Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Upon receiving the urgent report of Naosuke Kishida’s bizarre death, Taiji Otsuki—the lawyer—found his busy workload had just settled into a lull. Thus, accompanied by his earnest young secretary Akita, who remained diligent in his duties despite his youth, he hastily boarded the Choshi-bound train from Ryogoku Station without gathering any belongings.

Naosuke Kishida—to elaborate—was the financier of Agateza, a new theater troupe recently formed in Tokyo, and a young wealthy man who had graduated from the same university as Otsuki. Despite his fortune, he had no relatives; instead, he lived an extravagant life immersed in ample wealth with only his beautiful wife, Mrs. Hiroko Kishida—formerly a dancer at the Iidabashi Dance Hall—by his side.
Originally from Tokyo, he had moved several months prior to a modest seaside villa in Byōbuura, Bōsō, for convalescence after falling ill. His recovery had progressed remarkably well, however, and he had nearly regained his health by then. Moreover, with Agateza’s founding anniversary performance scheduled in a few days, those involved had discreetly urged him to return to the capital—he was due to depart for Tokyo within a day or two.
Yet before this return could occur, he had been struck by unexpected misfortune. While not what one would call a close acquaintance, Otsuki served as both a trusted advisor regarding the estate of Naosuke—who lacked relatives—and a fellow alumnus; thus, it was only natural he had been first to receive the tragic news from Mrs. Kishida.

Though it was winter, it was an unseasonably warm day, and inside the train car, the steam heat made it stiflingly warm to the point of oppressiveness.
They arrived in Choshi just past 1 PM.
Though the distance from Tokyo to Choshi alone was considerable, what’s more, after disembarking the train at Choshi, the stretch to the small town near Byōbuura proved unexpectedly inconvenient to traverse.
Thus, by the time Taiji Otsuki and his secretary Akita reached the lonesome outskirts of town where the Kishida family villa stood, it was already well past 2 PM.

The coast in this vicinity had ground that rose terrifyingly high across its entire stretch, forming an almost sheer cliff that seemed severed from the earth. The Western-style small villa of the Kishida family stood facing the quiet shore at a scenic vantage point—surrounded by a mixed forest and built to face the warm southern winds directly.

At the charming Expressionist-style porch flanked by golden chain hedges, an officer with an oddly large Kaiser mustache stood imposingly; but when Otsuki presented his business card and explained that he had been engaged by Mrs. Kishida, the officer abruptly relaxed his demeanor and—in response to Otsuki’s immediate questioning—stated that Naosuke Kishida’s sudden death was a homicide: he had been pushed headfirst off the cliff ahead.
The perpetrator was a small-statured man wearing pale light blue clothing.
Moreover, despite the victim’s wife and two other witnesses having observed the scene of the heinous act, the perpetrator had still not been arrested.
The initial investigation had already been completed; the officers had temporarily withdrawn; and the corpse had been transported to Chiba Medical University’s dissection room due to the case’s nature.
He kindly briefed them on all of this.

Soon, guided by Mr. Kaiser, Taiji Otsuki and Akita were seated facing Mrs. Hiroko Kishida in a modest salon.

Whether from grief or inner turmoil, Mrs. Kishida’s visibly haggard appearance complemented the subdued hue of her dark green afternoon dress—a combination that struck the two visitors as unbearably poignant.

Once those peculiarly quiet customary greetings exchanged in such circumstances concluded, Mrs. Kishida—fluttering her eyelids—began recounting the details of the heinous act she claimed to have witnessed, prompted by Otsuki’s questioning.

“If I may explain in order, it was around nine o’clock this morning.”
“After finishing breakfast, my husband had gone out for a walk—which was unusual for him.”
“Today was unseasonably warm from the morning, and as you know, Naosuke had recently made a full recovery in his health—in fact, we were scheduled to return to the capital tomorrow. He even spoke of taking a farewell stroll before departing.”
“We had sent the maid back to the main residence early this morning to handle cleaning and other preparations in advance, so after my husband left, I was alone attending to personal packing matters.”
“However, when my husband still hadn’t returned past ten o’clock, I left the house intending to search the area while also visiting the town’s transport office.”
“I should clarify—as you’re aware, this entire coastal area consists of steep cliffs. About 150 meters west from here stands a higher promontory jutting toward the sea, commonly called Owl Mountain.”
“It happened just as I had left the house and taken twenty or thirty steps.”
“Through gaps between the trees of the mixed forest, I glimpsed two figures atop Owl Mountain’s cliff.”
“Though too distant to see clearly, when I looked more carefully, one was unmistakably my husband.”
“The other was a man much smaller than him, wearing pale blue clothes as the other witness described—but he seemed entirely unfamiliar, or rather, too distant to discern any details of his features.”
“I stopped and stared fixedly at the cliff through the tree trunks.”
“Then—suddenly—the two began struggling.”
“And then... then...”

Mrs. Kishida cut off her words with a “Hah” and then bowed her head deeply, seemingly unable to bear it.

“Ah, quite so.—Then, the time of the crime was ten o’clock…?”

Otsuki asked.

“Yes. Well, I think it was probably from about 10:15 to 10:20.”
“You see, having suddenly witnessed such a horrifying scene, I was completely flustered—”

Just then, Mr. Kaiser—who had arrived unnoticed—interjected into their conversation.

“In other words, Mrs. Kishida had collapsed on the spot and remained there until she was helped by the other witness—the farmer.”

With that, Otsuki turned toward him,

“So, that farmer man you mentioned?”

“In other words, he’s a witness to the crime, just like Mrs. Kishida here. Or rather—if you’d like, I can call him in for you… The preliminary questioning’s already done, so he must be working in a nearby field right now.”

Kindly having said that, the officer left.

Otsuki then turned to Mrs. Kishida and inquired if she had any leads regarding possible motives for this heinous act.
In response to that, Mrs. Kishida answered that her husband had never done anything to incur others’ resentment.
Furthermore, there had been no material damage incurred by this heinous act.
Even if there had been motives other than those, she herself had no inkling of them.
She answered along those lines.

Before long, in about ten minutes, the officer from earlier returned, bringing with him a seemingly good-natured middle-aged farmer.

The man made to stand before Otsuki began speaking in a plain tone, bobbing his head repeatedly with a demeanor as if he had mistaken a lawyer for a prosecutor.

“That is correct.”
“As for us—my wife and me—seein’ that, it was around ten in the mornin’.”
“Though I say we saw it, we weren’t watchin’ the whole time from the start—it was just the beginnin’ and the end, meanin’ we saw it in two instances, it was.”
“The first time we saw ’em was when the man who got killed was walkin’ toward Owl Mountain with a slightly small-built, slender fella in a light blue Western suit—but seein’ as our field where we were workin’ was quite a ways off from there, and ’specially since we never thought anythin’ like that’d happen, we couldn’t make out his face or any other details, it wasn’t.”

“Wait a moment.”

Otsuki, who had been listening with interest to the witness’s words, interjected.

“The man in the light blue suit—he wasn’t wearing an overcoat, was he? Or was he carrying one?”

Having said that, Otsuki looked between the farmer and then Mrs. Kishida as if urging them on.

“He neither carried nor wore one.”

Both Mrs. Kishida and the farmer answered in the same manner.

“Was he wearing a hat?”

Otsuki asked again.
To this question，the farmer answered that he hadn’t been wearing one，while Mrs.Kishida stated she couldn’t be certain but suggested it might have been a beret if he had.
Then the farmer—

“Oh，I just remembered—at that time，the gentleman here who was killed was carryin’ a small black trunk.”

“Hoh.—” Otsuki said, turning his gaze toward Mrs. Kishida.
Mrs. Kishida answered that there was no way Naosuke would have gone out for a walk carrying such a thing, and that our household did not possess a black trunk at all.
“I see. Then, please tell me about when you saw the two of them for the second time.”

Prompted by Otsuki, the witness continued his account.

“That is correct.”
“The second time I saw them was just a short while after that—when suddenly my wife pointed toward the sea and called out to me. So I looked that way casually—though it was obscured by the grove and I couldn’t see clearly—but just as Mrs. Kishida here said, there on Owl Mountain’s cliff edge, this fellow in a light blue suit seemed to grapple with the gentleman here like they were fighting, and before long he pushed the gentleman clean off the cliff. Then he hesitated a bit before taking that black trunk and running off into the grove.”
“Now, if we’d chased right after him, we could’ve surely seen what sort of man he really was—but what with it being so sudden, we were all flustered, and besides, we were more worried about the poor fellow who got shoved off. So first thing, we scrambled down to the water’s edge at the cliff base.”
“Well, by then the pushed-off fellow was already breathing his last, and with just us two, there was no way we could haul him up that big cliff. So we had no choice but to climb back up—hard as it was—and rush to town to tell the police gentlemen about it.”
“On our way there, right by the roadside, we rescued this Mrs. Kishida who’d collapsed in a faint.—Yes.”

The witness finished speaking and bobbed his head once more.

Otsuki, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, had been immersed in deep contemplation for some time—as though profoundly intrigued by the case—but soon turned to Mrs. Kishida.

“Even after your husband was moved to this coast for his health recovery, there must have still been visitors to the villa?”

“Yes, there were indeed frequent visits.”
“But they were nearly all people connected to the newly formed theater troupe.”

“Ah.”
“The Agateza troupe’s—I suppose.”
“And what about recently?”

“Yes. About three people had come.”
“They too were from the theater troupe.”

“Could I ask a bit more about those people?”

“Let me explain.”
“Of the three, one was Mr. Itsuji Uesagi—the Agateza troupe’s general affairs manager and scriptwriter—who arrived from Tokyo three days ago and has been staying at a town inn until today.”
“As for the villa, he came yesterday and the day before—a total of two times—but it seems on both occasions he discussed matters related to the theater troupe with my husband.”
“The other two were actresses—Ms. Fujie Nakano and Ms. Tokiko Horie—modern and beautiful ladies they are called, but as the troupe has not yet become a professional organization, they each likely have their own occupations or social standings. However, I am afraid I do not know the detailed circumstances of such matters.”
“These individuals stayed at a town inn yesterday as well and came to the villa last night to pay their respects, but it is said they returned to Tokyo today together with Mr. Uesagi.”
“I understand both of them are acquainted with Mr. Uesagi.”

“Then, around what time today did those three guests leave Choshi?”

In response to Otsuki’s question, Mr. Kaiser now leaned forward.

“Well—according to our investigation, they returned to Tokyo on the noon train.”
“Of course, there’s about an hour and a half gap from the estimated time of the crime. Our inquiries across all relevant channels show no traces of other likely suspects entering this town. Moreover, based on our checks at the inns, all three acted quite independently—especially Mr. Uesagi, who lacks a solid alibi for the scene. Therefore, we’ve taken standard precautions.”
“However,” he continued, “there’s a significant discrepancy between the perpetrator’s description from witness statements and Mr. Uesagi’s actual appearance.”
“To be precise—Uesagi stands even taller than Mr. Kishida himself.”
“Thus,” he concluded, “we ultimately cannot definitively suspect Uesagi under these circumstances.—”

Here, the officer fell silent, as if fearing to divulge confidential details of the investigation.
Otsuki quietly said in a tone that seemed to mask his inner agitation, glancing at his secretary Akita.

“In any case, let’s go take a look at that cliff crime scene.”

II

Almost entirely covered in beautiful, velvety grass and dotted here and there with clusters of low-growing shrubs, the hill took on a shape akin to an owl perched on a tree branch, jutting out sharply along the sea-facing cliff.
Far to the east in the sea, Inubōsaki lay sprawled, and beyond the dreamlike horizon, a white ship—likely a foreign vessel bound for Seattle—drifted almost imperceptibly, trailing a long plume of black smoke.

Taiji Otsuki, who by now seemed to have become far more strongly drawn to the mystery of this case than to his original duties, along with his secretary Akita, were soon guided by the witness to the top of that hill with its commanding view.

The witness pointed to the edge of the cliff facing the sea and said to Otsuki.

“There are footprints from the scuffle over there.—The police gentlemen found them.”

Thereupon, they walked in that direction.
As they walked, Taiji Otsuki said to his secretary.

“Hmm, you.”
“Consider this—isn’t it rather absurd? Even if today was warm, a culprit wearing such an unnatural pale blue outfit without an overcoat can’t possibly be someone who just happened to come from afar to this countryside today.”
“I believe the culprit must be a man who stayed in this area long enough to naturally alter his attire—if not longer.”
“And that man is someone who, at least in that situation, could calmly make Mr. Kishida—who wasn’t even its owner—carry the black trunk and walk around.”
“In other words, from an entirely commonsense perspective, such a person would be either Mr. Kishida’s close colleague, a senior in the broader sense—or perhaps—yes.”
“Couldn’t it be someone of the lady’s standing—?”
“Next, according to testimony, the culprit is described as smaller and slimmer than Mr. Kishida—but even considering Mr. Kishida’s convalescent state, he still had a rather robust build. Given that they grappled with him and ultimately pushed him off the cliff with ease—this wasn’t some child’s scuffle—unless there was some special technique involved, we must acknowledge that the culprit possessed skills disproportionate to their size, or at least strength equal to or surpassing the victim’s.”

Then, the witness who had been walking in silence interjected.

“Ah, indeed—it is exactly as you say.”
“The moment that gentleman was pushed off the cliff—I remember it well—it was done so simply… like this… ah, here it is.”
“Here are the footprints from the scuffle.”

As he said this, the witness suddenly dashed five or six steps ahead, came to a stop, and turned back toward the two men while pointing at the ground.

Indeed, just as he had said, an area of ground measuring roughly six tsubo near the cliff’s edge lay exposed—a patch of dark, dampened sand where no grass grew, laid bare by the salty sea breeze.
At the edge of the sandy area, fierce shoe prints—appearing to mark a struggle—continued tangled and chaotic all the way to the cliff’s brink.
Upon closer inspection, here and there one could also see shoe prints that seemed to have been made by ordinary walking.
And circling around them to avoid stepping on the shoe prints were numerous large shoe prints—likely those of police officers—stamped across the ground as if with a seal.

Otsuki drew near to examine the traces of the struggle.

The large shoe prints belonged to Naosuke, and the faint, small ones were those of the culprit.
The two types of shoe prints—now pressed strongly, now weakly, bending or stomping down, appearing to drag at the toes only to twist into contorted shapes—continued in violent disarray all the way to the cliff’s edge.
And so, at the cliff’s edge, Naosuke’s shoe prints vanished, and in their place, the sandy ground there had been deeply scarred as if a heavy solid object had plummeted down.
Below was a dizzying cliff.

Taiji Otsuki sighed in relief and turned around, then began retracing the shoe prints in reverse this time.
When he reached the point where the two types of shoe prints transitioned to ordinary walking, he tilted his head slightly and crouched down, fixing a careful gaze upon the culprit’s shoe prints that remained relatively clear there.
But soon raising his face,

“Hmm.
“This is getting interesting,” he said before suddenly turning to the witness. “You did insist the culprit was a man, didn’t you?
“Yet the culprit is a woman.—”

Both Akita and the witness were stunned by Otsuki’s unexpected words.
The two of them peered at the shoe prints with eyes wide in unison.
Yet no matter how they looked, what they saw was unmistakably a man’s shoe print—small in overall shape but bearing no resemblance to women’s high-heeled shoes with narrow heels.
Akita lifted his face as if imploring Otsuki for an explanation.
Then Otsuki smiled quietly.

“Don’t you see? Then I’ll explain.”
“First, observe these shoe prints closely.”
“As anyone can tell at a glance, they’re remarkably small.”
“Second, relative to their size, the gap between toe and heel—the untouched ground—is unusually large.”
“Third—and most crucially—examine the heel area here.”
“The hobnail marks from rubber soles are clearly visible in Mr. Kishida’s prints, yet absent here. You see?”
“Listen well.”
“In this modern age of hygienic footwear standards, nearly all men’s shoes—save for overshoes or specialty athletic wear—have rubber soles with hobnails at the heels.”
“But these lack such soles.”
“Considering overshoes—none this small exist except for children’s sizes. Athletic shoes wouldn’t leave such disproportionately large untouched areas either.”
“Moreover, specialized footwear like overshoes or sports shoes would show distinctive tread patterns or metal fittings.”
“Thus I focused on unique morphological features: their diminutive size; flatter, narrower contours than standard soles; abnormal untouched ground ratio; and this pronounced depression at the forefoot—reminiscent of geta sandals worn by girls.”
“From these deductions, I concluded they’re wooden sandals—the beach footwear women use at midsummer resorts to walk on hot sand.”
“And their sides must have been a striking crimson—”
“Why? Look at this.”

With those words, Otsuki picked up an extremely small crimson lacquer fragment—likely flaked off when the beach sandal had forcefully dug into the ground at the untouched soil of the shoe print—and held it out before their eyes.
And,

“Of course, if the lacquer has flaked off this conveniently, those beach sandals must have been quite worn out by now—but here I recall that around last summer, at some seaside resort, there would have been beach pants and a beach coat used by the same woman who wore those sandals.”
“And moreover, the colors of those garments were a flashy aqua, I tell you.”
“But here, you might harbor a doubt—what if a man wore those women’s beach sandals to make it appear as though the culprit were a woman?”
“However, that is clearly wrong.”
“Because if the culprit were a man and harbored such an ambition, then that man would naturally have to wear a dress or some other women’s clothing that appears feminine at first glance, rather than beach pants or a beach coat that look masculine. No—in truth, I’ve suspected something like this might be the case ever since I first heard Mrs. Kishida’s testimony.”
“To conclude that the culprit is a man simply because it appeared to be male attire when viewed from a distance is a dangerously flawed assumption.”
“After all, it’s an era when girls overseas are making a trend of cross-dressing, and the women surrounding Mr. Kishida are, well, Japan’s Dietrichs or Garbos, so to speak.—In any case, even if the culprit did resort to such an eccentric act to deceive Mrs. Kishida and this witness from a distance, no criminal would come forward to admit it now. So, we must focus on uncovering more direct evidence.”

Otsuki once again began earnestly tracing the shoe prints.

Before long, when he reached the area where the shoe prints crisscrossed and vanished from the sandy ground into the grassy area, he once again summoned the two witnesses and, pointing at the ground, spoke.

“There’s an apple peel here.”
“Look here.”
Then, turning to the witness, he said, “Did the police bunch overlook this?”

“Well… It’s not unusual for apple peels to be lying around here, so I reckon the gentlemen just didn’t notice it without realizing.”
“From what I saw, the gentlemen searched every nook and cranny, and they did carefully collect all sorts of scraps of paper scattered at the entrance to that grove.”

“Scraps of paper—?”

“Hmm.”
“It looked like someone had torn up something written into shreds and scattered them all around, stomping them into the roots of an inconspicuous grove.”
“The one I picked up seemed to be the very beginning of that book, and well—‘Bouquet’s Insect’... I’m sure those characters were written there plain as day.”

“Hmm… Hmm…”

Taiji Otsuki closed his eyes motionlessly for a while, as if chasing his thoughts, but soon—

“Well, putting that aside—in any case, this apple peel.”
“Of course, this may seem commonplace and obvious precisely because it was something the police discarded.”
“However, this was not merely dropped here by chance—it holds a direct connection to the crime. In other words, it was peeled and discarded precisely when the violent act was committed.”
“Take a good look.”
“There.”
“This peel is lying on top of Mr. Kishida’s shoe prints, you see.”
“And if you look even closer, you’ll notice that about half of this peel has been stepped on by the culprit’s shoe—precisely as if by chance.”
“Therefore, this peel was neither discarded before the crime nor after it.”
“It was precisely when the perpetrator and victim met atop this hill that this was peeled and discarded.”
“And if you look even more carefully—”
Otsuki picked up the apple peel and said, “Look. The peeling twists to the left, doesn’t it?
“It’s nothing complicated.”
“If we reason according to the usual tricks of detective novels—since in this case the culprit was a woman—it’s only natural to conclude that the one who peeled the apple was the culprit.”
“Therefore, the culprit is left-handed… But even so, what on earth is that black trunk?”
“And just who is this woman with the physical strength to grapple with Mr. Kishida and hurl him off the cliff so effortlessly? And what on earth does *Bouquet’s Insect* mean?……”

Thereupon, Otsuki plunged into contemplation.
With his arms crossed, he began walking aimlessly over the shoe prints once more.
Whether Secretary Akita meant not to disturb Otsuki’s contemplation or had simply grown tired of such gestures, he seized the male witness and, while surveying the hill’s surrounding scenery, began earnestly listening to his animated explanations about the splendid view.

Meanwhile, Otsuki continued wandering while lost in thought, but suddenly stopped, crouched down, and picked up something small from the soil between the grasses.
It was a small, black, thin fragment resembling a flat board piece. After staring at it for a while, Otsuki slipped the item into his pocket and stood up, tilting his head as if deep in thought.

And before long, Taiji Otsuki invited Akita and the witness, then descended the hill.

It was near evening, and indeed, a cold wind blew in across the dusky black sea surface.
Since it was already late, and Otsuki’s immediate tasks stemming from Naosuke’s death had yet to be addressed at all, they decided to return to Tokyo with Mrs. Kishida the following morning, and both ended up staying overnight in the villa’s guest room.

At Owl Mountain’s investigation, Otsuki—who had grown contemplative as though his deductions had abruptly hit a dead end—nevertheless turned promptly to Mrs. Kishida when dinnertime arrived and the three sat at the table in the hall.

“This may seem an odd question to ask, but does the term *Bouquet’s Insect* ring any bells for you?”

“Oh—”
Mrs. Kishida clearly showed a look of surprise as she said, “Why would you ask about such a thing again? ‘*Bouquet’s Insect*’ is apparently a two-act play written by Mr. Uesagi, but…”

“Ah.”
“I see.”
“—And what’s it about?”

“Well…
“I’m afraid I have no idea about that… but I was informed by my husband last night that it is one of the scripts to be performed at the upcoming founding anniversary production of the Agateza troupe.”
“When Mr. Uesagi kindly visited the villa yesterday, he presented that script to my husband, so that much I am aware of.”

“Ah, I see.”
“So your husband had not yet read that script up until today, then?”

“Well…”
“Well… That—”

“No, I understand perfectly.”
“Given that your husband took it with him on his morning walk to Owl Mountain, he hadn’t read it yet…”

Taiji Otsuki said this and, sinking back into thought, continued chewing the poultry entrée like a cow.

When the meal ended, Otsuki began discussing inheritance matters and other pressing affairs with Mrs. Kishida while eating the plump, luscious crimson apple she had peeled for him.

Akita suddenly recalled the conclusion Otsuki had drawn earlier on the hill—that the culprit was left-handed.
And while feeling something heroic in his heart, he surreptitiously glanced at Mrs. Kishida’s hands.
But of course, Mrs. Kishida was not left-handed.

The next morning――.

Despite this, Otsuki—who seemed to have regained considerable energy compared to the previous night—finished breakfast and set out alone once more for yesterday’s hill before departing the area. Upon reaching the cliff’s summit, he conducted an even more thorough investigation of the scene than the day before and took copies of the shoe prints. But once those tasks were completed, he returned to the villa with a sigh of relief—like one who had finally finished work that had been weighing on his mind.

And before long, Otsuki, Akita, and Mrs. Hiroko Kishida boarded the Tokyo-bound train from Choshi Station.

On the train, Otsuki explained to the two in a confident tone that while this crime was an exceedingly delicate matter, he had already grasped its general outline, and he would surely expose the culprit within a day or two.
However, since he did not provide a detailed explanation of why or how this would come to pass, Akita could not help but feel a slight dissatisfaction and suspicion within himself——.

III

After withdrawing from Byōbuura, Otsuki and Secretary Akita returned to the Marunouchi office after 2:00 PM that day.

At the office, during the one day the two had been away, two or three new cases had already arrived and were waiting for them.
Since their visit to Byōbuura the previous day, Secretary Akita—who had gradually been made to harbor suspicions and grown weary of Otsuki's every word and action—nonetheless asked with utmost compliance which tasks to begin investigating.
However, despite that, Otsuki once again adopted a suspicious attitude that would startle Akita.
Truly, that was a strange thing.

—Within less than two hours of returning from Choshi, Otsuki—having entirely entrusted Akita with organizing the new documents—called the Agateza troupe’s office in Tsukiji and held the receiver for some time. But as soon as the call ended, he inexplicably donned a tuxedo he had never worn before, tucked a pure white handkerchief into his chest pocket with practiced ease, and with affected nonchalance headed out into the evening streets.

Otsuki continued walking briskly over the asphalt while whistling—a youthful affectation unbefitting his age—downed a glass of whiskey at a restaurant in Ginza’s backstreets, then hailed a taxi to the Union Dance Hall.
There, he began dancing an old-fashioned waltz with the unsteady steps he’d learned long ago.
—But within twenty minutes, he rushed out again, boarded another taxi, and briskly ordered:

“To Nichibei Hall!”

Then, next,

“To Kokka Hall!”

In that manner—counting them roughly—Otsuki danced his way through five dance halls: Union, Nichibei, Kokka, Ginza, and Florida. At the last one, Florida, he brought out a young beautiful dancer and sped back by car to his Marunouchi office just like that.

Under normal circumstances Akita would have already finished work and gone home, but even he had stayed late today.
When he saw Otsuki suddenly return with a young woman and others, he was so shocked he couldn’t utter a word.

However, seemingly utterly indifferent to such matters, Otsuki—having returned—merely showed Akita a brief smile, promptly took the woman into the adjacent room, and tightly shut the connecting door behind them…….

And then—oh!—to Akita, who stood there dumbfounded, the frenzied sound of jazz soon began drifting in from the adjacent room along with light footsteps.

Truly, this was the first time he had ever encountered such behavior from "Sir."
Akita was no longer in any state to organize documents.
At times, the tip of his nose became drenched with sweat as he steadfastly endured the looming dizziness, clinging to his desk like a lion.
But even so, as he gradually calmed down, a certain thought began flowing through his mind like water…

Could this woman be the one from Owl Mountain—the woman in the beach sandals?
And Sir... But then, what does this commotion amount to... No—there must be some deeper scheme behind Sir’s actions.
That’s right.
In any case, I must not allow this woman to escape.
Having drawn the culprit this far, it would be disgraceful to let them escape now.
That meaningful smile Sir had shown earlier was undoubtedly a silent bodily signal requesting my assistance——.

Having finally reached this conclusion, Akita suddenly noticed that the commotion in the adjacent room seemed to have subsided. Without him realizing when, the jazz music had stopped, leaving only a low whispering voice audible.
But soon after that too ended came a sense of someone rising, accompanied by the rustle of silk garments.
Then he abruptly snapped—leaping from his chair to stand blocking the doorway like a beast.

Suddenly the door opened, revealing Otsuki's back.
And from beyond that tuxedo-clad back came a young woman's alluring voice,

“Oh, you shouldn’t…”
“If you give me this much…”

Then Otsuki pressed it down with both hands as if to restrain it, and then, while turning toward Akita,

“You—what sort of posture is that?”
“Now then—our guest will be departing.”
“Kindly step aside and let her through.”

At this, Akita rolled his eyes white and black, involuntarily retreating a step.

“I’m dreadfully sorry.—Well now, do come visit us again sometime.”

Having said that, the young woman cast a fleeting, coquettish glance at Otsuki and, without so much as a look toward Akita, finally left just like that.

Otsuki sat down in his chair and, with an air of satisfaction, lit a Westminster.

Akita could no longer endure it and finally took a seat beside Otsuki.
And,

“What exactly happened?”

“Not really—it’s nothing.”
“Well, in any case, I’ll explain it now.”

With those words, Otsuki thrust his hand into his inner pocket and retrieved that thin, black, board-like fragment he had picked up yesterday atop the cliff in Byōbuura.

“You can tell what this is, of course?”
“Kindly take a good look.”

“What… is this? —Ah.”
“Isn’t this a fragment of a record?”
“What on earth does this mean?”

“Now, kindly wait.”
“In the corner there, you can see a few letters in gold lettering, can’t you?”

“Yes. I can see them.
“…… arcelona – as for that, it says Victor·20113–.”
“And then… T… Foxtrot–”

“That’s right. The missing letters are, of course, from that ‘Barcelona’ of the dance. And the other one is the March Foxtrot—by the way, you sometimes indulge in dancing, but do you know how to dance it? That March Foxtrot thing, you know.”

Akita suddenly blushed, having been struck on the mark. But soon, as if resigned,

“I’ve heard the name a few times, but since I’ve only just started learning, I don’t know the steps at all.”

“Hmm, I thought so.—To tell the truth, I didn’t know either. But according to what I learned from that young guest who just left, this dance was apparently introduced to Japan four or five years ago and is commonly called ‘Six-Eight.’ In Europe, it’s called the Spanish One-Step. And as the name suggests, this dance’s figure—or rather—its step pattern is… It’s a very emphatic, exhilarating one-step style.—Now then, what do you think this is?”

Otsuki said that and spread out a piece of paper in front of Akita.
Akita looked at it briefly but immediately assumed a somewhat triumphant air,

“—I understand. In other words, this must be the diagram you made of the March Foxtrot’s step traces—or rather, the footprints’ traces—Sir.”

Then Otsuki, laughing,

“Hmm-hmm-hmm… Well, you could say that.”
“But you can’t quite say that either.”

“You mean—”
Akita involuntarily pressed eagerly as he inquired.
“In other words, it is the steps of the Spanish One-Step and at the same time—”
“Listen.”
“It’s another... something else, you see.”
“Another—⁉”
“It’s none other than… It’s none other than those spectacular footprints from the struggle atop the cliff in Byōbuura!”

―Akita turned pale.

IV

Otsuki, who had been smiling amiably while observing Akita’s utterly dumbfounded face at his sharp, blindsiding decision, soon resumed speaking sporadically, blowing tobacco smoke into rings.

“Of course, when I first saw those chaotic footprints, I too had unquestioningly believed them to be traces of a struggle.”
“But while you were talking with that witness, I picked up this thing—this record fragment—from the grass there.”
“Then, you seemed quite suspicious of the fact that I suddenly sank into brooding, didn’t you?”
“But to tell the truth, you can’t imagine how much more suspicious I felt than you did—I was the one who picked up that gramophone record fragment on a rural hilltop, at a murder scene no less, seemingly unrelated to that incident.”
“Moreover, upon closer inspection, this small fragment was found beneath the woman’s shoe print—the one closest to the edge of the grass among those fight footprints—you see.”
“In other words, it looked as though the heel of a beach sandal had stomped on it, leaving its pristine surface—seemingly shattered not long ago—half-emerging from the sand.—I pondered.”
I thought until evening.
And at last, I had solved the mystery.—It was no wonder this thing had been lying near the villa of the Kishida couple, those modern-era residents.
In other words, even if it had been Mr. Naosuke, Mrs. Hiroko, or any other person related to the Kishida household who had been playing a portable phonograph for amusement atop that hill with the fine view, there would have been nothing strange about it.
And then—and then.
From these record fragments and the state in which this thing had fallen, I encountered an extremely vague yet highly compelling implication that someone had been dancing there.
So the next morning—in other words, this morning—you see.
I went out to investigate that hill once again.
And there, unexpectedly, within those remarkable footprints—no, within those shoe prints that had seemed nothing but traces of a violent struggle when I saw them yesterday—look here, upon closer inspection, wasn’t there something like a rhythm—a melody, one might say?
I involuntarily let out a cry.
And the more I thought about it and looked, the clearer that fact became.
Of course, I knew no dance with such a complicated, intense step figure.
But how could I, at that time, assert that those were not the traces of dance steps?

And at the same time, a truly terrifying thought began to rise in my head.
That was because I had recalled Mrs. Kishida’s testimony at the villa yesterday—"Suddenly, the two began to struggle."
And that part where she said—
This very part.
"Now listen.
"In that same testimony, Mrs. Kishida identified one figure on the cliff during the crime as her husband Naosuke and declared the other to be a small-statured man in pale blue clothes—yet she isn’t nearsighted.
"And furthermore, remember this.
"Mrs. Kishida was a dancer at the Iidabashi Dance Hall before marrying Naosuke Kishida.
"Even if she was some distance away, and even if the other witness—a simple farmer who knows nothing of dance—claims otherwise, it’s utterly inconceivable that a woman who once made her living through dance could mistake the start of a dance for a fight.
"Thus, I arrived at an almost inevitable suspicion—that Mrs. Kishida had given false testimony.
"At the same time.
"Isn’t imagining Mrs. Hiroko Kishida—a former professional dancer—as Mr. Naosuke’s partner in those intensely rhythmic, complex steps precisely the most straightforward yet strikingly compelling deduction?
"But here lies concrete evidence supporting my reasoning.
"You saw how Mrs. Kishida casually peeled a crimson apple for us after dinner last night in the villa’s dining room.
"And of course, while recalling my earlier deduction at the crime scene that ‘the culprit is left-handed,’ you must have been intently watching her hands."
Yet Mrs. Kishida was not left-handed.
At this, you made a disgusted face—as though recoiling from your own excessive attentiveness—and sank into brooding.
But your attentiveness wasn’t excessive at all.
On the contrary—I must say your observation remained inadequate.
Had you observed more precisely then, you would undoubtedly have discovered an astonishing fact.

Because Mrs. Kishida was clearly right-handed, wielding the knife completely naturally without any contrived affectation in her right hand.
Yet despite this, wasn’t there a left-coiled peel—identical to the one found at the scene—mocking us as it spiraled atop the milky-white fruit flesh swelling between her fingers?
I stiffened inwardly.
Steadying myself, I looked closer... and then—
What nonsense.
What an utterly trivial mystery!
The crux lay in how she first inserted the knife.
That is, while ordinary people begin peeling fruit from the stem side nearest them, Mrs. Kishida started from the opposite side of the stem—an admittedly peculiar habit.
Yet we had indeed witnessed this very habit applied to three apples last night in the villa’s dining room.
In my haste to apply some dime-novel detective trick wholesale, I’d nearly made a catastrophic blunder.

“…By the way, about this apple peel—”
Otsuki said this and, while carefully extracting two apple peels from a small box—produced from somewhere at some unnoticed moment—continued, “The older one here is from the scene atop the cliff, and this one was obtained this morning from the villa’s trash bin.”
“You’ve likely noticed already, but I’ve already detected the same person’s left thumbprint on the surface of this lustrous peel.—You.”
“The murderer of Naosuke Kishida is Mrs. Hiroko Kishida.”
“Here.”
“Take a look at this—”

The outcome need not be recorded here.
Soon, Otsuki stood up with a sly grin and strode into the adjacent room.
And when he emerged again, Akita—catching sight of the item he carried in his right hand—involuntarily let out an “Ah!” and sprang to his feet.

It was no wonder Akita had cried out—for this so-called item was none other than that flashy checkerboard-patterned suitcase: Mrs. Hiroko Kishida’s sole piece of luggage when the three of them had vacated the Byōbuura villa this morning, the very one Akita himself had carried all the way to Chōshi Station!?

“No need for such surprise. When I discovered Mrs. Kishida’s sole piece of luggage for returning to Tokyo was this single suitcase, I immediately concluded its contents must conceal the culprit’s true identity—nothing more elaborate than that. At Chōshi Station, under the guise of courtesy, I personally arranged to have this item checked—not to her primary residence, but secretly redirected to my office here. By now, Mrs. Kishida must be frantically tracking down unchecked luggage at Ryōgoku Station rather than her properly checked belongings. You merely lacked awareness of when this was delivered and stored in the adjacent cupboard.”

Then, laughing, Otsuki took out a key ring from his pocket, found the duplicate key, and swiftly opened the suitcase’s lid.

Inside were an eye-catching aqua beach coat and pants, cute crimson seawater boots, and a Columbia portable phonograph—all crammed tightly together.

“Then just what happened to ‘Bouquet’s Insect’?”

Akita asked.
Otsuki lit a cigarette.

“Well, you see... I initially thought that phrase might be a code.”
“However, that was a mistake. *Bouquet’s Insect* is merely the title of a two-act play written by Uesagi-san. But from the fact that its script was torn to shreds on that hill, I deduced it had some fundamental connection to Naosuke Kishida’s death—in other words, it pointed to the motive for this murder.”
“So earlier, I made a brief phone call to the Agateza troupe’s office to inquire about the script’s contents.”
“It turned out to be a somewhat exposé-style work dealing with a woman’s adultery.”
“However, in this case, Mrs. Kishida—the culprit—had clearly feared *Bouquet’s Insect*.”
“Thus, my suspicions were naturally directed toward Mrs. Kishida’s past.”
“It was for those two purposes—the original one and another concerning knowledge of the Spanish Waltz—that I ended up conducting such a ridiculous round of hall visits.”
“However, fortunately, I managed to locate that modern girl we saw earlier—a former colleague of Mrs. Hiroko Kishida from her Iidabashi heyday—and through her, I unexpectedly learned that Itsuji Uesagi and Mrs. Kishida had once been an item, and further, that Mrs. Kishida was, surprisingly enough, quite the libertine despite appearances.”
“Now, with the materials above and my meager imagination, let us finally attempt to sketch the comprehensive picture of the crime… First, I would posit that after her marriage to Naosuke Kishida, Mrs. Hiroko Kishida was being coerced by her former lover Uesagi into something—whether it be reigniting their affair or some other material demand—in any case, something she was forced into.”
And so, as his final means of blackmail, Uesagi had brought *Bouquet’s Insect*—which exposed the licentious Mrs. Kishida’s current misconduct—to Naosuke’s attention by leveraging his new position within the Agateza troupe.
Of course, Mrs. Kishida knew everything.
And now, feeling the black shadow creeping ever closer over her own affluent material status, how terribly she must have been caught in a whirlpool of anguish over the past day or two.
There, without a doubt, the same desperate effort as Nora from Ibsen’s play—who strove to keep Krogstad’s letter from her husband Helmer—must have been repeated.
But in the end, Mrs. Kishida proved less discerning than Nora—and more hysterical.
By yesterday morning, Mrs. Hiroko Kishida had likely donned these eccentric, seasonally inappropriate garments, forcibly lured out Naosuke—who had been eager to read *Bouquet’s Insect*—and ventured to Owl Mountain for a picnic, carrying the portable phonograph that the witness had mistaken for a black trunk.

“I do not wish to think Mrs. Kishida consciously wore that eccentric male attire while fully aware of her murderous intent,” Otsuki reflected. “It was that subtle psychological aberration before the crime—a near-cowardly instinctive preparation—that drove her actions.”
She had needed to persistently divert Naosuke’s attention from *Bouquet’s Insect*. Before long, upon that cliff with its sweeping vista, the pair began dancing—those fevered Spanish Waltz steps steeped in passion.
At the dance’s climactic peak, the demon writhing in Mrs. Kishida’s depths abruptly reared its head.—“Recall how that witness marveled at Naosuke being ‘foolishly toppled with such ease,’” Otsuki interjected.—Now fully demonized, she shredded *Bouquet’s Insect*—no longer fearing exposure—and hastened back to the villa clutching the phonograph.
“With the basest criminal psychology,” he concluded, “she volunteered herself as a witness.”
“……Open this phonograph regardless.” Otsuki gestured. “Inside lie large fragments of a record she shattered mid-dance frenzy—plus four or five Spanish Waltz discs I’d earlier… appropriated.”

Otsuki finished speaking, flicked his cigarette butt into the ashtray, and sank deeply into his chair. Then, piece by piece, he began to ponder the prosecutor’s harsh sentencing for Mrs. Kishida’s crime and the challenging defense arguments he would mount against it.

(April 1934 Issue)