—rats were now clattering across the ceiling.
The bit about tomblike silence was hereby stricken from the record.

At this moment, Umeno Jugo was glaring at the ceiling boards where the rats scurried with hate-filled upturned eyes when, for some reason, he abruptly thrust a single hand out from his pocket,

“Well, my apologies.”

With these words, he bowed deeply toward the ceiling.

He suddenly perked up, pulled the manuscript paper close to hand, and took up his pen.
At last, he seemed to have come up with something and began to write.

He first wrote a large “1” in the manuscript paper’s margin.
That indicated it was the manuscript’s first page.
He liked writing these page numbers in large, rounded letters like plump buns.

Having inscribed the manuscript's first character, he now picked up his pen again and moved it to the top of the sixth line.
At last, he seemed ready to begin writing the main text.

“Umeda Juuhachi waited for the dead of night, then quietly slipped out from behind the broken grandfather clock.”

He crawled on his stomach, slowly ascending the pitch-dark, gritty stone staircase.

When he reached the top of the staircase, a dimly lit great hall spread out before him in a single sweeping view.
The witch was sleeping on a bed in one corner, snoring vigorously.
“The opportunity was precisely now.”

Thereupon, Umeno Jugo extended his left hand, pulled out a cigarette from the can, and put it in his mouth.
And then, using only that same left hand with dexterity, he struck a match.
Purple smoke billowed thickly across the manuscript paper.
He moved the hand gripping the pen to the top of the new line.

It seemed his right hand had finally regained its good mood—before his brain did.

“—Umeda Juuhachi fearfully crept into the great hall.”
He had often written novels about famous detectives boldly infiltrating thieves’ dens, but tonight marked the first time he had actually broken into a real mansion.
He tried to walk straight ahead, but his hips wobbled unsteadily and wouldn’t obey.
Having no choice, he once again dropped to all fours and approached the large desk he had previously identified.

Looking at the desk, there indeed lay a small blue-covered book.
All secrets lay within that.
He excitedly clamped onto the desk and, wasting no time, opened that blue book and began reading.

“When Adam had reached her eight-thousandth birthday, the Heavenly Emperor transformed her into an old woman’s form and bestowed upon her one divine power—the ability to change the many rats she kept into any object or living creature at will—with this condition: that each morning at six o’clock without fail, she must rise and recite an incantation three times; such was the covenant.”
“Should she neglect this duty, her divine powers would vanish instantly, returning all things to their original states; thus Adam transformed the numerous rats she reared into many men and women, creating various objects.”

Having finished reading, Umeda Juuhachi was struck by intense terror.
He had not been without this feeling all along.
He had anticipated that among the humans filling today’s world—while some might trace their ancestry to apes per Darwin’s theory—there could also be no small number who, as described in Witch Adamu Uicchi’s diary, had transformed into humans from other creatures, though he couldn’t tell whether from rats or jellyfish.

Indeed, he might not be a permanent human evolved from apes but rather a rat temporarily transformed into a human.
Now that he thought of it, he had developed a habit of crawling about without any clear reason.
Moreover, there had been a time when he’d looked at his own face in the mirror and felt something rat-like about it—the way his eyeballs kept darting about restlessly, how his snout seemed somehow pointed, and the coarse whiskers growing above the cleft of his lips that resembled those of a rat.
Now that secret had been unraveled.—”

At this point, Umeno Jugo found continuing to write increasingly absurd and set down his pen. He had delighted in writing mystery-laden detective novels that earned him acclaim, and later grew smug by penning works like *Mystery Detective Novel Theory*, but this current endeavor showed no promise of amounting to anything. He lit the extinguished cigarette with another match and took a drag.

At that moment, there was something that piqued his interest. That was within the manuscript he had just written,

“—When he had looked at his face in the mirror that time, there was something rat-like about it—the way his eyes kept darting about restlessly, how his snout seemed somewhat pointed, and the coarse whiskers growing above the cleft of his lips that resembled a rat’s!”

He had written this, but found himself wondering why he had conceived such an idea.

The matter of him having taken the rats that had just started rampaging in the ceiling as a stroke of timely inspiration and begun writing about rodents in his manuscript was perfectly understandable.
However, for having taken that rat story and developed it into a narrative where the protagonist’s face resembled a rodent—there had to be some underlying reason.
In all cases, there is no result without a reason.
By what pathway had that motif come into being?

Perhaps—though Umeno Jugo himself remained unaware—his face resembled that of a rat, and thus his subconscious had compelled him to devise such a plot. If that were true, he suddenly grew uneasy. He had to clarify that suspicion or he’d feel unsettled.

He didn't notice the clock had already struck three in the morning and took down the handbox from the adjacent shelf. Inside it was a large, round concave mirror, left completely exposed. He placed his hand on the handbox’s lid, intending to see his face reflected in it—but wait!

Even under the bright lamp, being the only one awake at this late hour—if he tried to see his face reflected in the concave mirror, could he really trust what he saw? If only the mirror's depths would reflect his glossy russet face—but what if, by some mischance, that surface instead showed the shaggy visage of a great rat covering his entire countenance? What would become of him then?

At this thought, his hands began trembling violently. The handbox's lid started rattling. Something cold as an ice blade slithered down his spine. He pressed down desperately on the lid he'd meant to open—now determined not to lift it this time. Still the terror crept steadily up both arms. Completely panicked now, he finally threw open the side window with a bang and hurled both mirror and handbox into the darkness outside. In the void, dwarf bamboo soaked in cold rain rasped with an eerie sound like a blade slicing through human flesh diagonally. He slammed the window shut and yanked the curtains closed.

The clock on the desk showed well past 3 AM.
He clenched another cigarette between his lips and, this time, propped his cheek on his hand as he sank into thought over the manuscript paper.

If he were to write more about Witch Adamu Uicchi from earlier, there was indeed an idea for how to proceed.
—That is to say, protagonist Umeda Juuhachi finally resolved to kill the witch.
He would find a large pickle-pressing stone from within the castle—no, that felt slightly absurd—so instead procure a large millstone, hoist it high above his head, and bring it down with a thud onto the skull of the witch sleeping on her bed.
She shrieked once—a final farewell to this world—and as the witch’s breath ceased, Umeda Juuhachi’s form transformed into that of a small house mouse measuring about one sun in length—though one sun felt slightly too short; in any case, he would leave it at just “sun” for now, erasing the numerical value until consulting an indexed zoological encyclopedia later.

However, killing off the witch at that point would make the novel utterly uninteresting as a story.
He had to make better use of the witch’s sorcery—it’d be a waste otherwise.

Now then, what if he tried this approach?
The protagonist Umeda Juuhachi would have it that he never came to the castle on any exploration.

He had completely settled his manuscript obligations and found his body feeling unburdened. There came the neighborhood girl he’d been contemplating wooing, visiting in a crimson dress. Thereupon, Umeda Juuhachi—accompanied by Ruriko (the girl’s name)—set out for a walk. The two, having walked until weary, sat down side by side on a bench with the moonlit ancient castle at their backs. And drawing close together, they exchanged sweet whispers of love.

However, the witch Adamu Uicchi inside the castle saw this from afar and grew fiercely jealous.
Unable to endure it any longer, she drank herself into self-destructive oblivion.
Having guzzled far too much liquor until her body went slack as konjac jelly, she finally collapsed spread-eagled on the floor in drunken slumber.

Beneath the castle walls, Juuhachi and Ruriko stayed tightly entwined, whispering lovers' vows without a care for propriety.
They never noticed the moon sinking westward.
As dawn's first pallor crept across the eastern sky—(Ah! How trite—"dawn's first pallor crept"—what hackneyed phrasing!)
But was night truly still holding fast in its pitch-black stability?
Maybe I should open the curtains and check.
Hmm—still safe for now.)

Beside the embracing young pair stood a large pomegranate tree, its branches heavy with crimson fruit.
Through that space flitted a swarm of early-rising hummingbirds, buzzing merrily as they darted about.
Like sarasa fabric patterns.

At the castle, Witch Adamu Uicchi remained collapsed on the floor, still snoring away.
The electric clock’s hands were already pointing at 6 AM—taboo, taboo!—yet she showed no signs of waking.
If one were to twist the receiver’s switch and leave it on—radio calisthenics would begin around this time, and old man Announcer Egi would rouse them with his booming voice—but he, Umeno Jugo, always did so.
However, the one rising from bed was not he, but his child heading off to elementary school.
He could listen to the radio calisthenics and sleep soundly with peace of mind.—Unfortunately, the witch had gotten roaring drunk the previous night and forgotten to twist the switch before bed, so even with the calisthenics broadcast playing, his witch couldn’t hear it.
And so, in the end, she failed to recite the three promised incantations to the Heavenly Emperor at 6 AM.

What kind of scene did this result in beneath the castle?

Ruriko, basking in the radiant sunlight while embracing Umeda Juuhachi, suddenly found his body vanishing. Losing her balance, she tumbled wide-eyed onto the bench in a lengthy sprawl.
At that moment, a house mouse leapt out from beneath her body.
And those two house mice scurried away in that direction—though writing “two house mice” might lead readers to suspect the author, half-asleep, had mistakenly written the character for “two” instead of “one.”
However, the reader will surely come to regret this soon enough.
The author writes that part like this: —

"—Of course, one house mouse was none other than the pitiable Umeda Juuhachi restored to his original form. The other mouse had been the crimson dress returned to its primordial state. Unaware that she stood stark naked beneath the midday sun, Ruriko rose from the bench."

And so it was written.

At this point, there were bound to be one or two readers curling their lips into a smirk.

For him as the author, it hadn't been an entirely unpleasant feeling, but this wouldn't make for a detective novel.

"Huh, it's already four o'clock.
This won't do."

Umeno Jugo, who had forgotten about writing his manuscript and carelessly drifted into a pleasant state, suddenly panicked upon seeing the clock’s hands. He had wasted a tremendous amount of time; he had to start writing immediately or he’d never make it. Detective novel, detective novel, detective novel—blast it all!

When it comes to detective novels, there exists no shortage of stringent definitions.
Umeno Jugo normally paid little heed to such definitions, but given the dire circumstances of his manuscript's severe stagnation, his paramount objective became carving out an escape route and pushing through by whatever means available.
For now, submitting to that definition and delivering results seemed the prudent course.

According to academic theory, a detective novel is a work in which a mystery is presented and subsequently solved through deductive reasoning.
In other words, there exists a single mystery here; through common knowledge or mere explanatory information regarding the various elements constituting that mystery, by appropriately combining certain parts of that knowledge through deductive reasoning until the mystery is solved—it is said that a detective novel is precisely such a reasoning system rendered in fictional form.

If I solve the rat's face through deduction—what answer could possibly emerge?

“What would you solve for ‘rat’s face’ as your riddle?”

“Well now, how shall we solve this?
Well I don’t get it, so let’s just call it quits!”

“In that case, I’ll take that and solve it as Garyoubai.”

“What kinda nonsense is that?”

“The essence is that the flower [nose] sits lower than the trunk [Mickey], ya see?”

This was merely a riddle game—not a detective novel.
First, the key to solving that mystery fell short of being supremely fair.
It forced an implausible concept.

Even had this been published as a detective novel, it still wouldn’t have qualified as superior work.
The defect lay in how the reasoning used to construct this mystery stood completely inverted from that employed to solve it.
In other words, this “rat’s face” mystery hadn’t been solved through any straightforward sequence.
The principle that “the converse (gyaku ha) is not necessarily true (hitsu zushimo shin narazu)” first appears in geometry textbooks studied in middle schools—girls’ schools being equally acceptable—but this case precisely exemplified those “necessarily” (hitsu zushimo) instances.

In creating the mystery of "Rat's Face," he first considered whether there was anything related to rats.
And then he came up with Mickey.
—Mickey Mouse was a bit too long and unwieldy.

Once that was settled, the next step became considering the chain of associations between Mickey and "Rat’s Face."
However, this chain of associations had to simultaneously explain something entirely different from "Rat’s Face."
Having reached this stage, it was now a war between luck and common sense.

Fortunately, he had quickly hit upon Garyoubai, thereby finalizing the mystery—though he couldn’t deny that this chain of associations carried a certain fragility.

The riddle had thus been completed, but as previously stated, since he had developed the mystery’s explanation by working backward from its solution, the process of solving it—searching for the chain of associations in "Rat’s Face" to deduce the answer—would follow precisely the reverse order.
This is precisely where there arose room for the principle that *the converse is not necessarily true* to intrude.

—And so Umeno Jugo defiled two or three sheets of manuscript paper as described above, but this didn't seem to be a detective novel.
In the end, it was nothing more than a petty analysis of detective novel theory—he couldn't possibly submit something like this to the editorial department.

He grabbed the manuscript pages he'd painstakingly written, tore them to shreds with a ripping sound, and tossed them into the wastebasket beneath his desk.
He had no choice but to start over from the very beginning.
However, unlike before, he had stopped paying much attention to the clock's hands.
Gradually, the novelist's nerve had settled in—or so it seemed.

—Authoress detective novelist Ume ga E Jūshi Ko had been invited to her girls' school alumni reunion days earlier and found herself made to draw a lottery ticket. When she opened it, she discovered "Rat's Face" elegantly inscribed in Kisui-ryū calligraphy.

“Miss Jūshi Ko, what sort of lottery ticket did you get? Come now, show me yours in secret.”

“Well, mine’s called ‘Rat’s Face,’ see?”

“Oh! ‘Rat’s Face,’ you say? Oh, really now.”
“My, what an interesting title! I wonder what prize it’ll win.”

"Well now, unlike all of you, I’m still unmarried—so the Heavenly Emperor will surely deign to commend my blameless daily life and bestow a marvelous prize upon me. Just wait and see!"

"Oh my, how brazen maidens are these days—"

(Detective novelist Umeno Jugo grinned on behalf of a certain sin-stained Mrs. So-and-so and once again set down his pen there.)
(and reached for a hand-rolled cigarette.)

The lottery tickets were read out by Dr. Mori’s wife and Major Tani’s wife—the event chairpersons—and each bizarre prize was awarded in turn.
Each time this happened, the flower-like ladies—the plural “ladies” indicating that among them was included one “maiden” (detective novelists being habituated to describe even trivialities with mathematical precision, never cutting corners)—would revert to their schoolgirl days and guffaw like wontons.
(The phrase) “like wontons”—this was pilfered from someone else’s famous line.
Writers must have at least that much resourcefulness, Umeno Jugo believed.
But if every single thing required this many explanatory notes, the story would never get anywhere.
(From now on adopting a policy of silent, steady progression.)

At last, “Rat’s Face” was read out in ringing tones.

“It’s me!—”

A step before Ms. Ume ga E could cry out, the lady seated next to her (whose name the author had neglected to record)—

"That's Ms. Jūshi Ko's!"

she shouted.
Ms. Ume ga E glared sidelong with piercing intensity.

"Ah, so it's Ms. Jūshi Ko."
"Oh my, what a wonderful prize!"
"Among today's prizes, it's the most splendid and precious one!"

With that, Mrs. Tani, one of the event chairpersons, came rushing up to Ms. Ume ga E Jūshi Ko holding a rather flimsy white Western envelope relative to the conversation's significance.
Ms. Ume ga E Jūshi Ko, slightly abashed, reached out her hand adorned with a platinum bracelet to accept the white Western envelope—Could this be a ten-yen note?—her heart skipped a beat.

Chairperson Mori announced in a loud voice from across the room:

“Rat’s Face, Rat’s Face.
“The winner is Ume ga E Jūshi Ko—the newly rising authoress detective novelist currently at the white-hot center of the literary world’s attention (Newly rising? How rude! I’m an established leading writer!—this being Ms. Ume ga E’s indignant protest).”
“The prize iiiis—...please do take it out from the envelope—a Turkey photo card!”
“The reason is, the girls made a huge fuss.—”

So it went, but this lottery’s riddle—“What does ‘Rat’s Face’ represent? The answer is Garyoubai”—proved better constructed than the earlier case about “flowers blooming lower than the trunk.”

The reason lay in how this lottery’s “Rat’s Face (prize: Turkey photo card)—the young ladies made a great fuss” surpassed its predecessor by being far more relatable while still incorporating sufficiently topical material for current discussions. Moreover, though somewhat esoteric within the newly unified Japan-Manchukuo Empire framework, Niangniang was recognized by no insignificant number of Japanese as their ally’s most illustrious event through the Niangniang Festival at Niangniang Temple—a sophistication that paradoxically elevated this lottery into something even more refined.

This principle could be directly applied to detective novel composition as well—it held true that their mysteries should employ as much commonplace，everyday material as possible；that the difficulty of their deductive reasoning ought to remain within this moderate range；and that their solutions had to be sufficiently sensational…

This is bad—I’ve been careless and gone off writing about detective novel theory again.
I’ll have Chairperson Mori announce the lottery prize with “—the reason is，the girls made a huge fuss” and end the manuscript there，then delete everything from “The thing is…” up through “something sufficiently sensational…”

With a wry smile, Umeno Jugo deleted about ten lines in jet-black ink.

The clock struck 4:30 AM.

Umeno Jugo grew impatient as his manuscript showed no signs of progress.
If he kept dawdling, it would soon be time for the suburban trains to start running.
The newspaper delivery—those from the early companies—would likely appear at the front gate in about thirty minutes.
In that case, the metal mailbox for post and newspapers attached beside the gate was supposed to clatter resoundingly.
That was like the clack of wooden clappers heralding the rise of dawn’s curtain.

He had managed to make something of the lottery story and felt somewhat pleased, but even so, wasn’t someone bound to point out that a lottery story remained just that—hardly deserving to be called a detective novel?

"Come on, I have to write a detective novel quickly!"

And so Umeno Jugo, unaware that his compulsive tidying habit was hindering his pen’s progress, heaved himself upright with a grunt and set out once more on his detective novel hunt.

The wise approach was to select and write something anyone would recognize as bearing the hallmarks of a detective novel.
Umeno Jugo considered adopting such a format.

With international relations growing strained, he resolved to try writing a detective novel centered on a battle of wits between people from the Red and White nations at their border.

First, to establish the framework: this was the border between the Red and White nations. A moderately narrow road connected the two countries. At its midpoint, large brass studs had been embedded into the asphalt surface to clearly mark the border between them. When night fell and these markers became invisible, signal lights would illuminate along both sides of the road instead.

On either side of this demarcation line stood crossing gate arms made from each nation's distinct materials and shaped according to their respective designs. Whenever someone approached the border, both arms would jerk upward simultaneously. Crossers would duck beneath these barriers into the opposing nation's territory, approach the waiting customs officer stationed there in his makeshift booth, formally request border passage, and submit their luggage for inspection. Only after completing this process were they permitted to march straight through the small customs gate into foreign soil.

Well, having established that much of the stage setting, we shall now introduce there the Red Nation’s renowned smuggling mastermind—Old Man Reddo.

“Once again, I must ask your assistance.”
“Hey there, Customs siiir—”

At Reddo’s brass-like voice—(the earlier use of 銅羅 for “dora” had been an error;
thinking something seemed off, I checked the dictionary now and found that the correct form of the “ra” character indeed contained the gold radical.
Being a novelist meant even memorizing individual characters was an exhausting ordeal)—in response to Reddo’s booming voice, customs officer Waitoman emerged from the depths while tightening his sword belt around his waist, his face sleep-addled.
By writing this, author Umeno Jugo intended readers to understand that this border customs house was a rather peaceful, leisurely checkpoint with few incidents—or so he wrote while thinking.

“Well if it isn’t Reddo.”
“You’re trying to bring in another rat cage, aren’t you?”
“Don’t come around so damn early in the morning.”
“Rats or whatever, evenings are plenty enough for ’em.”

Waitoman was somewhat hungover, his normally ruddy face now flushed an even deeper red like an overripe tomato.
(Regarding this matter, author Umeno Jugo lacked confidence.)
He was born with a constitution ill-suited to alcohol and had never once drained three cups of sake in succession.
Therefore, he did not truly know what a hangover felt like, nor did he possess accurate knowledge of what sort of face someone suffering from a hangover would make.
However, his close friend A would often appear before him with such a ruddy, overripe face and lament, “Ah, last night I drank way more than usual lately.”
“Today I’m all dizzy and so sleepy,” he lamented.
Umeno Jugo arbitrarily concluded that Friend A’s condition during such times must be what people called a hangover.
Therefore, to his chagrin, White Country official Waitoman had to mimic the drunken state of the author’s Friend A.)

“Now now, sir—don’t say that and just take a look. I’ve always hated trickery, you see—this Reddo here figures it’s best to come by in the morning when you’re free, sir, and have you take your sweet time inspectin’ one item real thorough-like. That’s what I’m always thinkin’, honest.”

“Hmph, don’t make me laugh.”
“Any bastard who goes around claiming they’re born honest—I’ve yet to see one that’s actually honest.”
“Especially you bastard—you only showed up here recently, but your mug’s already been properly reported to this officer as a person-of-interest dossier from the home government.”
“What’s the matter—surprised? Try to weasel your way out now, and this time it’ll be a firing squad without trial!”

“Heh heh, you’re jokin’, sir! I ain’t no big-shot person of interest—just catchin’ rats and sellin’ ’em to Mr. Ratchet over there, nothin’ more.”

“Hmm, what’s this Jew Ratchet plannin’ to do with all them rats he’s buyin’ up?”

“Well y’see sir, this here’s a big secret—rat meat’s been gettin’ used heavy for sausages lately.”

“Huh? Sausages?”

Customs Officer Waitoman made a strange face and clutched his stomach upon hearing this.
The truth was, first thing that morning he’d used sausages as a snack while downing two or three bottles of hair of the dog.
“What? That guy’s making sausages out of rat meat?
What a shady bastard.”

“Now now sir, you say that, but sausages mixed with rat meat taste mighty fine, y’see.
In Yapon they call it rat tempura and savor it, so they say.
That’s why sausages containing rat meat command such a high price.
It’s a bit outta this old man’s reach.”

“You say it’s out of your reach—how much per piece?”
“Oi, answer honestly!”

“Let me see.
Would five rubles per piece be charged?”

“Five rubles?”
“Ah, I see. Very well then.
That seems about right,” said Customs Officer Waitoman, heaving a relieved sigh. “Come on, show me what you’re trying to bring in already. I’ll inspect it for you.”

“Oh.—It’s on that stand over there.”

With that, Old Man Reddo pointed to the polished round table favored by Waitoman.
There was a wire mesh cage the size of a mandarin orange crate placed there.

Waitoman was slightly displeased to find the rat cage placed on his beloved table but managed to restrain himself and held back any complaints. Then he brought his large, reddish face close to the cage.

“Hey—what’s the count?”

“The total count is twenty.”

“Twenty, you say? One, two, three… Wait, there’s one too many. There’s twenty-one.”

“Ah, that one’s extra. If they die along the way and the count don’t match up, I’ve added an extra one just in case.”

“Extras ain’t allowed.”
“Push through twenty-one rats and the first twenty stay tax-free—but that twenty-first one’ll cost you a ruble per head.”

“A whole ruble per rat? Highway robbery! I ain’t carryin’ that kinda cash—let’s just pluck one out from the twenty-one and call it twenty.”
“There we go.”

“Hmm… No duty for twenty or under.”

“All righty then—twenty rats tax-free! But chargin’ a ruble for twenty-one? That math don’t square nohow.”

With that, Old Man Reddo opened the small opening of the wire mesh, took out one rat from inside and put it into a pocket, and then closed the wire mesh’s entrance as before.

“There we go—this oughta do it.”
“Why don’tcha count ’em again.”
“There we go—twenty rats in the cage now.”

Waitoman once again brought his face close to the cage and, just to be sure, counted the rats inside one more time.
The rats scurrying about were indeed twenty in number.

“Alright, twenty it is.”
“Tax-free!”

“Oh, thank you kindly.”
“That’ll do then?”
“Then I’ll be passin’ through.”

Reddo lifted the cage from the table.

The moment he did, Waitoman shouted.

“Hey, wait—”

“What is it, Boss?”

“You bastard—I can’t let this slide any longer. Look at this table!”

When one looked where Waitoman pointed with furious snorts, his prized round table was drenched in liquid and solid waste from the rats.

Reddo scratched his head while still holding the rat cage.
Then he took the hand towel that had been hanging at his waist and wiped the stand clean.
And he pleaded for Waitoman’s forgiveness.

“Reddo.”
“This is unforgivable, but I’ll let it slide just for today.”
“The real mistake was putting animals in a wire mesh cage that defecate whenever they please.”
“From next time onward, bring them in a leakproof container that won’t soil the stand even if placed on it.”
“Otherwise, I won’t let you through next time.”

“Yessir—”

Old Man Reddo, thoroughly cowed, withdrew from Waitoman’s presence.
And then he exited through the small gate beside the customs office.
There, it was already the streets of Hakukoku.

Old Man Reddo walked down the street, puffing steady smoke from his large pipe and letting it waft upward.
Then, as if suddenly remembering, he opened the rat cage’s entrance and placed inside the extra rat he had stashed away in his pocket.

Umeno Jugo set down his pen and took a noisy gulp of cold tea from his teacup.

Is this even a detective novel or not?

Smuggling certainly qualified as subject matter for detective novels, but this story he had just written leaned closer to comic monologue than detective fiction.
In other words, the pivotal twist lay in Customs Officer Waitoman becoming solely preoccupied with counting the rats in the cage, and then Culprit Reddo nonchalantly removing the extra rat from said cage before slipping it into his pocket with such natural ease that Waitoman never even had time to grow suspicious.
This was nonsense.

However, while soiling Customs Officer Waitoman’s beloved round table appeared to offer crucial detective story material, in reality it merely served as a means to mentally disrupt him by introducing the risk that he might recall the extra rat.
In truth, Waitoman’s rage left him no room to notice the extra rat being smuggled within Reddo’s pocket.
Yet “soiling the cherished stand” constituted such vivid foreshadowing material that this flashy element needed to be exploited more dramatically to achieve impact.
Especially since this work’s sole nod to detective novel-style foreshadowing lay in the stand’s defilement—without that element bearing fruit, it couldn’t qualify as a detective novel at all.

The writer Umeno Jugo raised his fist and slammed it against his own head with a thud.
With a pained expression, he took up his pen again.

“Boss—”
“Since I got chewed out for comin’ first thing yesterday, today I’ve made sure to arrive proper-like in th’afternoon here.”

“Hmm, Reddo, is it.”
“You are an outrageous scoundrel.”
“Yesterday you deceived me and smuggled in one rat.”
“This officer only realized that this morning!”

“Heh heh, would this old man ever do such a wicked thing?”
“Since you said it wasn’t allowed, Boss, I took one rat outta the cage and popped it in my pocket.”
“I took it all the way back to my house and let it go proper-like. I ain’t lyin’.”

“I ain’t falling for that sweet talk.”
“Releasing an extra rat into your own home is downright suspicious.”

“No, it’s the honest truth! That’s why today I made sure to bring it inside this cage proper-like.”
“Take a look—oh ho, that’s the one right there with the hungry look on its face.”

“Enough.”
“What face rats make when they’re hungry—this officer can’t tell.
“So, you’ve modified the cage, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, I’ve modified it properly.”
“So even if you place the cage down, to keep what’s underneath from getting dirty—as you can see here—the lower half of the cage is enclosed from the outside with thick boards.”
“With this setup, even if the rats have diarrhea inside the cage, there’s no problem at all.”

“Hmm, I see.
“With this setup, the stand shouldn’t get soiled either.”
“However, you have used an awfully thick board for it.”
“What a waste—Now then, today’s count?—”

“The count remains twenty.”
“Today there are none outside the count—exactly twenty rats are in the cage.”
“Please inspect them.”

“Hmm, twenty rats, eh?”
“One... two... three....”
“I see, twenty rats. Good—duty-free.”

Old Man Reddo bowed respectfully and exited through the customs office’s small gate.
He then went to Ratchet’s place and sold twenty-eight rats.
The cage had indeed contained twenty rats, and yet…

As it stands, this merely presented the mystery.
If I were to cut off and submit this novel here without solving the mystery, making the solution into a "prize contest" with 1,000 yen in cash for the first prize winner and numerous awards up to fifth place—requiring entries to use postcards inserted in the magazine—then *New Detective* subscribers would suddenly show double or triple the current numbers.
However, while Mr. Noboru Oozora—editor of *New Detective*—may be skilled at editing, he’s no businessman. He’d never shell out that kind of prize money.

"Forced to abandon making this a 'prize contest,' he decided to append the answer chapter to the aforementioned novel later—with this resolution, the author Umeno Jugo once again took up his pen."

It was early afternoon the following day.

Old Man Reddo appeared at the customs office once more, carrying a rat cage much like yesterday’s.

“Boss, my apologies.
“Twenty rats again today.”
“Would you kindly do the count?”

“Reddo! You’re a damnable rogue.
“Last night at the tavern—seizing the chance—I asked Mr. Ratchet how many rats you’d foisted on him.
“He said he only bought twenty-eight today!
“Which means you hid eight rats somewhere yesterday.
“There are limits to mocking this officer!
“Today you won’t pass until I’ve inspected every last crevice!”

Waitoman’s face turned crimson as a vermilion basin as he glared at Old Man Reddo.

Deeming Old Man Reddo’s pockets suspicious, he began his inspection there.
Then each article of the old man’s clothing was removed one by one.
At last, he was stripped completely naked in the cold wind.
However, not a single rat emerged.

“As for your body—settled.
Now I’ll inspect the cage.”

“Excuse me, Boss.”
“Can’t I get dressed now, Boss?”

“No—you aren’t allowed to put your clothes back on.”
“There’s no telling what tricks you’ll pull, so stay right there until I finish inspecting the cage.”
“Hey! Get farther from those clothes—stay put!”

The old man stood facing his hometown, his broad, sunburned back shivering violently.

Customs Officer Waitoman took out a large leather bag from behind the chair.
That was something he had prepared since this morning to inspect Reddo’s rats.
He opened the mouth of the leather bag and securely fitted it over the wire-mesh cage’s entrance.
He opened the entrance and shooed the rats out with “shh-shh” sounds.
The rats in the cage, startled, leapt through the opened entrance and into the leather bag exactly as Waitoman had instructed.

“Hmm, that’s twenty. Now then... Wait, wait.”

Customs Officer Waitoman bent down and opened the desk’s large drawer.
From within emerged one beautiful Persian cat, Mimi.
An emerald-green ribbon was tied around Mimi’s neck.
And the small bell jingled.
This adorable kitten was one Waitoman had borrowed by tricking his secret lover Anna.
For a customs officer dealing with villains, this was truly a laborious business.
If one or two secret lovers aren’t forgiven, this precious life can’t go on.

Customs Officer Waitoman, still clutching the kitten Mimi in his large hand, approached the emptied cage—specifically the lower half paneled with thick wood.
The kitten struggled and writhed.
Each time, the bell jingled with a pleasant sound.

Then came an astonishing development—the rats suddenly began making a clamorous racket.
Apparently, there was something inside the thick wood covering the cage bottom.
Before long, a round plug popped out from the cage bottom into the cage with a pop.
No sooner had he thought 'Huh?' than a rat’s face appeared from the plug hole.
Mimi let out a drawn-out meow.

As if that had been the signal, rats came leaping out from the plug hole into the cage.
One, two... eight.
In total, eight—all of them small baby mice.
The baby mice, in a frantic panic, ended up leaping into the leather bag Waitoman had set up.

With this, Waitoman was triumphant, having figured out Reddo’s trick.
The wood attached outside the mesh was hollow, with a hole smaller than the mesh, into which a wooden plug had been fitted.
The eight baby mice, unable to endure Mimi’s scent, had undoubtedly pushed up the plug from inside and come leaping out.

Customs Officer Waitoman imposed an eight-ruble rat tax on Reddo.
Reddo was reluctantly paying it while,

“Boss, I truly had no idea there were eight baby rats stashed outside the cage...”
“Those pups must’ve been born on the road to customs!”

“Don’t spout nonsense! Since when do mother rats squeeze into plugged crates to whelp?!”

And Waitoman brushed him off.

Umeno Jugo let out a deep sigh upon finishing this passage.
With this, he had solved the mystery of the earlier chapters with a basic degree of fairness.
However, he thought that readers would surely not be satisfied with a resolution like this.

In truth, he had not yet written a single stroke of what should be considered the true climax of this work.
Thinking he had to continue before the readers grew angry, he seized his pen once more in a flurry.

It was early the next morning when Customs Officer Waitoman received an official notice from headquarters via shortwave receiver and turned deathly pale.

“From the border region, the smuggling of pearl necklaces has become extremely rampant.
The quantity smuggled over the past several days has reached a market value of 500,000 rubles.
And it has been confirmed that all of these were smuggled through your customs office.
Make urgent arrangements.”

About thirty minutes later, a second wireless telegraphic dispatch arrived.

“Upon inspection of smuggled pearls, Gertner bacillus has been discovered.
“Therefore, strictly monitor the vicinity where rats are present, investigate the smuggling method as promptly as possible, and report to headquarters.”

The emergence of Gertner bacillus and the smuggling of pearl necklaces worth hundreds of thousands of rubles—the only suspect was Old Man Reddo.

Waitoman felt fury so intense his liver might burst.
That thick-skinned old fool—he’d always thought there was something fishy about importing rats, but to think it was all a front for smuggling pearls! Very well—today he’d secure irrefutable evidence and redeem his surveillance failure.
He waited by the window, poised for the moment when Old Man Reddo would appear from beyond the mountain pass carrying a cage of rats.

That evening at dusk, just before the customs gate was about to close, the long-awaited voice of Old Man Reddo was finally heard from the gate’s direction.

“Boss，my apologies.”
“Terribly late today，but might I trouble you for an inspection of these rats?”

Waitoman heaved a deep breath with his shoulders, pounded the desk once with his bullfrog-like fist, then ran out front.

Old Man Reddo stood holding a rat cage identical to yesterday’s.

Waitoman wordlessly ushered the old man into the room.
After clanking the entrance lock shut and storing its key in the cipher safe, he noticed his hands trembling violently like a warrior’s shudder.

Then the relentless inspection began.
Clad in a disinfection gown, rubber gloves, and gas mask—an ominous getup—Waitoman stood ready.
First, he drove the rats into the usual leather bag.
Then, with the help of the Persian cat Miss Mimi, he drove out eight baby mice from the wooden bottom.

“Today’s tax is eight rubles.”

Waitoman picked up a pencil and wrote “8 rubles” on the memo pad atop the desk.
For his own records.

After finishing that, he placed the empty cage upside down on the desk.
He gripped a large axe in his hand.
He swung up the axe and struck the cage’s bottom board with all his strength.

With a crack, the bottom board split open.
The inside was hollow.
Not a single baby mouse remained there, but in their place appeared a magnificent silver-glittering pearl necklace.

“I’ve finally found it.
There! See?!”

Waitoman was extremely pleased with himself.

He had nearly forgotten to inspect Old Man Reddo’s person, but suddenly realizing this, he conducted an interrogation no less rigorous than the previous day’s.
However, not a single cultured pearl emerged from this source.

Old Man Reddo paid the tax of 108000 rubles as ordered.
100000 rubles was the customs duty on the pearls, and the remaining 8 rubles was the excess tax on the rats.
Old Man Reddo placed twenty-eight rats into the warped cage and left the customs office.

Left behind were the triumphant Customs Officer Waitoman and the battered round table.

Morning had already come.

Wait—that's wrong.
He should have left a blank line and written this line there.

It was already true morning.
It was author Umeno Jugo's morning.
He hadn't noticed at all when night had given way to dawn.
Outside the window, the sound of the editorial office's errand boy's iron-studded boots seemed about to be heard.
Yet the story about the imported rats still hadn't reached its conclusion.

He wiped the bead of sweat on the tip of his nose with a handkerchief and jabbed his pen against the manuscript paper once more.

The next morning arrived.
(It was morning at the border.
And at the same time, it was Umeno Jugo’s morning—ah, how utterly tedious!)

What proved most intriguing was the telegram sent from headquarters to Customs Officer Waitoman in the predawn hours.

“The smuggled pearls from last night have reached a market value of 400,000 rubles.
The quantity reported by your office has been doubled.
What do you think you're doing?
Reply urgently.”

Customs Officer Waitoman thudded down onto the floor, landing flat on his backside.
His legs must have given way from the shock.
That couldn’t be right.
He had been certain he’d checked everything.
That twice as many pearls had been hidden—truly that insatiable old smuggler Reddo!

Where on earth had Reddo hidden all those numerous pearls?

If he kept writing about smuggler Old Man Reddo and Customs Officer Waitoman’s cat-and-mouse game like this, there’d be no end in sight.
However, his allotted page count had already run out.
He had to set down his pen.

Well then, he would simply jot down the answer to that lingering question and leave it at that.
The bulk of the pearls had been crammed inside the rats’ stomachs.

Now it seemed they’d reached some sort of conclusion, but one crucial point still hadn’t been explained.
This concerned "Military Rats," the title of this main story.

Military rats referred to the use of rodents for military purposes.
The deployment of Shepherds and Airedale Terriers as military dogs was common knowledge.
If military dogs existed, how could military rats not?

Compared to military dogs, military rats boasted far more numerous advantages.
First came their low cost.
They also reproduced prolifically.
Their agility was exceptional.
Moreover, their portability proved unmatched.
Soldiers could carry four or five in their pockets with ease.
Properly trained and deployed during crises, their capabilities became truly formidable.
The sole weakness lay in their delicate nasal tips.
A broom strike to this area would make them squeak and collapse instantly.
Thus iron helmets became mandatory equipment for all military rat snouts.

In truth, the man called Ratchet who actively purchased rats from Old Man Reddo was a researcher of these military rats.
In the cold White Country where he lived, rats did not exist.
Thus, having no other choice, he made full use of master smuggler Reddo to import rats from the Red Country.

The pearl smuggling had been concocted by Reddo—a natural-born smuggling enthusiast—under the cover of his side business selling rats to Ratchet, with all proceeds becoming Reddo’s.
Ratchet had no connection to the pearl smuggling operation.

One might think the Red Country military should have simply sent an official notice to customs headquarters to secure tacit approval for rat imports, but therein lay the military secret.
If it became known to domestic officials that they were importing rats to research military rodents, it would compromise matters of national security.
The Red Country military naturally understood maxims like “Plans thrive in secrecy” and “To plot against enemies, first plot against allies”—but if he were to leisurely write all this into a detective novel up to such a conclusion, no amount of manuscript pages would suffice…

Just then, the editorial office's errand boy appeared in brisk form at the entrance.
"So that's all for now—ah, I've finally finished writing it!"
What a refreshing morning!