Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Cat’s Snarl

“Hmm, the kitchen light’s on…”

Halting involuntarily on the frozen snow-covered path, the young farmer Karlsson cast a frightened gaze toward the two-story villa looming darkly in the twilight.

On March 4, 1932—a Friday evening—Karlsson had been trying repeatedly since the previous day to call old man Zetterberg's villa on Mörtnäs Island near Stockholm but received no response; being deeply concerned about the elderly man with whom he shared close daily relations, he finally finished that day's work and hurried over the mile-long path from his farm.

Both the front entrance and back door of the villa were securely locked.
And even when he knocked on them, the interior remained utterly still.

“Good evening... Good evening...”

Feeling increasingly uneasy, Karlsson called out loudly two or three times.
But only the echo of his own voice answered…

Karlsson shuddered involuntarily.
For the elderly couple to be locking up the house this early in the evening was unprecedented.
And those laundry items hanging stiff with frost on the clothesline!
Weren't they exactly as they'd been when he visited two days ago?

"This ain't right."

After muttering that, Karlsson dashed off in a frenzy.
And then, he frantically knocked on the entrance of his fellow farmer Lofberg’s house—the very neighbor whom the old man visited daily to buy milk.

“I’ve just come from Mr. Zetterberg’s place, but…”

Karlsson panted,

“B-but even though the kitchen light’s on properly, there’s not a peep in response.”

“Huh, that’s strange.”

Lofberg also wore a puzzled expression,

“Actually, I’d been thinking something might be wrong myself,”
“Because that old man who came proper to buy milk day before yesterday didn’t show yesterday neither, nor today.”
“What with his wife’s injury not healed yet—no sense them all going off to Stockholm.”

“Th-that’s right…”

With an uneasy demeanor, Karlsson nodded in agreement.

Old man Zetterberg had formerly been a stockbroker and now lived comfortably on his property's interest, but as this income had somewhat decreased, they decided to tighten their belts despite the cold inconveniences—which was why this winter they deliberately moved from Stockholm to a villa on an island with severe frost.
However, just about a month prior, while the couple was out skating, the wife had accidentally fallen through a crack in thin ice and was fortunately rescued by the old man’s hands, but in the process had severely sprained her ankle.

In any case, they decided to investigate inside, and soon the two farmers walked back toward the villa.
And there it remained—the kitchen window still dimly lit, white laundry fluttering wildly in the gusts against the dark night sky, creating an unnervingly ominous sight.
The villa was a fairly large gray building, but the downstairs was completely locked up, with only the four rooms upstairs being used by the elderly couple.

“Well, how do we get inside?”

When Lofberg posed that question, Karlsson tilted his head in thought for a moment, but—

“Oh right—there was definitely a ladder in the garden.”
“What if we use that to get in through the kitchen window?”

After propping up the ladder, Karlsson immediately began climbing it—but suddenly stopped in his tracks with a jolted expression.
From inside the villa came a sudden savage snarl resembling a scream of terror.
Karlsson gripped the ladder tightly,

“Wh-what’s that...?”

he whispered, his voice trembling.

“It’s a cat—Mr. Zetterberg’s cat.”

Lofberg replied calmly,

“But you don’t get such a terrible snarl unless somethin’s wrong.”

Trembling all over, he began climbing the ladder again, and when his face finally reached the lowest windowpane, Karlsson peered into the dimly lit kitchen. It was quite spacious; the faint light came from a single bulb hanging above the cooking stove in the far corner. After a moment he climbed another rung, pressing his face against the windowpane and continuing to stare inside, but when his legs suddenly jerked away from the rungs, Karlsson—still gripping both sides of the ladder with gloved hands—slid down its length and collapsed in a heap on the ground.

“What happened? Wh-what did you see?”

As he approached, Lofberg violently shook Karlsson’s shoulders.

“T-terrible! Mr. Zetterberg’s collapsed in a pool of blood by the stove…” Pale-faced and trembling violently, Karlsson shouted in a choked voice. “And, and... there’s a woman lying face down on the kitchen counter with her head smashed to pieces. D-damn it! That bastard cat was standing right beside her, staring fixedly at me!”

The Scene of the Tragedy

At ten o'clock that night, as Inspector Gustafsson sat smoking in his office at Stockholm Police Headquarters, Chief Inspector Sohl burst in abruptly and barked—

“A major incident has just been reported from the Mörtnäs Island police outpost.”
“An elderly couple by the name of Zetterberg and a woman named Hedström, who was their sister-in-law, have reportedly been murdered.”
“Chief Johnson from Gustafsburg Station and Dr. Berntsson have reportedly rushed to the villa on site, but I intend to head out immediately as well.”

As he frantically fastened the buttons of his thick coat that seemed to swallow his neck, Sohl said.

“Very well.”
“Of course, I’ll go with you.”
“In any case, kindly tell me all the details you’ve gathered up to now.”

Having said this calmly while listening to Sohl’s report, Gustafsson also summoned his superior Criminal Director Zetterquist to the telephone, relayed an outline of the incident, and informed him they would now be heading to the scene.

A few minutes later, the police automobile carrying Sohl and Gustafsson was speeding toward the scene.

“Right. I’ve now clearly remembered about the old man Zetterberg.”

With that, Gustafsson heavily shifted his large frame, deeply embedded in the seat,

“I kept thinking the name sounded familiar and had been racking my brains over it—turns out he’s a moneylender and broker who’s nearing seventy. The couple were quite resourceful financially, but what’s strange is why they chose to live on such a cold island this winter.”

“I see.”
“However, I must say I have no recollection of that person at all.”

By the time the two men arrived at the scene, night had grown quite late, but a large crowd of islanders had gathered around the villa undaunted by the cold, their curious eyes now fixed on the brightly lit windows.

When Sohl knocked on the door, Chief Johnson came out to greet them,

“Please, come in.”
“Oh my, it’s truly a blood-curdling state of affairs...”

The two men immediately entered the downstairs reception room, but despite the bleakness of the space, not a single piece of furniture was disturbed.
Everything had occurred upstairs. Upon climbing the stairs under the chief’s guidance, they were led into a corridor with an oppressively low ceiling. There, on a small table in one corner sat a telephone, beside which a single silver coin glinted.
And here and there on the ceiling and walls, several blackened bloodstains formed streaks.

“This is the kitchen…”

With that, Johnson proceeded further into the depths.

It was a gruesome scene of carnage.
Fritz Zetterberg lay on his back in a pool of blood, still wearing a blanket cap and fur boots.
His hands lay thrown out to either side of his body, palms turned upward as though in mournful submission to some terrible fate.
Moreover, Christina Hedström—the elderly man’s sister-in-law—lay face down on the kitchen counter, her hands dangling limply as she remained sprawled there.
And beside her, a man was bent over, intently examining the shattered face.

“This is Dr. Berntsson.”

Johnson introduced the man to the two men.

Inspector Gustafsson nodded in understanding,

“Both appear to have had their foreheads split open.”
“About how long has it been since they died?”

“Hmm, yes…”

With that, the doctor stood up and straightened his posture,

"I cannot state this accurately without conducting thorough research in the morgue, but I estimate they were likely killed on Wednesday night or Thursday dawn."
"In other words, approximately thirty-six to forty-eight hours postmortem."

When Gustafsson and Chief Inspector Sohl retraced their steps down the narrow corridor and turned left, they entered the bedroom adjacent to the kitchen.
On one side stood two beds in parallel, between which lay the corpse of Hilma Zetterberg clad in a nightgown.
This old woman's skull had likewise been crushed, her body collapsed in a grotesque posture with one leg hooked over the left edge of the bedroom.
A short distance away on the floor lay an iron pipe—approximately one meter long and five centimeters thick—its end clotted with blood.
Blood had sprayed across every surface—floor, walls, even the ceiling—transforming the space into a ghastly crimson tableau.

"It seems this woman was killed last."

With that, Sohl turned to Gustafsson,

"When she heard the terrifying noise from the kitchen, the wife threw off the blankets and tried to leap out of bed with disabled legs. But the moment she took a step, she was struck by the perpetrator’s blow. And then she fell face down, with one leg still caught on the bed…"

"Right, that certainly appears to be the case."

Nodding, Gustafsson immediately turned toward Johnson.

"Have you found anything else? Is there anyone who saw the criminal entering here?"

Johnson shook his head,

“We still haven’t found anything.”
“However, we are currently questioning the islanders.”
“As for this murder weapon, it is indeed something the perpetrator obtained nearby.”
“On the island, they use this type of pipe for fence posts. As evidence of that, I have found several clumps of mud near the kitchen door.”

The detectives next examined another bedroom on the front side and the large living room, but no particularly disturbed signs were visible.
However, in one corner of the living room, the door of a small safe had been left wide open.
Inside, business documents had been neatly stored, but not a single trace of money was found.
Thus, the three men—the inspector, chief inspector, and police chief—walked through every corner of the second-floor rooms, picking up pieces of evidence here and there as they went.
From the iron pipe, door handles, chairs and similar items, and walls, they meticulously collected fingerprints.

The Detectives' Hardships

The cold downstairs hall.

Thick coats, fur hats, clumsy boots—twelve or thirteen strapping island farmers and fishermen sat facing Inspector Gustafsson and his team with uneasy gazes.

The witness examination promptly began. When Karlsson and Lofberg—the first discoverers of the scene—briefly recounted what had transpired, Inspector Gustafsson kept his eyes fixed on Karlsson’s face as he...

“You say you called repeatedly on Thursday evening—what exactly was the purpose of that?”

“Oh, nothin’ much. I just thought I’d go discuss somethin’. Actually, Mr. Zetterberg was s’posed to give me some good advice ’bout the mortgage.”

“Did you meet that old man on Wednesday or Thursday? And hasn’t anyone come around here again?”

“No, never again…”

Nodding at Karlsson’s straightforward account, Inspector Gustafsson shifted his gaze to the fisherman Daarberg sitting next to him. The moment he did so, Daarberg voluntarily began to speak,

“Now that you mention it, I do remember somethin’.”
“On Wednesday evenin’ when I returned from fishin’, I saw a guy walkin’ toward the villa…”

“Hmm, was that someone from the island?”

“Well, I can’t say.”
“After all, ’twas quite far away...”

The inspector stared searchingly into Daarberg’s face with sharp eyes for a while, then turned toward the next person, Petaason.

“Yeah, well, I also saw a man I didn’t recognize walkin’ toward this villa.”
“He stopped at those stone steps there and scraped the snow off his boots.”
“It was already gettin’ dark, so I couldn’t see clear-like... but his getup sure looked like someone from town...”

The witness examinations went on in much that way. A certain man stated that the old man had gone to Stockholm on Saturday and that before going, he had mentioned intending to settle some business. Another islander let slip that a man who had been staying on the island for some time had vanished on Wednesday. The inspector naturally demanded to know the man's name. Another individual testified they had seen an automobile carrying two men about half a mile from the villa on Wednesday afternoon. It was reported that both wore fedoras pulled low over their faces, with one sporting horn-rimmed glasses. It also emerged that Kristina, the wife's sister, had come to nurse her sibling's injury and oversee household matters—only to meet this cruel fate. In any event, it seemed the Zetterbergs had no enemies whatsoever; all spoke in unison of the elderly couple's goodness and kindness.

The night finally broke after their thorough investigation.
The transport vehicle carried the three corpses to Stockholm.
And, after securing the villa with locks and stationing two police officers on guard, Gustafsson and Sohl, carrying numerous pieces of evidence, boarded two automobiles along with other officers and assistants and left the scene.

“I’m afraid there aren’t any significant leads.”

Sohl said in a weary voice.

Gustafsson stared at the sky and wordlessly shrugged his broad shoulders with a listless air.
And though those eyes of his were clearly troubled, in his heart he was intensely pondering the fact that the old man had gone to the bank on Saturday.
Might the clue lie in that direction?

At 10 a.m. the following Saturday, in the Criminal Affairs Division Chief’s office at police headquarters, Inspector Gustafsson and Chief Inspector Sohl were holding an investigative meeting centered around Chief Zetterquist—a bespectacled, mild-mannered man with a seemingly neurotic disposition.
The chief turned to the inspector,

“Have you established any leads?”

“Well, we’ve secured two or three solid leads, but what’s critical is apprehending the culprit as swiftly as possible...”

“Meaning?”

“To put it plainly: If the culprit is indeed a homicidal maniac as I suspect, there’s a fear that further tragedies will be repeated. In any case, as you’ve seen in the report, the murder method resembles fiendish brutality. While money may have some connection to this atrocity, Zetterberg clearly hasn’t suffered any theft. Of course, it would be entirely possible for the culprit to pilfer something from the safe while making it appear untouched inside...”

Having continued his explanation enthusiastically, Gustafsson paused there to take a slight breath while—

"Moreover, the fact that the safe door had been left wide open demands attention."
"Furthermore, all circumstances indicate that the criminal was personally acquainted with the old man."
"For instance, let us suppose the culprit implied he had come to repay a debt and instructed the old man to retrieve the promissory note from the safe."
"In that case, the old man would likely open the safe and produce the document."
"In that very moment, the criminal would seize it and initiate a savage assault..."

“That’s certainly one line of reasoning—and quite an agreeable one at that…”

With that, Chief Zetterquist displayed a look of strong concurrence.
Gustafsson glanced back at Sohl while,

“Have you turned up any findings since this morning?”

“That would indeed be correct.”
“First of all...”

Chief Inspector Sohl replied in a clear, clipped tone and,

“We examined the fingerprints found on the iron pipe.”
“They are unquestionably a man’s.”
“However, given that his fingerprints are not recorded in the fingerprint ledger at all, it is clear he is not a repeat offender.”
“Secondly, we conducted searches in all directions but have yet to ascertain the whereabouts of the man who disappeared from the island.”
“Thirdly, we have discovered the automobile driver Lundberg who drove two men to the island on Wednesday afternoon.”
“They claimed they were going fishing, and the detail about one wearing horn-rimmed glasses perfectly matches the islanders’ testimonies.”
“Furthermore, the bespectacled man apparently had an aristocratic appearance and spoke with a foreign accent.”

There, Sohl suddenly changed his tone and

“Additionally, there is the aforementioned lead about the old man having gone to the bank last Saturday.”
“When we questioned the bank clerk, it appeared no particularly large sum had been withdrawn at that time, but the strange fact remains that when he entered the bank, he was extremely agitated.”
“He left temporarily and returned after about two hours, then stayed at the bank a while longer and was said to have discussed something with a bank clerk.”
“Earlier, we attempted to visit that clerk, but unfortunately he was absent; we intend to try again after some time has passed.”

“Hmm, that’s a splendid lead.”

Gustafsson declared in a forceful tone that brooked no contradiction.

“Above all, we must not waste a single moment.”
“Should you make any significant discoveries, contact me at once.”
“As I emphasized earlier, our paramount urgency remains the culprit’s immediate apprehension.”

Unexpected Development

About thirty minutes later, Chief Inspector Sohl was sitting knee-to-knee with a bank clerk he was questioning in one of the bank’s rooms.
After finishing his account of old man Zetterberg’s demeanor that day—though he didn’t know for what purpose or where he was going—the bank clerk conveyed that the old man had boarded a street taxi parked at a nearby intersection, then abruptly opened the adjacent window and,

“Ah, that automobile over there.”

At those words, springing up and rushing to the spot, Sohl discovered the street taxi driver Helberg in question.
When he promptly described the old man’s appearance, the driver nodded in understanding,

“Oh, I certainly did give him a ride.”
“I remember his face quite clearly.”
“As you say, it was last Thursday afternoon when we went to the splendid mansion on Kita Marastrand Street.”
“He said he was going to visit Baron von Sydow, something like ‘I wonder if he’ll be there.’”

Startled, Chief Inspector Sohl's face involuntarily stiffened, but he skillfully concealed his look of surprise.
Speaking of Baron Yalmar von Sydow, he was one of Sweden's foremost wealthy men and a leading capitalist.

“Well, thank you very much.”

With that casual remark, Sohl left the street corner.

After walking about a block, Sohl had another street taxi hurry to Kita Marastrand Street.
In the car, Sohl kept questioning himself.
What connection could there possibly be between the wealthy Baron—that celebrated figure—and some nameless old moneylender?
In that safe too, there had been nothing suggesting any relationship between them.
How could anyone link that brutal tragedy on Mörtnäs Island with Stockholm's monarch of wealth?

At Kita Marastrand 24th Street—a grand five-story apartment house where the von Sydow baronial family occupied all eight rooms on the third floor—Sohl requested guidance at the entrance; after a short while, a young maid returned and conveyed that the baron would receive him in his study.

Sohl passed through the corridor, crossed the opulently decorated reception room, and entered a small chamber.
There sat a round-faced man nearing old age before a desk with ornamental carvings, his large frame lounging in a high-backed chair.
With expressionless eyes, he watched Sohl intently while—

“What business brings you here?”

Sohl briefly recounted the tragedy on Mörtnäs Island and explained the circumstances of their investigation into old man Zetterberg’s actions prior to his murder when—

“Therefore, as it has been established that the old man visited your residence last Saturday, we would like to request your assistance regarding that point in our investigation…”

“Indeed, he did come.”

the Baron said in a heavy voice,

“However, that old man and I have been acquainted for many years; he merely paid me a casual visit.”
“Having learned from this morning’s paper that the elderly couple had been murdered, I was truly shocked.”
“Therefore, I regret I have nothing particularly useful to disclose that might assist your investigation...”

While nodding quietly, Chief Inspector Sohl intently scrutinized the Baron’s face.
In the next moment, having resolved to press no further questions, he promptly took his leave.
No sooner had he returned to police headquarters than he met with Director Zetterquist and Inspector Gustafsson, who had been awaiting him impatiently.

“The Baron is undoubtedly hiding something.”

With that, Sohl finally let excitement show on his face. "His voice remained perfectly steady," he said, "but his eyes kept twitching nervously."
"In any case, it was clear proof he was terrified of something. I couldn't bring myself to press him further."

The Director and Inspector nodded back, but stood utterly dumbfounded.
What truly lay concealed behind the Baron's silence?

Throughout Saturday and Sunday, Stockholm Police Headquarters desperately pursued the criminal's capture, but all their various leads came to nothing, leaving officers and detectives merely growing more exhausted. Then, at five o'clock on Monday evening, March 7th—a mere five days after Mörtnäs Island's tragic discovery—the telephone in the Chief Inspector's office rang shrilly.

“Wh-what did you say?”

The moment Sohl pressed the receiver to his ear, his face turned deathly pale. He stumbled out of his seat, flung open the door to the inspector’s office with violent force, and relayed the shocking report he had just heard.

In an instant, Gustafsson’s broad face drained of color, his shoulders quivering as they slumped heavily.
As anticipated, the horrific slaughter at Zetterberg’s villa had been linked through some clandestine pathway to millionaire Baron von Sydow.
Gustafsson planted his fleshy hands on the desk and heaved himself upright, his voice rising like a roar,

“Right, let’s head out immediately.”

The outside was engulfed in a raging snowstorm, and the police car advanced ceaselessly, its uniquely eerie siren blaring.
Sohl kept his gaze fixed on the dark road ahead before whispering to Gustafsson.

“If only the Baron had been more forthcoming when we visited him the day before yesterday!”
“He was certainly harboring some secret...”

Gustafsson remained silent.
The police car crawled through snow-choked streets where streetlights barely pierced the gloom, until finally reaching the vast entrance of Baron von Sydow’s apartment house.

Unsolvable Mystery

Gustafsson and Sohl promptly hurried to the third floor via the elevator.
When they passed through the entrance where two patrol officers were stationed, Sohl went ahead and entered the opulent reception room mentioned earlier.
There lay an armchair surrounded by several policemen, upon which sprawled the corpulent body of Baron von Sydow—his upper face smashed to pulp and drenched in blood—with blood flowing across both the chair and the expensive carpet beneath.

"Has he already expired?"

Then, Sohl called out loudly to the police doctor kneeling beside him.

"Yes—without ever regaining consciousness, he has just now passed away."

Simultaneous with the doctor’s reply, a police sergeant stepped forward and, with stiff formality, bowed while—

“Judging by the bloodstains, it appears the Baron was struck down in the dining room and then dragged here.”
“The crime was discovered about thirty minutes prior by the Baron’s niece, Miss Monica Schwartz, but in the back room as well, there are corpses killed by the same method.”
“Those individuals were already completely deceased by the time we arrived.”

“And those are?”

Gustafsson inquired.

“They are maids.”
“One is Karolina Hervo, a long-time housekeeper, and the other is Ebba Hamm, a young maid. Please examine them over there.”

Under the police sergeant’s guidance, they crossed the dining room and proceeded toward the back of the residence.
First, in the kitchen lay a maid on her back with her face smashed to pieces, blood splattered across both floor and furniture.
The cruelly torn nails of both hands—they told of how the girl had thrashed in madness as death loomed—even a clump of hair ripped from her skull lay discarded beside the corpse.

“The day before yesterday, it was this girl who came to answer the door.”

With that, Chief Inspector Sohl knelt beside the corpse,

“This girl and the Baron were murdered using exactly the same method as the Zetterberg family.”

Gustafsson nodded.
The police sergeant then guided them to the adjacent small room.
There, on the floor, lay an old woman face down, the back of her skull smashed in.
The police sergeant turned to his superiors,

“It appears this old woman was killed while leaning against a rocking chair with her back to the doorway. Upon receiving the perpetrator’s blow, she collapsed face down without a moment’s pause—we believe she had no opportunity to resist like the maid did...”

“You there—any luck finding the murder weapon?”

Gustafsson inquired.

“And has anyone spotted the perpetrator anywhere?”

“Yes—the murder weapon hasn’t been found yet.”

The police sergeant shook his head,

“Regarding eyewitnesses of the perpetrator—I’ve ordered my subordinates to immediately investigate residents of this building and neighboring houses—but...”

Gustafsson and Sohl returned to the front side of the residence.
Gustafsson remained as sharp and thorough as ever in every detail.
He gave appropriate instructions to his subordinates, but even he seemed utterly overwhelmed by the succession of these horrific tragedies.
Stockholm—reputed even in Europe as a place with a fully equipped police force—naturally placed those responsible at the forefront of clamorous criticism...

After Gustafsson had completed his inspection and was soon to depart, Sohl decided to immediately commence summoning witnesses, but just then, a report arrived from the detective investigating the Baron’s movements.
According to this report, the Baron had left his office shortly before four o’clock and alighted from his automobile at the apartment house entrance—this being his chauffeur’s final glimpse of him alive—then immediately ascended via elevator from the entrance hall to the third floor, where the elevator operator witnessed him unlock and enter his residence himself.
Police Sergeant Sohl and three police doctors held repeated discussions for some time in the study where the old tycoon had received Sohl just two days prior.

“Is it certain that the women were killed first?”

“Certainly…”

The police doctor answered Sohl’s question,

“Judging by the state of the two corpses, it would seem the Baron had already passed away by the time he entered the doorway.”

“Hmm…”

Then, Sohl sat on the edge of the Baron’s desk and rhythmically tapped its surface with a pencil while—

“So there are two possible scenarios. Did the Baron startle the perpetrator? Or was the perpetrator lying in wait with murderous intent, thoroughly prepared? But then, there being no signs of robbery at all…?”

“Quite so.”

And the police sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

“In any case, let’s first question the Baron’s niece. And then the elevator Boi who let that young lady into this residence.”

The police sergeant stood up and soon returned, bringing with him the thirteen-year-old delicate Monica Schwartz and a young man clad in an elevator boy’s uniform.

“Miss, please tell us everything that happened.”

Sohl gently inquired.

Monica, utterly terrified, choked back her sobs and finally managed to speak.

"I left school at four o'clock and came here."
"And I pressed the front doorbell, but no one answered—I thought something was wrong."
"Because at that time, both Ebba and Karolina should've been home, you know."

With that, she tilted her head slightly,

“Because I didn’t know what to do, I went to the Heimans on the fourth floor and explained what was happening.”
“Then the lady there told this elevator boy to open the lock for us.”
“Then when we entered the parlor, Uncle was lying there in an armchair with his face covered in blood.”
“I was so shocked that…”

In that moment, everyone involuntarily held their breath.
Before long, Sohl began in a calm, considerate tone,
“Didn’t your uncle mention meeting someone?”
“So... a guest or something…”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Monica shook her head.
Sohl turned toward the elevator boy and,

“You say you didn’t guide anyone here from outside this afternoon—are you certain there’s no mistake?”

“Yes, aside from Miss Monica and the Baron, there was certainly no one else…”

And the elevator boy answered without hesitation,

“Furthermore, while the gatekeeper states he saw no one else enter, during his brief absence, the perpetrator could have slipped from the street into the entrance hall unnoticed. If so, they might’ve ascended via the stairs without even my eyes catching them.”

“That’s quite sufficient.”

With that brief remark, Sohl suddenly stood up.
The police sergeant immediately took the two witnesses and departed.

Sohl once again conducted a thorough examination of the crime scene.
Then, having reached the entrance unnoticed, the perpetrator—Sohl inferred from the absence of forced entry—had likely entered easily through acquaintance with a maid or similar means; though he noted this aspect shared similarities with the Zetterberg tragedy.
After first murdering Karolina with ease, the perpetrator then attacked the maid Ebba; however, their desperate screams and struggles went unheard due to the exceptionally thick walls, and thus it must have been that before long, their master, the elderly Baron, walked right into death's trap.

Even so, what purpose could there have been in murdering two defenseless women? Meanwhile, it was said that the Baron always kept a large sum of money in his wallet, but not a single coin was found in the corpse’s pockets, nor was the wallet itself discovered. In this regard, it did somewhat resemble a robbery, but if theft had been the objective, a simple mugging would have sufficed. Admittedly, it was possible that after committing the murders, the perpetrator might have impulsively stolen them for some reason, but what remained utterly perplexing was the brutal manner in which those two women had been killed.

By now, Sohl had become firmly convinced that both the Zetterberg and von Sydow tragedies were the work of the same perpetrator.
And he had come to clearly perceive two things: that Inspector Gustafsson’s hypothesis—that this was the work of a homicidal maniac—proved correct, and that the perpetrator held some form of connection to the von Sydow baronial family.

A pale pink undergarment

After sending off the three corpses via transport vehicle, Sohl continued his patient investigation—until the moment he casually lifted the cushion of the parlor sofa and abruptly noticed a vividly bloodstained cloth. What could this be but a fragment of a silk undergarment trimmed with luxurious lace meant to be worn against a woman’s skin?

“Major discovery! Major discovery…”

As he pinched the ends of the undergarment—originally pale pink but now dyed crimson with blood—and gazed at it, the police sergeant came rushing in,

“Wh-what is that?”

“It’s a cloth used to wipe blood.”

And Sohl, greatly satisfied with this discovery,

“But whose on earth could this belong to? Of course, this isn’t something that girl or the maids would use. This is part of a very wealthy woman’s undergarment.”

The Police Sergeant, with an utterly shocked expression, lowered his voice,

“Surely you don’t mean the culprit is a woman…”
“No woman could possibly possess the strength required to inflict such a blow. However, it’s possible that a woman was working with the criminal. It’s possible a woman is involved in this atrocity in some capacity.”

Before long, the remaining bloodstained undergarment that had been hidden beneath a stack of tablecloths in the cupboard was discovered.
It was the upper half of an undergarment with shoulder straps torn off; as Sohl examined this eerie second discovery, he suddenly barked out.

“Bullseye!”
“A woman has indeed entered the picture.”
“In other words, she tore off the undergarment from beneath her clothes and used it to wipe the blood.”

At that moment, a loud knocking sound came from the front door.
And then, eventually, a police officer arrived accompanied by a uniformed postal worker,

“Actually, this man apparently witnessed someone who appears to be the perpetrator…”

“Wh-what sort of man was he?”

And Sohl inquired with intense eagerness.

“Yes, it was about ten minutes to four.”

And the postal worker began to speak thoughtfully and deliberately.

“I came here to deliver the mail, placed it in the entrance hall, and immediately went back outside—when suddenly a car stopped right in front of the entrance.”

“Given the heavy snowfall, I couldn’t see very well, but it seemed to be a Tsuji automobile—a man got out from inside and walked toward the entrance.”

“And then he suddenly stopped at the door and seemed to call out to someone in the car—but by then I had already started walking away, so…”

“Didn’t anyone else get out of the car outside?”
“And was there a gatekeeper at the entrance?”

At Sohl’s questioning, the postal worker shook his head,

“No—there was no gatekeeper.”
“And then—it seems no one else got out.”
“You see, I’d just started walking away, so I didn’t get a proper look at the man’s face either...”

Chief Inspector Sohl, who had been desperately trying to extract any information about the culprit’s appearance and demeanor, now looked thoroughly dejected.
But even the mere fact that they had come in the Tsuji automobile alone was an excellent lead.

In the next instant, Sohl leapt at the telephone, called Inspector Gustafsson, and briskly conveyed various discoveries along with his own conclusions. This time, it seemed the inspector had begun saying something—and Sohl’s face abruptly tensed.

“Ah, ah—I will depart immediately.”

Having answered thus, Chief Inspector Sohl roughly slammed down the receiver, immediately ordered the sergeant to maintain surveillance, and exited through the entrance with an intensely flustered demeanor.

A bolt from the blue

On a blizzard-swept night, the police automobile carrying Sohl pulled up within about fifteen minutes at the electrically illuminated entrance of Tegnér—a restaurant in central Stockholm’s district frequented by high society.
Having immediately requested a meeting with the manager while gazing toward the grand dining hall where elegant music drifted through the air, Sohl waited eagerly in a corner of the anteroom.
Before long, the manager appeared and,

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Sohl?
That item has indeed been stored in the office.”

Upon being guided into the office, there lay on the desk an object wrapped in kraft paper. It had considerable weight. When opened, it revealed an iron pipe over half a meter long, bearing signs of an attempt to wipe it clean—though blood still clung to one end.

“About thirty minutes ago, we found this item in the gentlemen’s restroom…”

The manager went on to explain that neither the waiters nor the restroom attendant had noticed who had brought it or who had left it there.

“It’s brand new—freshly cut.”

As Sohl carefully examined the pipe,

“Moreover, this wrapping paper is undoubtedly from the store where this was purchased.”
“This’ll crack the case!”
“Let me use a telephone, please.”

Sohl once again summoned Gustafsson to the telephone and reported on the discovered items.
Then, the inspector seemed to issue another command.

“Understood.”
“I shall ensure they are thoroughly cautioned.”

Having answered thus, Sohl requested the inspector to investigate the fingerprints on the pipe and trace the origin of the wrapping paper.

A few minutes later, the automobile carrying Sohl was once again hastening through the still-unabated blizzard toward Uppsala—the renowned university city not far from Stockholm.
There resided Frederik von Sydow—the young, aristocratic-looking Baron and heir to the murdered millionaire—who was living out his student days.
To protect that young man from the murderous madman’s deadly hands and to extract some clue about the culprit from his lips—this was the command Gustafsson had given Sohl.

In about twenty minutes, the automobile came to a stop in front of the Uppsala Police Station.
And then, at that very moment when Sohl rushed into the chief’s office with a tense expression, Chief Eriksson had just hung up the receiver,

"My subordinates have just reported the location of the young baron."

Chief Eriksson promptly initiated the conversation himself,

"In fact, I was rather concerned when he wasn’t at his residence, but we’ve learned he’s currently dining at the Dillet Hotel with the young madam."
"It seems he’s hosting quite a lively gathering with friends, and I’ve given orders that he not be informed of his esteemed father’s passing until I arrive."
"Shall I accompany you there immediately?"

“Very well…”

Nodding, Sohl waited for the chief to put on his coat.
And just as the two were about to depart—a shrill telephone ring!

“It’s for you, Chief Inspector.”

Told this by the chief, Sohl no sooner took the receiver than pressed it to his ear; though Inspector Gustafsson on the other end spoke with such frenzied excitement that his words were nearly unintelligible, Sohl’s face instantly turned ash-gray.

“Wh-what is the matter?”

Restraining the chief who had shouted and stepped forward, Sohl—after listening with rapt intensity for some time—finally clattered down the receiver and lowered his voice,

“To the Dillet Hotel—immediately! There’s not a moment to hesitate. It’s truly a bolt from the blue…”

Kiss of Death

At Dillet Hotel—the pride of Uppsala’s social scene—its anteroom glittered with decorative electric lights, filled with a crowd of gentlemen and ladies adorned in their evening finery. Having abandoned their automobile at the entrance, Chief Inspector Sohl and Chief Eriksson deposited their coats at the cloakroom and promptly requested an audience with the manager.

“The young Baron and his wife are currently in the grand dining hall.”
“...along with six esteemed guests…”

Having courteously said so, the manager promptly guided the two to the entrance of the grand dining hall.
As a dance segment had just concluded, flaxen-haired young Baron Frederik with his dance partner and raven-haired beauty Ingrid with one of her husband’s friends were both returning to their own table.
Upon that dining table, red roses arranged in a large flower vase gleamed in vivid hues.

“Would you be so kind as to have the young Baron come here?”

When the manager posed this question, Sohl showed a moment’s hesitation before replying, “In any case, since a gentleman wishes to meet him—would there happen to be a small room in that vicinity?”

“Certainly, in that direction...”

Sohl and Eriksson crossed the anteroom and walked in that direction.
Meanwhile, the manager approached Frederik’s table and whispered Sohl’s exact words into his ear.

“Hmph…”

Frederik formed a smile on his lips.
And while casting a sharp glance at his wife’s suspicious gaze from across the table,

“It seems someone wants to meet me.”

he said in a cheerful tone and briskly stood up.
Then, Ingrid also stood up, came around the dining table, and while linking arms with her husband,

“I’m coming along too.”

When the young Baron couple emerged into the anteroom with light steps, the manager pointed and said,
“They await you in that room over there.”
“Oh, thank you,” Frederik said lightly.

At that moment, Ingrid slumped down onto a nearby chair.
Frederik stood by her side, smiling as he gazed down at his wife for some time, but then bent his body and pulled that beautiful face close to press a ravenous kiss upon it.
And in that instant when Ingrid's pure white arms appeared to entwine around her husband's neck—"Bang..."

And then came a deafening blast. No sooner had Frederik sprung upright than Ingrid's body—a crimson thread of blood unfurling from her temple—collapsed in a heap at his feet.

The surroundings instantly transformed into a hellscape of pandemonium!
Sohl and Eriksson, who had leapt out from the side room, rushed headlong toward Frederik—standing rigidly beside his wife who had just breathed her last, the pistol still smoking in his hand. Then, still wearing a calm smile, Frederik suddenly pressed the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger once, twice.
A silence of terror—the tall body suddenly swayed unsteadily and collapsed in a heap over his wife’s corpse.

Tragic Destiny

Seven murders and one suicide—thus did the von Sydow-Zetterberg case reach its terrible culmination.
Fredrik von Sydow, the young Baron, was indeed the heinous culprit behind it all.

And yet, why did this tragedy occur?
Prior to this, Frederik had borrowed a large sum from Zetterberg, but when repayment came due unmet, the old man lodged a complaint with the Old Baron.
Subjected to his father’s inevitable harsh reprimand and enraged at having provoked it, Frederik first slaughtered the old man’s entire family.
Moreover, desperate to evade the police—having even reserved a hotel room with his wife in Copenhagen across the sea—but with funds needed above all else, the young Baron couple ultimately attempted to steal their father’s money.
What was truly horrifying—they were even prepared to commit patricide if pressed...

When the hired car driver Edvinsson—who had transported the two deathly figures from a hardware store on a certain street corner where they purchased the pipe used as a murder weapon, to an apartment house on Norra Mälarstrand where they waited over half an hour, and finally to Tegnér restaurant—was located, the case took a sudden turn into an unforeseen pursuit of the perpetrators; yet by the time Sohl and his men, wary of their pistol possession, attempted to lure them into a side room at Dillet Hotel, the pair had already discerned their intent and splendidly achieved their ultimate purpose: to die together.

When the dazzling silver evening gown was removed from Ingrid’s body in Uppsala Police Station’s morgue, what lay beneath was naturally bare skin without undergarments. For her—hastening to an extravagant final supper adorned with red roses, champagne, and bloodstains to match the young Baron’s own—changing into fresh undergarments must have seemed too troublesome. And upon examining Frederik’s body lying beside hers, they discovered concealed within his breast pocket the old Baron’s wallet indeed—stuffed with a large sum of money.

In any case, it was a tragedy woven by dissolute youths burning with bloodlust and mad with carnal desire.
Frederik and Ingrid were spoiled children of Swedish aristocratic society who had both studied at Uppsala University but became followers of dissolute pleasure-seekers.
Needless to say—being more regular patrons at nightclubs than attendees of classrooms—when Ingrid learned of her pregnancy through dissolute revelry’s culmination, she brazenly confessed to her parents that Fredrik was the child’s father.

The two prestigious families lost face. After consultations, they were discreetly boarded onto an Italy-bound steamship where the couple held their wedding ceremony—though the bride soon bore a daughter. Yet they swiftly returned to Uppsala and resumed their unaltered life of dissipation; when the old Baron tried stemming the monetary flow like water poured on scorched stones, they first came to know debt.

Nevertheless, Frederik was ultimately a child of tragic destiny.
About three months before the tragedy, a sudden fire had broken out at their residence; engulfed in flames and smoke, he narrowly escaped by leaping from a second-story window.
However, he suffered a concussion and remained unconscious, wandering the border between life and death for two to three weeks.
And though he had finally recovered—having likely sustained brain damage—he began to be periodically assaulted by fits of blind rage and overwhelming carnal urges.

The true cause behind the pampered scion turned libertine's transformation into a bone-chillingly ferocious killer had tragically lain hidden there.

――wohari――