Pathway to Japanese Literature

A Year of Agony The bizarre death of Professor Kenuma remains such an eerie event that even now, it sometimes visits me in dreams, leaving me haunted upon waking. Then, less than a month later when Professor Kasagami and his wife—my mentor whom I revered as a father—took their own lives in an unforeseen suicide, I found myself beyond mere shock, my soul emptied as if spirited away, incapable even of shedding tears. When at last I regained my composure and read the sole testament the Professor had addressed to me, I felt myself plummet into despair like one cast into the abyss’s depths. I had nearly resolved to follow the Professor and his wife in taking my leave from this world, yet somehow restrained myself at the final moment.

At that time, I could not fathom how relentlessly I was pressured by both police authorities and newspaper reporters to disclose the suicide note. However, I held firm to the Professor’s final wishes until the very end, insisting I could not make them public until a year had passed. Because of that, how much misunderstanding I must have endured from the public. But there was nothing to be done about it.

And so, for me, a year of agony passed—a year that was painful yet futile, sad yet frustrating, indescribable in every way.

Having reached the first anniversary of my mentors Dr. and Mrs. Kasagami’s passing, now that I am permitted to publicly disclose the Professor’s testament here, I cannot express how relieved I felt to have lightened—even if only partially—the heavy burden that had long weighed on my heart.

Hereafter, before I publish the Professor’s testament, I shall begin in proper order with the mysterious death incident of Professor Kenuma.

The Mysterious Death of Professor Kenuma

February 11th—Empire Day—was bitterly cold, with the temperature at six in the morning dropping to minus five degrees and three-tenths Celsius, a rare low for the Tokyo area. Due to a perfect trifecta of reasons—my overindulgence the previous night, the school holiday, and that extreme cold—I had buried myself completely under the futon, head and all, unaware that nine o'clock had come and gone.

“Mr. Usawa.”

Suddenly hearing a voice call out by my pillow, I abruptly lifted my head to find the landlady staring fixedly at me, her face pale and eyes filled with suspicion. Since something seemed amiss, I forgot about the cold and sat up abruptly. “Do you have some business with me?”

Then, instead of replying, the landlady held out the business card she had in her hand. What struck my eye first and foremost was the title: “S Police Station Detective.” “Wh-what’s wrong?” I started, then became so flustered I was ashamed of myself. I had no recollection of having done anything bad enough to warrant being summoned by the police, but whether it was due to a lack of mental preparation, I found myself panicking in a rather pathetic manner. The landlady stared at me once more with probing eyes,

“I don’t know what it’s regarding, but he said he wants to meet you.”

I changed my kimono in a great hurry and went downstairs while smoothing back my disheveled hair. Downstairs stood a neatly dressed young man who looked like a modern youth. That was the detective from S Police Station.

“Mr. Usawa? “Well, you see… Professor Kenuma has passed away—” “Wh-what?” I jumped up. It was as if this were a story from a dream. I had escorted Professor Kenuma back to his home late last night and made sure he was properly settled in his bedroom before returning. After all, I would be a third-year medical student in two months—I could tell whether there had been any dangerous signs or not. Professor Kenuma was drunk, but there had been no dangerous signs anywhere. The Professor was already fifty-two years old, but he remained so vigorous that he surpassed us—a man of splendid health without a single ailment in his body.

When the detective saw me jump up, he smirked and,

“I hear you escorted him home last night.” “Yes.” “For reference purposes, there are some matters I’d like to ask about—please come with me to Toriwatari Police Station.” “Surely… he wasn’t murdered, was he?” Since I couldn’t possibly consider it a natural death, the thought had suddenly surfaced in my mind—but as if my mouth had moved of its own accord without any command from my still-dormant head, I ended up uttering this. The detective glared sharply at me with eyes that clashed against his modern youth-like attire,

“We’ll discuss it properly at the station, so please come with us for now.”

So I made hasty preparations and, in a half-dazed state, was taken to S Police Station. After being kept waiting for some time, I was summoned to an interrogation room. A man with closely cropped hair and square shoulders—every inch the police officer—was seated behind a shabby desk. He didn’t introduce himself as anyone in particular, but through the course of the conversation, it became clear that he was the police chief. “I hear you escorted Professor Kenuma to his home last night.”

The police chief’s questioning also began with the exact same words the detective had used earlier. “Uh... yes.”

“About what time was it?” “I think it was past ten o’clock.” Then, remembering the clock that had been placed in the bedroom of the professor’s residence—

“That’s right—when I left the bedroom, it was exactly 10:35.” “So then, you left the venue at…” “Since it’s about a ten-minute taxi ride away, that would mean we left around 10:25.” “What kind of meeting was it?” “It was a social gathering for medical students who are graduates of M High School.” “About how many people attended?”

“There were about fourteen or fifteen students.” “There were two professors—Professor Kenuma and Professor Kasagami—along with one assistant professor and one assistant. There was also an M High School graduate who was supposed to attend, but they were absent due to a conflict.”

“Was there anything unusual at the venue?” “No, nothing in particular.” At this moment, I recalled how Professors Kenuma and Kasagami at the venue had seemed to avoid conversing with each other in a manner different from their usual interactions, but since it was not particularly worth mentioning, I did not bring it up.

“Was Professor Kenuma in good spirits?”

“Yes.” “Did he drink heavily?” “Yes, he drank a fair amount.”

“How much? To the point of losing consciousness?” “No, I don’t believe it was that severe. Even after returning home, he changed into his sleepwear unaided, said ‘Thank you—you may return now,’ and retired to bed.” “Do you always escort the professor home?”

“No, that’s not exactly the case.” “Since Professor Kenuma’s house is in my neighborhood, everyone told me to escort him.”

“Professor Kenuma and you were the first to leave, correct?” “No, Professor Kasagami left a step ahead.”

“So did someone escort him after all?” “No, since Professor Kasagami doesn’t drink much alcohol, he wasn’t intoxicated at all—” “Could you describe in as much detail as possible what happened from when Professor Kenuma entered the house until he went to sleep?”

“Let me see. When we got out of the taxi and I took the professor’s hand—his steps still unsteady—to enter the entranceway, he plopped down right there onto the floor.” “The old maid who came to answer scowled—‘Oh my’—and said to me, ‘I’m sorry, but please help the professor upstairs,’ so—” “Was it only the old maid who came to the entrance?” “No, there was a maid.” “The maid went downstairs and was taking off the professor’s shoes.”

“There was no houseboy present, I take it?”

“Yes, the houseboy who’s usually there had taken a few days off to return to his hometown—so I was asked to help. I held him by the head, while the old maid and housemaid took his feet, and we dragged him to the Western-style bedroom.” “At that time, was there a gas stove lit in the bedroom?”

“No, it wasn’t lit. When the old maid lit the stove, Professor Kenuma—with a tangled tongue—said, ‘Should’ve lit it earlier. Can’t have it cold like this,’ and while swaying unsteadily, began taking off his Western clothes, moving his limbs as if dancing.”

“And then he changed into his sleepwear and went to bed, correct?” “Yes.” He nodded, hesitated slightly over whether to speak or not, but ultimately decided it would be better to say, “At that moment, while staggering feebly, Professor Kenuma pulled out various items from his jacket and trouser pockets and placed them on the nearby desk. But when his hand touched one item in a pocket, he froze—for an instant halting his unsteady swaying—and tensed up. Then, while making sure we couldn’t see it, he swiftly retrieved the object and stuffed it under the pillow of his bed.”

“What was that?” “It was a small automatic pistol.” “Hmph.”

The Chief nodded approvingly at my forthrightness and asked, “Had the professor always been in possession of such an item?”

“I don’t know. Because last night was the first time I saw it.” “Was there anything else unusual?” “No, there was nothing else. After changing into his sleepwear, he immediately got into bed. And then he said, ‘Please go home now.’” “So you left immediately after that, correct?” “Yes,” I replied hesitantly again, “since it was my first time entering the professor’s bedroom, I felt a bit curious and looked around for a while—though it was just a minute or two.”

“Did you only look?” “Since there were rare foreign-language books and academic journals piled on the desk, I touched them slightly.” “Just the books?” “Yes, I absolutely did not touch anything else.”

“And then you left the room, correct?”

“Yes, during that time, the old maid and the maid swiftly tidied up the professor’s discarded Western clothes and were holding them.” “I left, then the old maid and maid followed me out.” “The gas stove remained lit, correct?” “Yes, it did.” “When you departed, had the professor already fallen asleep?” “He appeared half-asleep.” “Mumbling incoherently while pressing his head against the pillow, he kept shaking it from side to side.”

“When he stood up immediately afterward, did you notice any indication that he had locked the door?”

“No, I didn’t notice. —Was it locked?” The Chief, however, did not answer my question.

“The old maid turned off the lights, correct?” “Yes, there was a switch on the inner wall near the door, and when leaving, the old maid pressed it to turn off the lights.”

“Thanks to you, it’s clear now.”

“I have one more question. It seems you told the detective who went to fetch you earlier, ‘Wasn’t the professor murdered?’—”

I started. I regretted having said unnecessary things. However, the Chief paid no heed to my inner turmoil and continued speaking relentlessly. "For what reason did you say such a thing? I find it hard to believe you'd say such a thing without any reason."

The Victor and the Vanquished

When I heard Professor Kenuma had died, my suspicion of murder wasn't rooted in any profound basis. As I'd stated before, I couldn't accept natural causes for the professor's death—suicide seemed even more inconceivable—and accidental demise hadn't so much as occurred to me. Thus I'd blurted out that he might have been killed, though this wasn't entirely without grounds. The first reason was Professor Kenuma's possession of an automatic pistol. The second was how these past two or three months he'd exhibited an air of apprehension toward something.

To begin with, Professor Kenuma, as a professor of surgery, had a bold and open-hearted nature; he was a formidable drinker, his lectures were briskly delivered, and he was an energetic man who belied his fifty-two years, possessing a temperament that didn’t dwell on trivial matters. However, over these past two or three months—though not markedly—there had been an air of despondency about him; he would startle at faint noises, make trifling mistakes during lectures, deliberately cede surgeries he typically volunteered for to junior assistant professors—minor deviations from his usual self.

While I peered at the Chief’s expression,

“There’s no particular deep reason on my part, but the professor had seemed somewhat off lately, and he had been carrying a pistol and all.”

I stated my thoughts.

The Chief nodded, “I have one more question. Do you know anything about why Professor Kenuma remained single his entire life?” I started again. I felt I had collided with the very thing I secretly feared. Yet I answered immediately. “I don’t know.” That I answered “I don’t know” was no lie. To say I knew—well, I did know—but it was all based on rumors mixed with my own conjectures. Nothing fell within what I could state with certainty.

According to rumors, Professor Kenuma had suffered a failed romance in his youth. Moreover, the woman in question was none other than Mrs. Kasagami. Professors Kenuma and Kasagami came from neighboring villages in their home province, shared desks at the same prefectural middle school while competing for top academic ranks, enrolled together at M High where their rivalry continued, and ultimately entered the medical school of Imperial University. There, Professor Kenuma chose surgery while Professor Kasagami took up forensic medicine—though this divergence came only after graduation, as during their student years they had maintained their competition. By one interpretation, both professors were truly unfortunate souls—as if born solely to compete against each other. Moreover, their rivalry involved no weapon-clashing battles for supremacy, but rather a silent contest over hometown prestige, academic marks, class rankings, and social standing—a struggle into which impure ambitions, jealousies, and suspicions inevitably crept, making it undoubtedly agonizing for them both.

If the rumors held true and my conjectures were correct, these two men had competed in a love that would have them discard honor, power, even life itself like worn-out shoes—a truly tragic affair. Though I knew nothing of what transpired in their triangular relationship, Professor Kasagami ultimately emerged as love's victor while Professor Kenuma became its vanquished casualty, condemned to lifelong bachelorhood. While I had graduated from M High myself, being Tokyo-born and bred meant I only first encountered both professors upon entering Imperial University and hearing such tales. Over the ensuing three years—through close tutelage under both men, growing especially intimate with Professor Kasagami to the point of visiting his household—I had sufficiently deduced that these rumors were no mere gossip but approached factual truth.

However, as it wasn’t something I had heard directly from either professor’s or Mrs. Kasagami’s own mouths and there was no evidence whatsoever, I had answered the Chief’s question by saying I didn’t know.

The Chief stared at my face for a while, but regarding that matter, he did not pursue it further and shifted the focus of his questioning. “I hear you frequent Professor Kasagami’s place quite often.” “Ha.”

I thought it had finally come. What I had secretly feared was that. Indeed, I had frequently visited Professor Kasagami’s place. Now I revered the professor not merely as my mentor but like a kind father. When I calmly considered it, there was nothing in particular for me to fear on that account. Even if there had been a love triangle between Professor Kasagami and Professor Kenuma, that had occurred over two decades prior. Though what emotions they harbored toward each other at that time remained unclear, since then the two had shared a lecture hall at the same school, passed the years without incident, and now both were over fifty. There could be nothing of consequence between them now; therefore, even if Professor Kenuma met a strange death in a room of his own home, it was unlikely to have any connection to Professor Kasagami.

Yet now, being questioned anew by the Chief about why Professor Kenuma remained unmarried and my closeness to Professor Kasagami—though this ought to be nothing but my own groundless anxiety—I couldn't help feeling uneasy. After all, I had been the one to escort Professor Kenuma to his home's bedroom, and was likely the last person to see him alive. Should that fact become linked to my intimacy with Professor Kasagami and viewed suspiciously, it might bring about consequences I couldn't afford to disregard. Truly, nothing in this world is as terrifying as misunderstanding—and nothing proves harder to explain away.

Though I thought it superfluous, I couldn't help adding what sounded like an excuse.

“Since I plan to pursue forensic medicine in the future, that’s why I’m closest to Professor Kasagami.” “Hmm.”

The Chief did not seem to regard my relationship with Professor Kasagami as gravely as I had feared and gave a light nod, “I hear Professor Kasagami is quite an unusual person.”

“Yes, somewhat.” “I hear Mrs. Kasagami is remarkably beautiful.”

“Yes, but she’s already over forty.”

“But doesn’t she look far younger than her actual age?” “Yes, some say she appears around thirty.”

“I hear Professor Kasagami doesn’t pay any attention to his household.” “Yes.” I had no choice but to affirm. The professor was so wholly absorbed in his academic research that his beautiful wife seemed entirely absent from his awareness. One cannot speak to the past, but their current relationship invites such doubt that one might question whether they ever shared a passionate romance.

“Professor Kasagami has nothing but academics; they say his lover is academia itself.” “Yes.” “And I hear there are all sorts of rumors about Mrs. Kasagami, aren’t there?” “There’s no such thing.”

I answered with a hint of irritation. While receiving such cold treatment from Professor Kasagami, Mrs.Kasagami served him with utmost chastity—she was a person above reproach in every regard. The Chief fixed me with a probing gaze while, “Is that so?” “The husband is so absorbed in his work he neglects his household.” “When the husband neglects the household, the wife naturally acts as she pleases—such things are commonplace in society.” “I don’t know about other households, but Mrs.Kasagami would absolutely never do such a thing.”

“But with a handsome young man like you frequenting her household, after all.”

What an insult! My lips quivered violently. “Wh-what are you saying? I-I visit his residence frequently out of deep respect for Professor Kasagami. Wh-what exactly are you trying to investigate?”

Perhaps due to my fierce demeanor, the Chief abruptly withdrew his smirking smile and— “No need to get so defensive. I’m simply investigating whether such facts exist or not.” “That depends on what’s involved. In the first place, why on earth would you need to investigate such a thing?” “Whether there’s a need or not isn’t something I’ll take direction on from you.”

The Chief showed a flicker of agitation but quickly regained his composure— “Let’s end this discussion.” “I understand you have an interest in forensic medicine—would you examine this for me?”

The Chief opened the desk drawer and took out something resembling a slip of paper.

Blood Type Research

I will digress a little here, but I wish to recount the strange connection between Professor Kasagami and myself.

Though Professors Kasagami and Kenuma were, as I mentioned earlier, alumni of M High, and though during my time at M High—as is common in any school—we were often regaled with stories boasting about distinguished seniors, including how two such eminent professors from our alumni belonged to the medical department, I only became closely acquainted with them after entering university.

After I began attending lectures by both professors, as anyone would experience, I immediately came to like Professor Kenuma, while Professor Kasagami was someone I disliked if anything. While Professor Kenuma was open-hearted and cheerful, Professor Kasagami had a pale face and was gloomy, so everyone favored the former and never warmed to the latter. It is truly rare to find two professors who share the same hometown, attended the same class from middle school through university, pursued the same path, and after graduation stood shoulder to shoulder as professors at the same institution—but it is equally rare for their personalities to be polar opposites.

Professor Kenuma was outwardly open-hearted and carefree; he drank alcohol, and being single, he frequented cafés and dance halls, engaged in spirited discussions, and was highly sociable. Therefore, anyone would immediately be captivated and come to revere him, but upon closer observation, he was inwardly timid, quite spiteful, and sly. When it came to his own reputation, he was consumed with anxiety and would not hesitate to employ cleverly despicable methods to preserve it when necessary. I know of two or three cases where associate professors possessing outstanding academic knowledge and surgical skills were skillfully shunted aside to provincial university professorships under the guise of honorable promotions, and instances where he had students conduct research only to proudly report it to academia as his own work. After all, he had a silver tongue—sufficient to gloss over the hollow substance of his lectures—and while fellow scholars might see through this, presenting himself to the public as a deeply learned and devoted scholar was an effortless feat. For this reason, when first encountering the professor’s dynamic lectures, any student would find themselves utterly captivated; moreover, the majority would remain spellbound until the very end.

However, in contrast to this, Professor Kasagami was truly gloomy in demeanor, brusque, and poor at conversation. He didn’t drink alcohol, was strangely stiff, and wasn’t someone anyone could easily approach. Yet upon closer observation, he proved to be genuinely kind-hearted—deeply compassionate, utterly lacking in spitefulness or cunning, devoted to scholarship, and scrupulously fair. Though he had few students, he cherished them dearly and ungrudgingly surrendered his own academic credits to them. Professor Kenuma would pamper those convenient to him while shunning inconvenient ones; someone favored yesterday might be disdained today. But Professor Kasagami would kindly care for even those who spoke ill of him, provided they showed scholarly promise. The more one associated with him and grew closer, the more his true qualities became apparent.

I do not believe, like Professor A of N University, that blood types determine a person’s nature. However, I find it interesting that Professor Kenuma and Professor Kasagami had completely different blood types. To be precise, Professor Kenuma was type B while Professor Kasagami was type A. Moreover, this disparity in blood types would later become a crucial element in a devastating tragedy and form the very framework of this narrative—a fact that cannot be casually dismissed. Regarding human blood types, there is no need to expound upon them here at length, as they have become common knowledge today. However, since they will later prove integral to this story and because matters of blood type played a significant role in connecting me to Professor Kasagami, I feel compelled to address them briefly now.

I had already mentioned that Professor Kasagami specialized in forensic medicine, but he had conducted the deepest research into blood types and was their foremost authority. Human blood is classified into four types—A, B, O, and AB—based on the properties of its contained blood cells and serum, a fact long established as immutable; since this classification could be performed relatively easily, its significance in forensic medicine lay rather in its application. Among these applications, determining parentage through blood type stood as paramount.

Whether we speak of loyalty and filial piety, benevolence and justice, or courtesy, wisdom, and trust—the foundation of human ethics must be the parent-child relationship. Yet in our culturally advanced age today, the lamentable reality remains that no scientifically reliable method exists to conclusively determine parentage—a fact we must reluctantly accept. Through blood type research however, we can determine to a significant degree when parentage should be denied. That is: if neither parent possesses type A blood, the child will never manifest type A; if neither has type B, the child cannot exhibit type B. When a type A father and type O mother produce a child of type B or AB, either the father, mother, or both must be invalidated as parents. Should the mother’s status be confirmed, the father must perforce be another man. Yet even when a type A father and type O mother have a child of type A or O, while we cannot deny their parentage, neither can we affirm it positively—for a mother with type O blood may bear any number of children with type A or O through union with another man of type A.

When it comes to AB-type blood, the academic theories split into two schools of thought. According to the two-pair equal trait theory—which develops into the four genetic units theory—if either parent has AB-type blood, children of all blood types can theoretically be born. By contrast, under the three-genetic-unit theory, parents with O-type and AB-type blood will only produce A-type or B-type children; combinations of A and AB, B and AB, or AB with AB will yield A, B, or AB types, but never O-type offspring. In essence, AB-type parents cannot produce O-type children, and O-type parents can never have AB-type offspring.

After a prolonged debate between these two theories, it can be said that the latter theory was experimentally confirmed as correct. Professor Kasagami was an ardent supporter of the three-genetic-unit theory and had exerted painstaking efforts on its behalf. After entering medical school, I gradually developed an interest in forensic medicine, particularly finding myself most intrigued by blood types and their applications, which inevitably drew me to Professor Kasagami—but as I mentioned earlier, he was unsociable, rigid, and not someone one could easily grow close to. Among my friends, there were those who mocked my intention to pursue forensic medicine,

“What’s the point of someone like Mr. Kasagami anyway?” There were even those who said such things. However, as I gradually grew closer to him, I came to realize that behind the Professor’s gloom lay sincerity, beneath his rigidity was benevolence, and within his brusqueness resided impartiality—so my reverence for him steadily deepened. However, about a year prior, an incident of the following nature occurred, and the Professor— “Would you like to come to my home?” Receiving those words—which he had never spoken to any student throughout his over twenty-year teaching career—our friendship rapidly deepened.

Having developed an interest in blood types, I naturally measured my own and learned I was type A. But wanting to investigate my parents’ and siblings’ blood types to aid statistically, I sought guidance from the professor. By that time, the professor had come to recognize me as a dedicated research student and had shown considerable goodwill, so he kindly taught me the method for determining blood types and provided me with the necessary serum. I promptly investigated the blood types of my parents and siblings, but an unexpected result emerged.

In other words, my father was B-type, my mother O-type, and all my younger siblings O-type. Yet I alone was A-type. Moreover, according to established blood type theory, an A-type child could never be born from B-type and O-type parents. That said, there remained absolutely no reason for me to doubt my parents. I reported this matter to the professor and asked, “Could this be an exception?” When I spoke these words, the professor gazed intently at my face,

“There’s no mistake in the measurement, I trust?” he said. The Professor would always say, like a mantra, that determining blood types might seem deceptively simple at first glance—so much so that even a layperson could perform it immediately after being taught just once. And while it was indeed possible to perform, he would emphasize that this was by no means to be taken lightly—without sufficient experience and thorough preparation, one could easily mistake agglutination caused by other factors, rendering measurements by those lacking experience dangerously unreliable.

“I believe there’s no mistake.” When I answered, the professor considered for a moment, “Please try doing it again.”

he said. So I tried doing it again, but the result remained unchanged.

The professor said,

“I don’t have reason to doubt your skill, but could you collect a blood sample and bring it to me?”

So once again, I collected a small amount of blood from my reluctant parents and siblings and brought it to the professor.

A couple of days later, the professor made no mention of the results and asked, “Were you born in your current home?” “No—we’ve only lived in this house for five or six years since moving,” I replied. “I was born at a hospital, so I’ve been told.” “At a hospital.” “Yes—since it was her first childbirth and they wanted to take precautions—she gave birth at K Hospital in Yotsuya.” “At a hospital.”

The professor said as if surprised but immediately resumed his usual calm tone, “Ah, I see.” With that, he said nothing more.

Then, after about a week had passed, the professor suddenly—

“Would you like to come to my home?” He had said then. I was of course delighted and complied with the professor’s kind invitation. After that, I began visiting frequently. When I visited, the professor would immediately usher me into his study—engaging me in various beneficial discussions, showing me rare original books, inquiring about my family—and for someone as habitually taciturn and unsociable as he was, it became clear just how much effort he exerted to entertain me with such dedication. Through this, I came to know for the first time the overflowing kindness and benevolence that filled the professor’s inner being.

I also frequently met the professor’s wife. As I had mentioned before, she was a beautiful woman who appeared a full ten years younger than her actual age—her face nearly free of powder yet pale and lustrous, her attire unadorned yet radiating refined simplicity. What struck me as unexpected was how oddly formal and distant they seemed toward each other. While Professor Kasagami made efforts to engage me in varied conversations, he scarcely addressed Mrs. Kasagami beyond necessities, and even those rare utterances never exceeded four or five words at most. Having heard their marriage followed an ardent love affair, I found myself utterly unable to reconcile this chill between them. Yet one might argue this formality stemmed from the professor’s character—a man wholly immersed in scholarship, devoid of hobbies or interests beyond academia—and thus might not inherently denote coldness.

Mrs. Kasagami remained utterly gentle and chaste. She never once opposed the professor’s will, never asserted herself, stayed reserved, and moved so quietly when entering or leaving the study that her footsteps made not a sound. To me as well, she showed reserved yet ample kindness. They were by no means the estranged couple—living as separate entities, the professor as professor and wife as wife—that some had speculated about. Rumors claimed this appearance of coldness between Professor and Mrs. Kasagami had begun about ten years earlier, after their only child—a boy in his teens—had died; others said it had started soon after their marriage. I couldn’t determine which was true—or whether both were wrong.

The story took a considerable detour, but with this, I believe you now understand how I came to grow close to the Professor through our research into blood types.

Let me return to the main thread of the story.

Threatening letter

The chief retrieved a slip of paper from his desk drawer and showed it to me. The slip of paper was a thin sheet of Kent paper cut into a rectangle, appearing slightly larger than a postcard. Moreover, in a rounded drafting script—a type of script used by draftsmen—the following characters and symbols were written. Erinnern Sie sich zweiundzwanzigjahrevor!

Warum　Ｏ×Ａ　→　Ｂ　？

“This is German,” I said. “It says ‘Remember twenty-two years prior,’ doesn’t it? And then it says ‘why,’ but this symbol—” I tilted my head.

After all, people tend to try to solve matters with the knowledge they know best. For example, when a patient complains of severe abdominal pain, it is said that surgeons immediately consider appendicitis while physicians immediately consider gallstones. Thereupon, I immediately thought this symbol might be related to blood type (and this was not incorrect).

“Well, isn’t this referring to blood types?” “What do you mean?” “In other words—why would Type B be produced from Type O and Type A?” “What are you talking about? That is—” “That’s what it means then. So it’s asking why a Type B child would be born to Type O and Type A parents.” “What relationship does that have with the previous message?” “I don’t know.” “Hmph.”

The chief nodded resignedly. I asked. "What exactly is this? This is—" "It was discovered in Professor Kenuma’s bedroom." "Oh." It was unexpected, but beyond that surprise, no further thoughts arose. But more than that, I now realized they had grilled me relentlessly without letting me understand a single crucial matter. I could no longer delay.

“Why did Professor Kenuma die?”

“It’s gas poisoning.” “The stove pipe came off somehow, you see.” “The room was filled with gas—wasn’t discovered until around eight this morning.” “An accident?” “The Professor’s...”

“Well, I suppose so. The door was locked from the inside.” “So did the Professor kick the pipe loose? When I left, it was properly connected.”

“That’s correct.” “Since it’s certain the professor got up at least once.” “When he locked it, you see.” “Why didn’t they notice until eight o’clock?” “It’s a holiday.” “And since it was late the previous night, they were probably sleeping soundly.”

When I heard the explanation, it seemed entirely plausible. In fact, there had been a few prominent figures who died from stove gas leaks. But somehow, I felt there was something irrational about Professor Kenuma’s death.

“So, has it been ruled an accident?” “Yes.” The Chief scrutinized my face and,

“It’s mostly been decided,” said the Chief. “However, since he was a person of considerable renown, we had to be thorough.” He leaned forward slightly, the leather chair creaking under his weight. “That’s why I specifically asked you here today. Given the inconvenience, would you mind accompanying me to the scene? There are details I’d like your perspective on—and given your expertise in forensic medicine, you might offer some useful advice.” “I can’t claim any particular insight,” I replied, “but I’ll gladly accompany you.” We drove immediately to Professor Kenuma’s residence through streets still gripped by winter’s teeth. A pallid sun struggled through the overcast sky as we arrived shortly past ten, its feeble light glinting off ice-encrusted gutters and sidewalks frozen to stone hardness. The patrol officer stationed at the gate—a young man hugging himself against the cold—snapped to attention when he spotted the Chief, his salute sharp enough to cut the frigid air.

The bedroom had been preserved exactly as found, the corpse untouched by any hands. The professor who had been so vigorous last night had now completely lost all color, his half-closed eyes staring wide, mouth twisted, upper body emerging from the futon as he lay rigid and lifeless. I felt a twinge of suspicion.

Judging from the state of rigor mortis in the corpse, it seemed at least ten hours had passed since death. That would place the professor’s death around midnight—an hour and a half after we left the room. Even if we assumed he had woken immediately after our departure, locked the door, and accidentally disconnected the stove pipe then, the gas would only have leaked for ninety minutes before causing death. Could a mere hour and a half of leakage truly kill a healthy adult?

I surveyed the room. The room was about twelve tatami mats in size with a notably high ceiling. Though the windows now stood fully open, even had they remained shut, two wire-meshed ventilation holes gaped in the ceiling corners. I couldn’t claim precise knowledge of the gas’s toxicity, but even assuming it had spewed from this pipe for an hour and a half—enough perhaps to induce unconsciousness or suspended animation—whether that duration sufficed for outright death struck me as doubtful.

As I restlessly surveyed the room, the Chief immediately inquired.

“Is there anything different from last night?” “No.” I answered, but provoked by the Chief’s question, I suddenly remembered the magazine that had piqued my interest the previous night. When I looked at the desk—though I had distinctly arranged them neatly—the magazines appeared slightly disheveled. (Had the professor touched them during the night?) With this thought, I approached the desk, picked up the topmost magazine, and flipped through its pages—nearly gasping aloud in surprise. Yet I managed to stifle the reaction and stole a glance at the Chief, who fortunately remained oblivious, squatting on the floor as he intently examined something.

What had so surprised me? What had made me take interest in the magazine on the desk last night after escorting Professor Kenuma back here was that it happened to be the very journal I—or rather, that Professor Kasagami—had been ardently searching for all this time. It was a medical journal published in Germany about twelve years prior, and within its pages lay a photographic plate of a peculiar strangulation corpse that should have served as an invaluable forensic reference. Not only were there extremely few copies of this journal that had made their way to Japan, but even in its home country of Germany, the publication had such a limited circulation that it had proven utterly impossible to obtain. When I unexpectedly found this journal last night, Professor Kenuma must have known Professor Kasagami wanted it. Since it lay outside Kenuma’s specialty and held little value to him, he could have graciously presented it. Yet I felt a twinge of righteous indignation at his spitefulness—keeping it while silently concealing its existence. But now, upon opening it, what did I find? Only that photographic plate had been torn out. Moreover, it appeared to have been done in great haste—so violently torn that a fragment from the corner of the photograph remained.

(Did Professor Kenuma tear it out?) Had Professor Kenuma—lying half-asleep on the bed—noticed me looking at the journal when I left the room, then immediately risen to tear it out in haste? He was precisely the sort of man who would do such a thing without hesitation. Yet what necessity drove him to act with such urgency? Could he have feared I might return to retrieve it? If so, why not simply secure the entire journal rather than tear out just the plate? The notion that he suspected me of planning nocturnal theft defied reason. None of it added up. I longed to search the desk drawers for the missing plate, but no such liberty would be granted.

I quietly returned the magazine to where it had been. When I looked toward the Chief, he remained crouched on the floor, occupied with some task. I drew near silently and peered down.

The Chief kept rubbing the thick carpet on the floor. When I looked, the plush carpet had completely discolored in a circular area roughly one sun in diameter. And when rubbed by hand, it crumbled like scorched material. Yet one glance showed this was no ordinary burn.

The Chief, perhaps because I had drawn near, suddenly stood up while muttering something under his breath. Then, to wash his hands, he walked over to the wash area in the corner of the room and turned on the water tap, but no water came out at all. The Chief clicked his tongue. “Tch, is it broken?” Then, the old maid who had been outside the door, having apparently heard the voice, “It must have frozen due to this morning’s cold.” said. The Chief did not respond to that and, having given up on washing his hands, returned to the center of the room.

At that moment, a detective—appearing to have made some discovery—entered the room in haste while clutching something resembling a Western envelope. “Chief, this was inside the desk drawer in the study.” The Chief accepted the envelope-like object and extracted a square scrap of paper from it, but— “German again?” With that remark, he turned toward me, “You—read this once more.”

It was exactly the same in paper quality and size as the one that had been shown earlier, and was likewise written in rounded lettering. As I read on, my complexion abruptly changed. To my astonishment, wasn’t this scrap of paper written in German as follows? Recall April 24, 1922. Ah—and this was none other than my date of birth! “Wh-what’s wrong with you?” Seeing my evident agitation, the Chief shouted interrogatively.

“It says to recall April 24, 1922.” “That is the day I was born.” “Hmm.” The Chief stared at me suspiciously while asking, “Is there anything else written?” “Yes.” When I had been shown a similar scrap of paper at the police station earlier, I couldn’t make any sense of it, but now I clearly understood. This scrap was a threatening letter someone had sent to Professor Kenuma. The first scrap had simply instructed to recall events from twenty-two years prior, but this subsequent one clearly stated a specific date. And that date was none other than my own birthdate. What did those blood-type-like symbols added to the previous scrap mean? If they were hinting at me,

Ｏ×Ｂ→Ａ

It had to be. Because I am an A-type born from an O-type mother and B-type father.

I was becoming unable to make sense of anything. However, one thing was certain—I was being dragged into the vortex of Professor Kenuma’s mysterious death case!

Three Questions

As noon approached, I was finally permitted to return home, so I left Professor Kenuma’s residence while pressing a hand against my throbbing head. Then, I was immediately surrounded by newspaper reporters who had been lying in wait.

“Who are you?” “Did Professor Kenuma commit suicide?”

“Was Professor Kenuma involved with any women?”

They licked their pencils while showering me with their own impertinent questions.

After barely managing to escape that and return to my boarding house, there too reporters were lying in wait. Then one after another I received visits from reporters of various newspapers. I finally wanted to cry out loud.

Around two o'clock, I was finally released, but I had no mental energy left to think of anything. I immediately spread out the futon and crawled inside. However, though my head felt utterly exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come at all. Nor could I form any coherent thoughts. From everything I’d ever experienced or read in books, only eerie and dreadful memories kept surfacing in my mind one after another. Each time I dozed off, I’d startle awake immediately. In such a state did I greet the evening.

In the evening, I got up. Then, when I went outside, I bought up all the stacked evening newspapers and came back. Anyone would likely experience this, but newspaper articles about matters one has even the slightest connection to are something one truly wants to read. Moreover, even though I didn’t fully understand it, this seemed to be an incident of grave relevance—so I devoured the articles voraciously. The fact that despite being actually involved—summoned to the police station, interrogated, and even having seen the scene—I couldn’t touch upon the detailed contents of the incident at all and instead had to learn about them through newspaper articles was supremely ironic, but since that’s precisely how it was, there was simply no help for it.

The newspaper articles were all much the same with minor variations. When compiling the facts I had gathered from them, Professor Kenuma’s mysterious death case was as follows.

Professor Kenuma was discovered cold and dead on his bedroom bed at eight o'clock this morning. The room was filled with gas; the solenoid connecting the stove had detached from the gas pipe, which now spewed gas with tremendous force. The body showed no external injuries and had been dead for seven to eight hours, conclusively determined to have died from gas poisoning. The Professor had attended an alumni gathering of M High School medical students the previous night, become heavily intoxicated, and been escorted home by one of the students around 10:30 p.m. before retiring to bed. Clear evidence indicated he had lain down on the bed once, then risen to lock the door from inside. It was believed that during this act, he accidentally dislodged the gas pipe with his foot and went to sleep unaware of the detachment, thereby causing the tragedy.

However, on another front, there were facts indicating that Professor Kenuma had recently received what appeared to be threatening letters and seemed uneasy enough to carry an automatic pistol for self-defense. Additionally, despite being heavily intoxicated, he had not forgotten to lock his door. A theory arose that it was strange for someone with the presence of mind to lock the door to have kicked loose the stove and remained unaware of the gas leak. Consequently, the authorities were said to be conducting an even more thorough investigation. The corpse was confirmed through an on-site examination by the police doctor to have died of gas poisoning; however, due to the reasons mentioned earlier, it was decided to send it to the university for autopsy. The autopsy was supposed to be performed by Professor Kasagami, an authority in forensic medicine, but due to circumstances, Assistant Professor Miyauchi was assigned to handle it.

From what could be seen in the newspaper, the authorities also seemed to harbor a trace of doubt regarding Professor Kenuma’s cause of death. According to the police doctor’s estimation, Professor Kenuma’s death had occurred seven to eight hours postmortem. However, since this diagnosis was made around eight o’clock in the morning, it appeared certain his death had actually taken place around midnight the previous night—an event that transpired within two hours after I left. Would someone actually die from a gas leak lasting barely two hours from that stove? The newspapers did not mention this matter at all, but I considered it the first major question.

Secondly—this being something known only to me—the fact that the photographic plate from that magazine had been torn out meant one of two possibilities: either Professor Kenuma had gotten up after I left and torn it out himself, or someone else had entered. But how did that person manage to sneak in? Since it was stated the door had been locked from the inside, I could only conclude someone had entered with the professor’s permission. Or perhaps someone had slipped into the room before the professor locked it, torn out the photographic plate, and quietly left—after which the professor had suddenly awakened, risen, and secured the door? And yet—who would want eerie hanging photographs devoid of value beyond academic purposes! In that case, perhaps Professor Kenuma himself had indeed torn out those photographs after all. In any event, the disappearance of that photographic plate constituted a matter of critical importance.

Thirdly came that bizarre threatening letter. My birthdate had been written there - could this be mere coincidence? Yet for a coincidence, it aligned too perfectly. Even granting it were one, what earthly meaning could it hold? The more I pondered, the murkier everything grew. I suddenly remembered and pulled out the inorganic chemistry textbook jammed deep in my bookcase, flipping to the carbon monoxide section. The gas we use for fuel combines coal gas and water gas, containing approximately __% carbon monoxide. This carbon monoxide constitutes a virulent poison - when we speak of gas poisoning deaths, it's this substance that claims them.

The section on carbon monoxide in the textbook was written as follows.

A colorless, odorless gas with extremely intense toxicity. If air contains one part per 100,000 volumes, the breather already shows signs of poisoning; at one part per 800 volumes, death occurs in approximately thirty minutes; at one percent concentration, death ensures in a mere two minutes. When carbon monoxide is absorbed, it combines with hemoglobin in the blood, causing hemoglobin to lose its function (oxygen transport). I took out pencil and paper and quickly made calculations. Given Professor Kenuma’s bedroom measured roughly twelve tatami mats—twelve shaku by eighteen shaku with ten-shaku ceilings—the room’s volume became approximately 2,200 cubic shaku. The gas stove’s emission rate remained unclear, but based on my experience with such units, I estimated maximum output at five liters per minute. This meant three hundred liters per hour—about ten cubic shaku. Even assuming Professor Kenuma’s death occurred at one o’clock midnight, maximum emission time would be two and a half hours totaling twenty-five cubic shaku. With the gas containing eight percent carbon monoxide, this amounted to less than 0.1% relative to 2,200 cubic shaku of air. Since this represented peak concentration after two and a half hours, I could confidently assert death remained impossible under these conditions. That said—with the Professor’s exact time of death still unconfirmed—any conclusion risked prematurity without autopsy results. Yet these figures made his death undeniably peculiar.

That said, I had no inkling whatsoever regarding what alternative cause could have killed the Professor. With no external injuries and clear evidence of carbon monoxide poisoning, there remained no conclusion but to deem it gas poisoning. My head began pounding with splitting pain once more. I flung down the pencil and paper and collapsed onto the tatami mats.

Torn photographic plate

The next day, I felt vaguely reluctant about going to school. Of course, there was nothing truly wrong, but I felt uncomfortable at the thought of being seen. Everyone was vigorously discussing Professor Kenuma’s death. They weren’t as persistent as newspaper reporters, but no small number of people asked me blunt questions. That day, there was a lecture by Professor Kasagami, who first expressed condolences for Professor Kenuma’s unexpected death before immediately attempting to begin the lecture as usual.

Then, one of the classmates, “Professor, was Professor Kenuma’s cause of death gas poisoning?” he asked.

Professor Kasagami glared sharply at the student. “I believe that is probably the case. In truth, to confirm the cause of death, I was ordered to perform the autopsy, but due to certain considerations, I declined and had Assistant Professor Miyauchi handle it instead. When I inquired briefly earlier, it was confirmed that there is indeed no doubt it was carbon monoxide poisoning.” As was always the case, today the professor’s demeanor was even more solemn than usual, so the frivolous student could not ask any further questions and fell silent. I suddenly thought of asking about the time of death but, realizing I could inquire anytime outside class, kept my mouth shut.

Professor Kasagami began his lecture. Perhaps it was my imagination, but he seemed less vigorous than usual. I privately thought he must be anguished over his colleague’s unforeseen death.

After school, I went to the professor’s classroom.

“Professor Kenuma has come to a terrible end.” “Yes, it was a terrible incident. However, it must have caused you considerable trouble.” “No, that’s not a concern. Professor, I believe Professor Kenuma passed away around midnight—what are your thoughts?”

“According to Assistant Professor Miyauchi’s analysis, it was between eleven and one o’clock.”

“Eleven o’clock?” “So that would mean less than thirty minutes after I left, right?” “The estimation of time of death cannot precisely pinpoint a single moment, so we typically allow a considerable margin.” “It was likely closer to one o’clock.” “Even assuming one o’clock—that’s two and a half hours since I last saw you, Professor—would gas poisoning occur from the amount emitted in that time?” “It could occur.” With that, he paused briefly to consider,

“At least one would enter a state of suspended animation.” “So then, the true death would occur after that point.” “That would be the case, I suppose.” “So, the time of death is—”

As I began to say, the Professor lightly interrupted,

“That’s a difficult problem.” “Especially in cases of gas poisoning, it would be even more challenging.”

“Is that so?”

I thought it was somewhat odd, but since it came from the authority in forensic medicine, I had no choice but to accept it. “Be that as it may,” The Professor stared at me with meaningful eyes while,

“There’s something I wish to discuss—would you come to my house today?” “Yes, I shall call on you.” Though I couldn’t fathom what he meant to discuss, I consented at once. Visiting the Professor’s home and listening to his varied discourses ranked among my keenest pleasures during that period.

In the evening edition that day, there were only a few lines about Professor Kenuma. The autopsy results confirmed that the cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning, and based on the surrounding circumstances, the authorities concluded it was accidental gas poisoning.

That night I visited Professor Kasagami. The professor welcomed me with evident pleasure and engaged me in various enlightening discussions in his study as usual, yet never broached the vaguely hinted-at "matter" from earlier that day. Admittedly it might have been my imagination, but several times he seemed poised to begin speaking only to check himself and revert to academic topics. This occurred two or three times before he ultimately said nothing. In hindsight I realize he had likely wished to disclose something far weightier during that visit. Yet unable to voice it directly, he would instead release a quiet sigh before resuming scholarly discourse. Had I recognized this sooner—had I pressed him for details—I might have averted the impending tragedy. That my inattention prevented this remains an abiding regret.

Professor Kenuma’s funeral was held with great pomp, Professor Kasagami serving as chairman of the funeral committee. Given how highly sociable the late professor had been, with connections across various spheres of society, mourners exceeded two thousand—several hundred being notable figures alone. Yet it resembled a sparkler’s brief brilliance, for once the rites concluded, the childless widower’s legacy grew as desolate as extinguished embers. Precisely because his social engagements had been so lavish, few friends remained to pay their respects solemnly in the aftermath.

By the time a week passed and then two weeks went by， most people forgot about Professor Kenuma． The school and its students， his friends， and everyone in society forgot Professor Kenuma’s existence． If someone had asked about Professor Kenuma， they would surely have replied， “Oh， Professor Kenuma… Yeah， there was such a person， wasn’t there?” If there was anyone who still remembered Professor Kenuma’s death， it was probably me alone．

The three doubts I secretly harbored showed no sign of fading even as days passed. Particularly, the phrases from that threatening letter—if anything, they grew increasingly vivid in my mind as days passed. Recall twenty-two years prior. And then my date of birth! I simply couldn’t bring myself to think that this had absolutely nothing to do with me.

But had I not encountered what followed, I too would have ended up forgetting about Professor Kenuma like everyone else—without even realizing I’d forgotten. But fate did not allow that. I came to suffer even more intensely.

I think it was about half a month after Professor Kenuma’s death. I visited Professor Kasagami’s residence as usual. As I mentioned before, the intimacy between us grew with increasing acceleration at each meeting. It was rather the Professor who actively drew closer. Naturally, the more familiar I became with him, the more I recognized his compassionate nature, his unswerving honesty, and his many virtues—my reverence deepening all the while. Yet in time, it became unmistakably clear that he had ceased being merely an instructor and begun comporting himself like family—so much so that he would humble himself to keep me appeased, as though my departure would spell disaster. This grew increasingly intense since Professor Kenuma’s death, taking on an attitude akin to that toward a lover. I even felt an creeping unease within.

Now, that day, after discussing various matters as usual, he even went so far as to host a dinner—and this time, Mrs.Kasagami was also present. This too was a mystery—the Professor, who had been so distant toward Mrs.Kasagami that it had sparked rumors in society, had gradually begun changing his attitude and now treated her with great kindness and attentiveness. This shift—unmistakably triggered by Professor Kenuma’s death—had taken a sharp turn. Though he never resorted to sweet talk, he became more devoted to her than even the most ordinary of husbands. While Mrs.Kasagami was pleased by this, she also seemed to harbor some trepidation toward the sudden intensity of this change. Until then, they had never once shared meals together, but this time, the three of us dined pleasantly—afterward, Mrs.Kasagami retreated to the kitchen to tidy up, and the Professor temporarily excused himself, so I idly picked up one of his books from the desk and began flipping through its pages when something fluttered down onto the tatami from between them.

I hurriedly picked it up and saw it was the photographic plate from that journal the Professor had been so eager to obtain. Wondering when he had acquired it, I stared intently—then gasped as my face paled. The corner of the photographic plate was missing! The edges of the tear were jagged and uneven. This wasn’t cut with scissors; someone had torn it off by hand. Moreover, I distinctly recognized that missing corner—it should still be attached to the torn edge in Professor Kenuma’s journal. If I aligned this plate with that remaining fragment, they would match perfectly without the slightest discrepancy.

I stared blankly at the photographic plate, overwhelmed by the sheer unexpectedness of it all. Before I knew it, the Professor had returned and was standing motionless behind me—a presence I hadn’t noticed. When I suddenly turned around, there he stood with a pale face, looking as though startled— “Ah, I forgot to tell you—I found that photo.”

He said this nonchalantly and resumed his seat, but I didn’t miss how oddly strained his voice sounded. Yet I responded as though nothing were amiss.

“I see.” “I searched as hard as I could, but ultimately couldn’t find it.”

“The regular secondhand bookseller found it and brought it over, you know. “Since someone else wanted the other articles, I only needed the photographic plate, so I let them take the rest.” I realized that the Professor was clearly lying. If the secondhand bookseller had brought the magazine and cut it out, they would not have done so in such a rough way. If he was going to lie outright, he should have claimed from the start that the secondhand bookseller had brought only the photographic plate. The usually honest Professor couldn’t suddenly tell such a skillful lie.

The Professor continued his defensive explanations.

“Since I had asked you about it, I should have told you when it was found.” “I must have been careless. I apologize for that.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I slid the photographic plate back between the book’s pages, returned it to the desk, and immediately steered the conversation elsewhere. The Professor appeared gratified by this development; from that moment onward, the photographic plate went unmentioned. I found myself powerless against the shadow creeping into my heart. While laboring to conceal this darkness from the Professor, I began preparing my departure.

The thief? The discovery of the photographic plate forced a terrible burden upon my heart. That the photographic plate in Professor Kasagami’s possession had been removed from the journal in Professor Kenuma’s bedroom left no room for doubt. That journal had been extremely scarce; despite Professor Kasagami and I trying every possible means, we had been unable to obtain it. Moreover, had the one in Professor Kasagami’s possession been a cleanly excised clipping, there would be no issue—but its corner was missing, with unmistakable signs of having been torn off roughly. If there had been another copy of that journal from which someone had forcibly torn off the photographic plate, leaving the corner missing in exactly the same way, that would be a different matter—but such a scenario was impossible. First, the number of such magazines themselves was extremely limited; photographic plates were highly valuable; and under ordinary circumstances, no one would employ such a rough method of removal. Even if someone were to tear it improperly, they would separately cut out the fragments—perhaps even back them with paper—to make it complete.

There was no doubt that the photographic plate had been torn from the journal in Professor Kenuma’s bedroom—but now, how many people had done it? If a completely unrelated third party had done it, and if it had come into Professor Kasagami’s possession, there would have been no need for him to lie about how he obtained it. On the day he presumably obtained it, he should have told me with a smile: “You’ve finally gotten hold of that photo.” The fact that Professor Kasagami had concealed his acquisition of the photographic plate from me—and that upon my accidental discovery of it, he had resorted to lies—left me certain there could only be two possible means by which he had obtained it. That is:

1. Did Professor Kasagami himself obtain the photographic plate through illicit means? 2. Did a third party obtain it through illicit means, which Professor Kasagami then purchased with full knowledge of the circumstances? In either case 1 or 2, someone must have stolen the photographic plate by sneaking into the room after I left on the night Professor Kenuma died from gas poisoning.

Assuming a third party had done it, two possibilities could arise in that case. That is: 1. Did someone break in to steal it at the Professor’s request? 2. Did someone sneak in for another purpose, coincidentally find the photographic plate, explain the circumstances, and then sell it to the Professor? I wanted to reject the first case. Because Professor Kasagami had not known at all that the target journal was in Professor Kenuma’s possession. If he had known about it, he should have mentioned it to me. Even if he had known about that matter, he would have directly asked Professor Kenuma had he wanted it. I had not heard any such story either. Even if Professor Kenuma had refused, Professor Kasagami was absolutely not the kind of person who would ask someone to steal it. The photographic plate itself was certainly valuable, but it was not something worth such a risk.

As for the second case, I found it doubtful whether Professor Kasagami would have purchased it while fully aware of such illicit circumstances. As I had stated regarding the first case, it was not something of significant value. Had he bought it without knowing the circumstances, he should have immediately said upon my discovery—"Ah, that was brought over by so-and-so," or "I purchased it from someone"—or words to that effect. When I considered matters thus, I became convinced neither Case 1 nor Case 2 could have occurred.

Thus returning to my earlier reasoning: since the notion that a third party had acquired and delivered it to the Professor could not hold, I inevitably arrived at the conclusion that the Professor himself must have obtained it directly. I tried to recall the Professor’s actions from that night. Professor Kasagami had returned home a step ahead of Professor Kenuma. Whether he had gone straight home as he left—that was the question. Assuming Professor Kasagami had some purpose—if he left the venue a step ahead and arrived first at Professor Kenuma’s house. Professor Kenuma had been dead drunk, collapsed in the entranceway, and with the old maid, the housemaid, and I making a great fuss to carry him into his bedroom, the entrance remained wide open all the while; thus sneaking in stealthily and hiding in one of the rooms could have been accomplished without much difficulty.

After I had returned, while the old maid and housemaid were tidying up Professor Kenuma’s discarded clothes and chattering away, Professor Kasagami could have slipped unnoticed into the bedroom. Then, having torn the photographic plate from the journal, he would have exited the room with silent footsteps and slipped outside. The old maid and housemaid remained completely unaware. Professor Kenuma would have subsequently awakened abruptly, locked the door, and returned to sleep as before. These events held ample possibility.

However, I must say the same thing once more there. Even if Professor Kasagami were to sneak into Professor Kenuma’s bedroom, it is perfectly clear that it would not be for that single photographic plate. It seems Professor Kasagami was unaware that the photographic plate was in Professor Kenuma’s possession, and even if he had known, that photographic plate would not have been worth such a risk. Then what was Professor Kasagami’s purpose?

I shuddered involuntarily here. I had no inkling whatsoever as to why Professor Kasagami would need to kill Professor Kenuma, but if Professor Kasagami had indeed sneaked into Professor Kenuma’s bedroom, could that late-night venture not have been for the purpose of killing him? He could slip quietly into the bedroom, disconnect the gas pipe, and escape—it was possible. However, if that were the case, how could the lock being fastened from the inside be explained? If Professor Kenuma were to wake up and lock the door, would he not notice the hissing sound and peculiar stench of gas leaking at that moment? Someone with the presence of mind to lock the door would surely notice such violent gas leakage. Yet if that were true, then the notion that he tried locking the door while kicking the gas pipe and went to sleep unaware of the leak became equally implausible. At the peak of drunken stupor, it was indeed possible for sensory nerve paralysis to render one insensible to minor stimuli. In that scenario, it was not impossible that Professor Kenuma had rushed into the bedroom alone, kicked over the stove, disconnected the rubber tube, and crawled into bed without realizing what he’d done.

However, after a fixed period of sleep—even as brief as thirty minutes to an hour—the paralysis of one’s sensory nerves would have recovered considerably. It might even be truer to say that awakening occurs precisely because this sensory paralysis has lifted. If we suppose Professor Kenuma lay down on his bed and later awoke after some time, he would have been sufficiently sober by then; thus, the idea that he kicked the gas pipe or failed to notice the leak becomes unthinkable. Moreover, the Professor had not been so thoroughly intoxicated to begin with. He’d possessed enough vigor to remove his Western clothes and change into nightwear, and since he’d clearly told me, “You may leave,” he hadn’t lapsed into complete unconsciousness. Had he truly been that drunk, he should have remained fast asleep until morning without rousing. Doesn’t the fact that he awoke at least once before 1 AM to lock his bedroom door indicate his intoxication was comparatively mild?

No matter how much I thought and thought, the whole matter remained beyond my grasp. Like a repeating decimal, it inevitably circled back to its original starting point.

Ah, I want to forget this whole matter and be done with it already!

Eureka!

But I could not forget. Accursed photographic plate! I should never have laid eyes on such a thing!

Of course, I had no intention of doing anything to Professor Kasagami. On the contrary, I looked up to him as both teacher and parental figure, respecting him from the depths of my heart and feeling profound attachment. Had anyone doubted him, I would have defended him at any cost. Depending on circumstances, I might even have sacrificed my life. Yet despite this, I could do nothing to dispel that sliver of suspicion toward him. I found myself compelled to bitterly lament how tenacious suspicion could be—how utterly fated it seemed. Even if Professor Kasagami had truly infiltrated Professor Kenuma’s bedroom, even if I’d learned he harbored some dreadful purpose, not the faintest thought of exposing him would have crossed my mind. Were he to face such peril, I’d gladly become his substitute. And still—still—the doubt persisted as doubt itself, impossible to erase.

I wanted to know. Somehow, I wanted to uncover Professor Kasagami’s secret. I wanted to know the reason Professor Kasagami had sneaked into Professor Kenuma’s bedroom and the secret behind that bizarre threatening letter. I no longer doubted that the threatening letter had been sent from Professor Kasagami to Professor Kenuma. The fact that it had been written in German, the fact that symbols suggestive of blood types had been written on it, the fact that Professor Kasagami possessed the photographic plate missing from Professor Kenuma’s bedroom—considering all these points, I thought there could be no sender of that threatening letter other than Professor Kasagami.

There must certainly be some secret between the two professors. That must be rooted in a love triangle involving Mrs. Kasagami. Though such a triangle belonged to over twenty years past and seemed long settled on the surface, something must have lingered beneath.

Terrible suspicion! I desperately tried to forget it somehow, but instead found myself growing ever more preoccupied. Now I thought of nothing else, whether waking or sleeping. I even began to fear I might fall ill if this continued.

I had to resolve this dreadful suspicion through my own efforts somehow—otherwise I would only grow more agitated, incapable of focusing on anything. The thought of investigating Professor Kasagami’s secrets—the man I revered—was unpleasant to even consider, yet I couldn’t refrain from doing so. While desperately trying to avoid alerting the Professor, I posed casual questions to him and engaged his wife in various conversations. I also discreetly probed those who might know about the Professor’s past. But I gained almost nothing from it.

I once again made efforts to unravel the secret of the night Professor Kenuma met his unnatural death. Ultimately, the fundamental enigma lay in the bedroom door having been locked from within. I could not possibly be satisfied with newspaper accounts alone. I repeatedly met with the elderly maid who had served at Professor Kenuma’s residence and verified their claims. According to her steadfast testimony, the door had unquestionably been secured from inside. The windows too had all been fastened from within. The key remained properly inserted in its lock. I recalled devices employed in detective fiction. Concerning methods for locking doors externally, foreign mystery writers had racked their brains devising several contrivances. Yet these proved far removed from reality—when I heard the maid’s detailed account of Professor Kenuma’s door as I remembered it, those authors’ inventions stood wholly inapplicable. That Professor Kenuma had perished within a sealed chamber stood as irrefutable fact. The police authorities’ verdict of accidental death by gas leakage seemed only too reasonable.

But how had the gas pipe come loose? And why hadn’t Professor Kenuma noticed that? And then—ah, how had that accursed photographic plate come into Professor Kasagami’s possession? If things had continued in this state, I might have gone completely mad or had no choice but to commit suicide. But by a fortuitous discovery, I was spared from such a fate.

It was about five days after discovering the photographic plate—in other words, about twenty days after the incident had occurred. I returned to my lodgings and, as my feet were terribly dirty, entered through the kitchen instead of the usual way. What caught my eye at that moment was the gas measuring device commonly called a meter. It was a red-painted box-shaped dry-type meter with a large valve attached. Tightening this valve would shut off the gas to every room. In this lodging where gas stoves were not used, the landlady strictly instructed the housemaid to tighten this valve without fail every night before bed. If they did that, there would be no gas leakage due to negligence, allowing them to rest assured.

However, when using a gas stove all night, one cannot tighten this meter’s valve. If they were to tighten it, the stove would go out. When I had thought this far, I leapt up. I had heard the ancient tale of Archimedes—charged with verifying a golden crown’s authenticity—who, while sinking into his bath after exhausting all solutions, saw water suddenly overflow and conceived his insight, crying “Eureka! Eureka!” as he sprang from the water. At this moment, I was truly living that very “Eureka.”

If someone were to turn the gas meter's valve while the stove was lit, wouldn't the fire go out? And if they turned it again, wouldn't gas come gushing out? It was an exceedingly simple matter. Professor Kasagami—it didn't have to be him. A certain person had slipped into the house while the old maids and I were in Professor Kenuma's bedroom, holding their breath. When they saw us leaving the room, they first tightened the valve on the kitchen gas meter. Then they entered the bedroom. Then they removed the gas stove pipe; at that point, of course, no gas leakage occurred. Professor Kenuma woke up for some reason, got up, and unlocked the door. At that time, the stove was not lit, and there was no gas leakage; therefore, the professor, noticing nothing, lay down on the bed again. When the professor fell asleep again, someone opened the kitchen gas meter's valve back to its original position. Then wouldn't gas begin vigorously leaking into the bedroom?

What seemed slightly incomplete in this explanation was twofold: how someone could have anticipated that the professor would get up and unlock the door—and how they knew this had been done—along with why the professor, after lying down a second time, failed to notice the gas leakage that subsequently occurred. Furthermore, as a major lingering question from earlier, there remained why the professor’s death had occurred within a mere two hours at most; linking this fact with the latter part of the current doubt, it seemed likely that Professor Kenuma had probably lain down on the bed a second time, died shortly thereafter, and only then had the meter’s valve been opened. No matter how loudly the gas hissed as it leaked, if he had already died by then, there would have been no way for him to notice.

How had such a death of the professor occurred? It was simple. The professor’s death had been conclusively proven by authorities to have resulted from carbon monoxide poisoning. Therefore, he must have died of carbon monoxide poisoning. But at the time the professor’s death occurred, it could be considered that the gas leakage had likely not yet begun; and even if it had started, the amount of carbon monoxide contained in its total volume would have been far insufficient for a lethal dose. If that were the case, then just as subtracting one from two leaves one, it was abundantly clear that the carbon monoxide had been delivered by another method.

Professor Kenuma’s death had been accomplished by introducing carbon monoxide into the locked room. The gas stove pipe coming loose and gas leaking out had been a trick to create the misconception that the professor’s death resulted from carbon monoxide in the fuel gas.

Now then—how was the highly toxic carbon monoxide gas introduced into the room? Here, I made another crucial discovery. It was something that had barely crossed my mind at the time, but that fact suddenly flashed across my cerebral membrane at just the right moment. The method of generating carbon monoxide wasn’t particularly difficult. However, this required equipment; if something like sulfuric acid—a dangerous chemical—was needed, then heating also had to be applied. Sneaking into someone else’s house and generating it would not have been easy. Even if they had brought in such equipment and chemicals, delivering them into the sealed room would have been difficult. To be effective with a small quantity, it had to be delivered near the victim—ideally around the nose—but this would have required attaching a rubber tube from outside the room. Even if someone were to crawl into the attic, since a fine-meshed wire net was stretched over the ventilation hole, there would have been no room to lower a rubber tube. Moreover, since it’s a gas somewhat lighter than air, delivering it from above would have been less effective.

If gas were compressed into ordinary pressurized containers—commonly called bombs or cylinders—made of iron, then due to the applied pressure, it would be possible to deliver it from outside to inside the room; however, even this method could not effectively achieve its objective unless a pipe were inserted into the room. Moreover, since the container was made of thick iron, it would be extremely heavy; carrying it alone and sneaking into someone else’s house would be nearly impossible. What remained was liquefied gas. If one were to put this into a Dewar flask—commonly called a "magic bottle"—transporting it would be quite simple. Then, if this were lowered from the ceiling’s ventilation hole, it would fall onto the floor and—or perhaps before even landing—vaporize, fully achieving its purpose.

However, the liquefaction of carbon monoxide can only be performed at extremely low temperatures (critical temperature -139°C, boiling point -190°C); unlike carbon dioxide, it is not ordinarily seen. The gas called carbon dioxide—or carbonic acid gas—can be easily liquefied (critical temperature 31°C, sublimation point -79°C), and is used in household soda makers known as siphons, stored in liquid form within cylinders smaller than a thumb. However, it is not impossible to liquefy carbon monoxide. Given that even a 1% concentration in the air can kill within two minutes, if it were pure, death would likely occur almost instantly.

Now, as for why I focused on liquefied carbon monoxide—at the time of the incident, I had gone to the scene with the Police Chief, where both he and I noticed that the carpet near the bed at the crime scene had a tattered hole about an inch in diameter. At first glance, it appeared similar to a burn mark, yet differed fundamentally. As anyone who has observed liquid air experiments knows, its extreme cold rapidly draws heat from whatever it touches; contact with skin causes scalding-like burns, while rubber balls harden like ceramic and shatter when struck.

The low temperature of liquefied carbon monoxide differed little from liquid air; thus had it spilled onto the carpet, that spot would have inevitably become tattered. I had failed to notice it then, but the frayed area lay near the bed's head—not directly under the ventilation hole in the ceiling's corner, but very close beneath it.

Then there was another thing: the water in the washroom had frozen that day; the old maid explained it had frozen due to that morning's exceptionally severe cold in the Tokyo area—an explanation everyone accepted without question. Yet upon reflection, it was already ten o'clock by then, and the temperature had risen significantly; thus, it seemed strange the water had remained frozen until that hour. The washroom lay aligned with the bed's headboard, while the ventilation hole occupied the midpoint between bedhead and washroom. This spatial relationship suggested that when the intensely cold liquefied gas vaporized—violently drawing heat from its surroundings—the water froze. Given the freezing's extensive reach here, I concluded the latent heat dispersion likely prevented easy reversion to liquid state.

Through my incomplete explanation above, I thought I had grasped how it was done. But who was responsible? What drove them? What meaning lay behind those threats? And what sequence unfolded between their entry into that bedroom and Kenuma rising to unlock his own door? None of this made sense yet. What I'd unraveled amounted to fragments—each answered question spawning ten new mysteries.

After all, I must still suffer!

Dr. Kasagami's Suicide Note

After making the aforementioned discovery, I continued to suffer for about a week. And then, I abruptly confronted the unspeakably terrible fact of the Kasagami couple’s suicide—and thus it ended! When I heard this news, I fell into a complete state of temporary unconsciousness.

Dr. Kasagami’s will consisted of one copy intended for public release and another copy addressed specifically to me. The public one stated that due to unavoidable circumstances, the couple had chosen to take their own lives together; that all their estate was to be transferred to me; and that in exchange, I was to handle all matters concerning their funerals and posthumous affairs.

The one addressed to me was absolutely not to be made public for one year, and as I mentioned at the beginning of this account, when I read it, I immediately resolved to follow Dr. Kasagami and his wife in death by taking my own life. However, I barely managed to stop myself from doing so and spent a painful year praying for the repose of Dr. Kasagami and his wife. Now I was about to make it public. What impact would this suicide note have on society when it was published? I would likely be surrounded by a crowd of newspaper reporters once again. What would my parents think? That was what terrified me. I intended to next present Dr. Kasagami’s suicide note, thereby concluding this account, and then quietly depart somewhere without informing anyone. However, I would firmly adhere to the Doctor’s teachings and never resort to suicide or the like.

Usawa Kenichi From: Kasagami Shizuo Though our acquaintance was brief, being able to connect with you wholeheartedly brought me immeasurable happiness—for this alone, I offer my deepest gratitude to God. Now, for the reasons I shall next relate, I depart for the next world together with my wife. You will surely grieve. How profoundly you will grieve! That prospect terrifies me above all else. Yet you are a young man of boundless promise; you must recognize the grave responsibilities you bear toward your parents, toward us as husband and wife, toward our nation, and toward society. We find ourselves compelled to hasten our deaths beneath this accursed fate, yet we go to our ends clinging to one solace—one hope—that you might endure in this world. I implore you most earnestly. You must never yield to rash impulses. This constitutes our final wish as husband and wife. Pray adhere strictly to this entreaty. Should you mature into an honorable man and conduct memorial rites for us, such devotion would surpass ten thousand volumes of sutras chanted by saintly monks.

Now, where should I begin? You must already know about the strange karmic bond between Professor Kenuma and myself. We were born in nearly the same place, graduated from university, and walked identical paths until attaining professorships. That we became rivals in every conceivable way ultimately led to our mutual ruin. Yet since this was a fate that bound us both from the start, there’s no point in regret now.

After graduating from university, we found ourselves compelled to desperately vie for the affections of a woman caught between us. I presume you already know this woman became my wife. As you’re well aware, Professor Kenuma possessed remarkable cheerfulness, sociability, and eloquence. I stood as his complete antithesis in every respect. You can imagine how disadvantaged I was in this romantic rivalry. My wife too fell entirely under his spell for a time. During her youth, she had freely associated with Professor Kenuma as intimate friends. I could only watch this unfold while trembling with envy and jealousy. Yet gradually she came to perceive that Professor Kenuma wasn’t the man he outwardly appeared to be. He revealed himself as a sinister, contemptible creature driven by utter selfishness. My wife at last resolved to sever ties with him. Then came the day she narrowly escaped suffering a grievous insult at his hands—after which she never approached him again. Thus did we soon hold our wedding ceremony.

Professor Kenuma had outwardly shown delight at our marriage—giving gifts and even delivering a speech at our wedding reception. At the time, we hadn’t imagined him to be such a fearsome villain, so we believed he no longer harbored resentment toward us—but this proved our excessive naivety. Professor Kenuma had been behind us all along, eyes blazing with venomous obsession, awaiting his chance for vengeance.

Unaware of such things even in our dreams, we were profoundly happy. My wife became pregnant immediately, and within less than a year of our marriage, we had become parents to an adorable boy. Our misfortune arrived within less than three years after that. As you know, I began my research on blood types around that time. And just as had been done to you, I myself examined my wife and child’s blood types. Yet while I am Type A and my wife is Type O, our child proved to be Type B. No matter how many times I verified it, the result remained unchanged.

In academic terms, it is established that Type A and Type O absolutely cannot produce Type B. If there were exceptions to this principle, all blood type research would become worthless and require restarting from the beginning. Yet my wife was more chaste than any other paragon of virtue—there existed not the slightest basis for suspicion. But science does not permit a child born to me as father and my wife as mother to be Type B.

I was, alas, a scientist. With my wife’s apparent chastity, I could not overturn the verdict of science. However, while blood type research remains incomplete and may not possess absolute certainty, if that were so, then my wife’s chastity too could not be considered absolute. For instance, it stands as self-evident truth that one cannot place absolute trust beyond science in matters such as my wife’s maiden years, times when I was absent, or periods when I was away from home.

I was anguished. Should I place faith in science, or in my wife? Day by day I sank deeper into gloom, and being taciturn by nature, grew yet more silent. There remained but one course for me. To pursue research surpassing blood type studies. Should this overturn established theory, my wife’s chastity would find passive vindication. Should it fail, she must bear the stigma of infidelity. Her maidenhood’s profound ties to Professor Kenuma, that narrowly averted calamity, the untimely pregnancy—ah, and Professor Kenuma’s blood type being B.

No matter how I tried, I could not stop myself from growing more distant from my wife with each passing day. I immersed myself in research like a man possessed. I never spoke a word to my wife about the blood type matter. My wife, I believe, interpreted my aloofness as stemming from my innate disposition and scholarly fervor. Despite my cold demeanor, she served me with ever greater devotion. Ah, I refrained from even attempting to conceive another child until my wife's chastity could be proven.

The child who was born died at eleven years of age, whether fortunately or unfortunately. For that unfortunate child, I now shed copious tears. Poor child—one who passed away lonely without ever tasting a father’s love. He was truly a pitiable child.

My research had progressed. Yet it yielded only evidence refuting my wife's chastity. Ah—for twenty interminable years, a couple wedded yet unwedded; a wife who endured her husband's icy gaze and ceaseless suspicion while maintaining perfect virtue—what manner of tragic figure was she! Yet does this not make me an equally tragic husband?

We had to continue living this way for ten or even twenty years more, yet heaven has not remained entirely merciless toward us forever. I do not consider it mere coincidence that you associated with me during your student days. Had it been mere coincidence, you would never have approached me as you did—unlike other students. Nor would you have conceived of researching blood types or sought to determine your own and those of your parents and siblings. All is divine will. This is by no means happenstance.

Ah, I will never forget. My first shock came when I heard you had determined your blood type—your father being Type B, your mother Type O, and you yourself Type A. I measured it myself to confirm, and it was indeed so. But what surprised me even more was when I heard you were born in K Hospital’s delivery room. And when I investigated your date of birth—my shock at that time—I often think it a wonder I did not lose my mind then.

Having written this far, you must have already realized. My deceased child was also born in K Hospital’s delivery room. And his date of birth matches yours exactly. Both my deceased child and you were born on the same day and in the same place. Newborn babies have no distinguishing features apart from their sex. In hospital delivery rooms, mix-ups may inevitably occur due to handlers’ carelessness or misjudgment. This is why hospitals mark garments with threads or assign numbers. In major American maternity hospitals—since obtaining newborns’ fingerprints proves difficult—they instead take footprints to prevent such errors. Thus even at K Hospital, there should have been no haphazard infant mix-ups. I believe there was no such negligence or oversight. But deliberate acts cannot be guarded against.

The one who intentionally swapped our child—that is none other than Professor Kenuma. What a mercilessly cruel revenge this is.

I heard about your blood type, learned of your birth at K Hospital and your date of birth, and conducted as thorough an investigation as possible. As a result, I ascertained beyond doubt that it was indeed Professor Kenuma’s detestable scheme. At K Hospital, the delivery room is situated directly before the orthopedic surgery room. At that time, Professor Kenuma had a friend among the orthopedic surgery staff, and through skillful persuasion, it was discovered that he had been constantly entering and leaving the orthopedic surgery department on the eve of his wife’s delivery. Moreover, were my deceased child and you returned to your rightful places, this outcome would not conflict with any scholarly conclusion.

To resort to such means for revenge—what an unvirtuous and unethical method! Through this, what agonies we husband and wife endured! And depending on circumstances, we might have had to continue that torment until death itself. Is there any requital for him but death? Yet to kill him aimlessly would be meaningless. He needed to fully comprehend through what means death would claim him. I compelled him to recall our child's birthtime and dispatched documents marked with blood type symbols. This indeed provoked reaction. He began panicking terribly—carrying a pistol for self-defense, locking his room door. Through silence itself, he confessed his inhuman deeds.

That night I was hiding inside his house; when you returned, I slipped into his room and altered the gas stove with a certain mechanism. At that moment, my eyes chanced upon a magazine on the desk, and tearing out the photographic plate within proved a rash act. This later resulted in you growing suspicious of me. After modifying the stove, I gradually roused Kenuma from sleep. He awoke with a start, and as he made to seize his pistol in panic, I gripped his hand, denounced his past villainy, declared my imminent vengeance, then swiftly quit the room while he gaped about in confusion. True to my expectations, he refrained from crying out to summon his household, instead rising at once to bolt the door from within. Thus did my design fall perfectly into place. I waited until he lay once more upon his bed, then introduced toxic gas through a particular means while triggering fuel gas emission from the stove. The minutiae of this lethal method I shall not commit to paper. Pray exercise your deductive faculties. My stratagem succeeded. None save you ever questioned the death's causation. It was deemed gas poisoning through accidental mishap.

At first, since Professor Kenuma had tormented us through underhanded means in silence, I resolved to exact revenge in kind and maintain a facade of ignorance. However, my conscience refused to permit it. Moreover, your apparent awareness of the matter filled me with profound dread. I ultimately resolved to take my own life. My ill-fated wife, upon hearing my account, expressed her wish to die alongside me. In the end, I granted her this final request.

As husband and wife, our greatest wish was to hear you declare yourself our true child while we still lived. Time and again we began to speak these words, yet could never bring ourselves to utter them. For I had been unforgivably cold toward the child fate brought into my care. In the end, I destroyed even that bond. To claim you as my own now would do unforgivable disservice to your parents. They raised you with tenderness, believing wholeheartedly in your legitimacy. To my eyes, you bore little resemblance to either them or your siblings. Nevertheless, they nurtured you without suspicion—this boundless trust they gave. How starkly this contrasts with my own ceaseless doubts and torment! Having shown such cruelty to our lost son, how could I ever face your parents? Nor can I find courage now to assert that you rightfully belong to us.

Well then, goodbye. Please take utmost care not to forget the request I made earlier. Become a splendid and righteous person, and live your life in happiness.

(June/July 1934 issue)