Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Ran Ikujirou

I

The seaside city of K—. It was known for having the most vibrant, most colorful "summer" in all the land. Indeed, when those towering cumulus clouds—symbols of K— Town's crisp "summer"—rose into the sky, the streets would flood all at once with a commotion like a stirred beehive. As the townspeople awakened from their long hibernation, a uniform "anticipation" glowed upon the faces of old and young alike. Indeed, the people of this town conducted a year's worth of business in just two months of "summer."

July! The wisteria blossoms had already scattered, the clammy, oppressive rainy season had broken and cleared away, and beneath trellises hung with wisteria pods, burly hornets crisscrossed through the air on drowsy-sounding wings...

Refreshingly sweet was the July wind—. Thunderously reverberated the distant surf’s roar—wafted the rocky shore’s scent—.

“And so, summer arrived—” The sunshades of old parasol shops shook off their dust; cafés with peeling paint busily applied their makeup—and young men puffed out their thick chests for the villa young ladies soon to arrive. Along the coast, as if on a sudden impulse, reed-screen summer houses, recreation halls, changing rooms were rapidly erected; Western-lettered signs were hung; and the sound of showers rushed forth—. Boooom. Boooom.

The beach opening ceremony’s fireworks drifted across the sea’s surface, puff by puff, leaving behind dreamlike clumps of smoke in an azure sky rendered pristine by primary colors. What a splendid coast this was! It was as though a polychrome curtain from another realm had been unfurled. Against the cobalt sea, the shore lay strewn with seashore parasols and tents of violent hues—like some fungal garden of poisonous mushrooms—crammed into every conceivable space. There danced a vital swarm of beauties—sylphs of that toxic grove—baring without restraint limbs that had languished unsumed for a full year, their scorching sand-trodden feet clad in swimsuits of audacious colors and designs chosen at whim.

——What free limbs they had! It was, for the days of youth, a lively bustle teeming with allure.

II

Shirafuji Rotaro, suffering from a chest ailment, was in Room 48 of the S Sanatorium, located in a corner of K— Town.

Despite being no more than fifteen *chō* (approximately 1.6 kilometers) away from Y Coast—that place brimming with such intense energy—the sanatorium, situated precisely in a depression of the cliff and removed from the shopping district, remained quiet throughout the year, as if forgotten by the world.

However, even to this sanatorium, the summer wind arrived briskly. Shirafuji Rotaro, drawn by the fireworks that had been sounding since earlier, gazed out from the second-floor recreation room at the expanse of sea visible beyond the pine branches. With a dry crack, the smoke from those fireworks could be seen even from here.

(Today's the beach opening ceremony...)

Having received sufficient treatment from an early stage, Rotaro had recovered enough to be discharged at any time. However, out of both a reluctance to abandon this rare K— summer in panicked haste and return to Tokyo, as well as a sense of security from this sanatorium being managed by his classmate’s father, he ultimately resolved to spend this one summer here in hospital life, feeling as though he were staying at an apartment with a doctor on call. (Maybe I should go take a look...)

Having been told by the director—his friend’s father—that his body was now fully recovered, he could go out for walks whenever he pleased. He put on a very wide-brimmed woven hat, slipped into his yukata and geta sandals, passed through the sanatorium gate, and walked slowly along the shaded hedge-lined path toward the coast.

Soon, when the hedges ended, he crossed a stone bridge about one ken in length, its name ceremoniously engraved—turning right there would reveal Y Coast abruptly unfurling below his eyes. Rotaro stood atop that modest hill, staring in amazement at the coast’s startling metamorphosis. Beneath the azure sky, the coastal vista stretched before him—what a dazzling kaleidoscope of colors it presented. Like a riotous flowerbed in full bloom, like an overturned paint-box—it seized the eye with youth’s dreamlike beauty. This was nothing less than miraculous transformation, as though some remote Tōhoku hamlet had been spirited away to Ginza’s bustling streets overnight.

The coastal weeds that once rustled quietly across the deserted shore now trembled joyfully—perhaps intoxicated by the surrounding air. No wonder, for today marked the beach opening ceremony, when this seaside city would be cast into a crucible brimming with vibrant vitality—— Offshore, the fireworks launch boat equipped with rapid-fire mechanisms swayed gently upon the glittering sea, while summer-hungry water sprites' heads bobbed in and out of sight as they swam toward it. They looked exactly like sesame seeds scattered across an indigo tatami mat.

Rotaro parted the weeds, took a shortcut, and descended to the coast. The sand was roasted by the scorching sun to the point where one couldn’t even step on it barefoot. And the air was stiflingly hot from its radiation. Then with a roaring wave of sound, the taut vibrant limbs of young men and women flooded his entire field of vision. Having lived a sanatorium life that had felt almost forgotten until now, he was momentarily intoxicated by that intense atmosphere—so much that he felt a dizzying swirl before his eyes.

The limbs of the girls—liberated at last from their cumbersome kimonos after so long—being this robust yet uninhibited was a revelation that seized Shirafuji Rotaro's gaze anew. What splendid limbs they were! Their skin—some still untouched by the sun, cream-white like white silk; others already sun-tanned to a golden brown—contained a supple vitality, stretching lithely and leaping dynamically like antelopes. And from the swimsuits clinging snugly to their bodies, undulating lines of allure cascaded down...

As they dashed past Shirafuji Rotaro—some laughing and chattering, others raising their small hands to shade their eyes—the swarm of beautiful girls released not the briny scent of the shore, but a sweet, faint maidenly fragrance that pierced his nostrils——. He stood there as if intoxicated by the crackling, vibrant air, but at last—in this kingdom of bare skin—his own figure, clad in a yukata and woven hat, felt wretchedly out of place. Hunching his shoulders, he passed through the village of parasols and entered one of the seaside shops set up at the rear: “Saffron.”

He leaned back on the deck chair, the straw of his fiercely bubbling soda water clamped between his lips, his eyes captivated by the vibrant coast. ——At times like these, a young man’s eyes tend to fixate on a single focal point. As might be expected, Rotaro’s eyes became drawn to a certain beautiful girl. Of course, she was a girl he didn’t know, but even amidst these vibrant surroundings, she stood out as strikingly beautiful—enough to catch one’s eye immediately.

The group consisted of three girls who had a tent with crimson and vivid yellow striped patterns. The trio of girls that had captured Rotaro’s gaze consisted of two sisters and the elder sister’s friend—Rumiko was the name of that elder sister. He had become utterly fixated on Rumiko. Truly, how could one possibly describe her? The crimson swimsuit clung to her pale, soft form with meticulous precision, its lines—drawn smoothly from the proud swell of both breasts, curving around her waist, and extending to the tips of her slender legs—possessed a vivid, harmonious balance as if painted by a master.

And the waved bobbed hair that fluttered down lightly onto her pale, luminous forehead looked as vivid and beautiful as seaweed. She was laughing cheerfully, without a care in the world. And each time she laughed, her perfectly aligned white teeth—glistening between her vividly colored, wet lips—shone brightly under the summer sun. “Well then—aren’t you coming for a swim?” “Yes, let’s go—” The three modern girls, having brushed off the sand and stood up, cheerfully linked arms and ran off along the shore. Her bobbed head bounced buoyantly, then with a sudden splash, she dove into the brimming sea like a young ayu fish.

“Haa…” With a meaningless sigh, Shirafuji Rotaro cast his gaze aimlessly around— “Ah—” He involuntarily released the straw he’d been holding in his mouth. From the tent of that trio of girls, about twenty ken away on the opposite side—though clad only in swim trunks and wearing anti-glare glasses—he discovered that sneering, twisted face of Yamaka Jusuke. As for Yamaka Jusuke—this man was someone Shirafuji Rotaro had bitter experience with. For while Yamaka was still in his thirties, a man with a slightly acerbic edge, he possessed considerable cunning and lived extravagantly. Fresh out of school, Rotaro had been deceived by him: persuaded by Yamaka’s silver tongue, he purchased a villa property that turned out to be utterly fraudulent, squandering nearly half of his father’s substantial inheritance. For this, his uncle furiously reprimanded him, placing what remained of his own money under the uncle’s management—leaving Rotaro unable to use it freely.

It was frustrating, but against Yamaka—who was several steps ahead—he couldn’t do anything legally. In the end, it was as though Shirafuji Rotaro had paid exorbitant monthly tuition for a lesson in sociology. Now then—since Yamaka fortunately didn’t seem to have noticed him yet—he considered whether to slip away during this moment or perhaps hurl a sarcastic remark at him. But there was no way he could match that unscrupulous man—or rather, (I should) never get involved again—

Just as he recalled his uncle’s words and rose to his feet— The trio centered around Rumiko came running up the shore, laughing cheerfully and amusing themselves exactly as they had when departing earlier. Drenched from the water, her swimsuit clung even more tightly to her body—every contour now standing out in sharp relief—momentarily tilting his gaze askew. “It’s so cold—” “Yes…the water’s still chilly.” “Oh Rumiko—your lips look positively pale…”

“Yes… I feel so chilly—” “Oh my, that won’t do—you need to get more sun…” “Yes—”

She hunched her shoulders as if chilled, then threw herself onto the hot sand behind the tent. Lying prone, she stretched out luxuriously and slept. Drop by drop, seawater trickled from the tips of her waved bobbed hair, leaving dark stains on the scorching white sand before vanishing. A beautiful girl clad only in a swimsuit—sleek as white wax—lay pressed against the sandy ground. The plump swell of her thighs, untouched by sunlight and still damp from the sea, glistened with an almost lurid luster.

Shirafuji Rotaro walked slowly by, peering furtively from beneath his radiant woven hat.

The girl lay prone on the scorching sand, but every so often, her hands trembling uncontrollably, she would claw at the sand. Her hand movements were terribly clumsy for someone playing in the sand. For she was clawing at the sand with her beautiful nails turned upward, heedless of the grains flying into her face— ——If Shirafuji Rotaro—no—rather, if the many people around him had known the meaning of it, how utterly astonished they would have been——.

The beautiful girl who had captured Rotaro’s gaze—evidently the center of everyone’s attention—sat on a fishing boat hauled up onto the shore, where a group of four or five students, a family-like pair with two children, and about three watchful youth group members were seated. Yet Rotaro had known all along about the furtive glances they occasionally exchanged. The spot where she now lay had until moments ago been the students’ triple jump pit, but now she alone lay there like an outcast, flattened against the vacant ground.

She seemed to repeat that meaningless sand play two or three more times, but perhaps growing weary of even that, she made no effort to brush away the sand on her face and lay stretched out limply like a dried fish. Though for a dried fish, she was far too radiantly beautiful—

It was just as Shirafuji Rotaro was passing by her side. From inside the tent, a girl who appeared to be her sister came hopping across the scorching sand like a katydid,

“Sister—are you still cold?” “——” “Hey—getting too much sun too quickly is bad for you——” “——” Even so, she did not respond.

“Oh, Sister, you...”

Having said that, it was just as she tried to lift her up.

“Ah!” As she recoiled with a shocked cry— “Yoshichan! Yoshichan! Come quick! Something’s wrong—something’s wrong with Sister—” she shouted to the friend still inside the tent.

Shirafuji Rotaro, at that abrupt, toneless cry, involuntarily turned to look back at the girl who had come over. "Oh…"

He muttered under his breath. Just moments ago, her face—that of a bright, rosy-cheeked beauty—had turned as dully pale as the sand that buried it. What’s more, her half-closed eyes gleamed eerily with their whites exposed, while her cheeks had grown utterly bloodless, as though transparent. (What’s going on…—)

As he paused for a moment—the students nearby along with Yoshichan, who had been summoned— “Is something wrong—” approached him.

“Ah! She has no pulse—she’s dead—” A student who had grasped her hand let out a shrill cry.

“Wha—?” The faces of the younger sister and Yoshichan changed in an instant.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” The curious beach crowd had already swarmed like ants. Shirafuji Rotaro too was drawn into the throng of people and peered in. There stood Yamaka Jusuke—who had apparently rushed over already—lifting her up with practiced ease alongside the student who had checked her pulse. “Oh! This is—” Even Yamaka Jusuke let out a startled cry.

“Oh—” Already, the crowd in swimsuits—formed into a circle—seemed to gasp and take a collective step back. Beneath the swell of the beautiful girl’s left breast—when had it been stabbed?—a single dagger with a white hilt pierced her flesh, its ominous blade stained with blood. Perhaps because she had been lifted up, the blood gushing from the wound now dripped down—drip, drip—as if the crimson swimsuit itself were dissolving into seawater.

The surroundings were filled with glaring, dazzlingly bright midsummer light that made one’s eyes swim. Perhaps because of this, the contrast between her pure white limbs and crimson swimsuit—now streaked with rivulets of blood—pierced the retina with brutal intensity. —Shirafuji Rotaro staggered through the ring of people and gazed out toward the open sea. The rawness of it all stung his eyes. “Mr. Shirafuji—isn’t it?”

“Huh?” When he turned around, Yamaka was smirking behind his sunglasses. “Well—”

He too touched the brim of his hat in reluctant greeting. "It's been ages—though I heard you were unwell..." "No, I'm quite recovered now." "Is that so? How fortunate." Yamaka spoke with hollow courtesy, "What a shock—a murder in broad daylight at this very beach opening ceremony she organized..." He began talking with overfamiliar presumption. "Oh? So she was murdered, you say?"

“That’s obvious. If she had committed suicide—and she’s a young girl, after all—would she really stab herself with a dagger in the middle of a crowd? If she were going to die, she’d do it more romantically. Honestly—” “Hmm, but I’ve been watching since earlier, and no one went near her…” “You’ve been watching since earlier, huh—” Yamaka twisted his mouth into a slightly sarcastic smile. This was the man’s habit.

“No—that’s…” Shirafuji Rotaro, (Damn…) Even as he thought this, he felt his earlobes flush warm, “Well, even so… Now that I think of it, she wasn’t holding anything until she lay down there… Could the dagger have fallen?” “You must be joking. Are you suggesting that on this person’s bustling beach—a bare dagger planted upright no less—was just lying there? Ha ha ha ha! That she threw herself onto the sand so perfectly it pierced her heart? Utterly unimaginable.”

“Well… yes. Now that you mention it, students over there have been doing triple jumps and tumbling about since earlier… So then—I can’t make sense of it…” “I quite agree it’s utterly incomprehensible. By your telling, that girl wasn’t holding a dagger, and even after lying down, no one went near her—yet she ended up stabbed to death with one…” “Wait.” “It’s not as though I alone was watching her.” “Someone more captivated than me might’ve kept their eyes glued to such a beauty from the very start.”

“Ah, I see. In fact, I too was observing her out of courtesy, heh heh…” Yamaka laughed derisively, baring his yellowed gums— “There’s a modest villa of mine further along. I should very much like the honor of your visit one day.” “I see. Well, perhaps sometime…” (No doubt built with dirty money.) As this thought flashed through his mind— “Ah, Mr. Yamaka—could that girl have been struck by a dagger thrown swiftly from somewhere…”

“Hmm.”

Yamaka tilted his head but immediately,

“No, no. A thrown dagger couldn’t possibly burrow through the sand and pierce her heart from beneath her prone body… By the way, wasn’t it you who passed closest to her around that time? That yukata-clad figure of yours does stand out rather conspicuously among a crowd of people in swimsuits—” “Th-that’s not a joke you shouldn’t make! Are you suggesting I killed that girl I’ve never even met?”

Shirafuji Rotaro grew intensely indignant at this insolent Mr. Yamaka.

“I’ll take my leave—”

It was just as he tried to leave. A youth group member with a faded beach coat slung over his shoulder came rushing over, “Excuse me, but those of you in this area must kindly remain where you are for the time being.” And with that, they were detained. (Tch!) While clicking his tongue in annoyance, he stole a glance at Yamaka’s profile—the man was still smirking faintly and deliberately looking away. (Well, whatever—“Saffron” will probably establish an alibi for me——)

He, having no other recourse, turned his gaze back out to sea just as the rapid drumming began—

Tap, tap, tap, BOOM! A crisp, bouncing sound rang out as a balloon figure suddenly popped from the smoke, drifting lazily through the sky like something befuddled, while the beach children raised a raucous cheer and clumped together to chase after it. The beach, as though unaware of the grotesque murder that had occurred, seethed with vitality for the coast opening ceremony—one of its most fervently anticipated annual events—churning in kaleidoscopic chaos.

×

The bizarre murder that suddenly occurred on the beach during that brilliantly bustling Coast Opening Ceremony—not only because the victim was an exceptionally beautiful young woman, but also because the killing method defied comprehension—had completely captured Shirafuji Rotaro's mind. Even after returning to the sanatorium, his status as an eyewitness meant curious patients and nurses repeatedly compelled him to recount every detail of the incident from beginning to end.

However, no matter how many times he was made to repeat the story, it only served to confirm and emphasize that this was an exceedingly rare and mysterious crime—so much so that not even a speculative solution came to mind. She—whom he had learned from the next day’s newspaper was Rumiko, the eldest daughter of Tokyo businessman Mr. Oi—had been lying sprawled on that beach, roughly stirring the sand two or three times with both hands. If so, it may not have been mere playfulness with sand but rather that she had been writhing desperately from the agony of the dagger already lodged in her chest…….

When this realization struck him, the eerie movement of those hands—likely her death throes—vividly revived before his eyes, and he felt a shudder. (Why on earth did such a cheerful beauty have to be killed—) Though it was something he, as an “outsider,” could scarcely imagine, even so, he felt a resentment akin to jealousy toward the “culprit’s” skill—how effortlessly they had stolen away a single beautiful soul before that very crowd’s eyes.

III

The day of the beach opening ceremony had ended, and perhaps about ten days had passed. At precisely that time, with schools also on break and its proximity to Tokyo temporally aligning, the bustle of this K— Town was reaching its very peak.

As summer dusk slowly crept in, water vapor rising from the sea surface coalesced into a milky haze that veiled the beachside summer houses adorned with multicolored lights—a southern passion, a youthful passion riding the refreshing sea breeze that stirred even Shirafuji Rotaro’s chest. By now, even the crimson had faded from the sky, and I Cape too had melted into it—as if mirroring the summer houses’ lights, a faint band of the Milky Way spanned the clear night sky——.

Shirafuji Rotaro did not exactly avoid the intense daytime colors, but since he was still not permitted to swim, he found it awkward to visit that midday beach—a kingdom of bare skin—dressed in just a yukata, and had come to prefer evening strolls instead. Surrounded by S Sanatorium and passing through the forest alive with the evening cicadas’ chorus, he walked along a path that glowed faintly white in the darkness. The road continued to the neighboring G— Town.

While walking, Shirafuji Rotaro recalled the death of that beautiful girl. Perhaps because it had been too vivid a reality, these past few days that scene alone kept abruptly rising to his mind—yet it remained solely that beautiful yet gruesome episode, while regarding causes or solutions, like the newspaper articles that had been published afterward, it might as well have been a blank space.

However, whenever he recalled that scene, he would inevitably associate it with Yamaka Jusuke—the man he had encountered at that very place. (That’s right—maybe I’ll go take a look at that guy’s villa——) Having thought that, he took a left at the crossroads that had come into view. He had suffered terribly at Yamaka’s hands, and moreover, his uncle Tamozawa Gensuke had strictly forbidden him from associating with the man—but these very prohibitions only served to fuel his curiosity, (Just looking at the house should be fine——)

While making excuses to himself—and driven by a feeling that he was, in a sense, the sole acquaintance present at that place—he quickened his pace and continued walking the night path. The road lined with thickly growing hedges was dark like a ceilingless tunnel, yet the sky brimmed with stars that flickered strangely, as if one were viewing an old tin plate full of holes held up to the sun. In that starlight, the drying racks of scattered villas stood tall here and there, upon which could be seen vividly colored modern swimsuits—still not taken inside—flattened into shapelessness, hanging as if doing handstands, lying sideways, or splaying their legs. Whether due to the surroundings being utterly hushed, this scene contrasted so starkly with daytime’s liveliness that it appeared utterly forlorn.

...Eventually, the hedge-lined road was interrupted by the light of a single tackle shop, and upon crossing the bridge, there rose a darkened low hill in the night—a pine forest said to contain Yamaka’s villa. Yamaka’s villa was immediately recognized. Peering through the sparsely planted hedge, it was a two-story Western-style structure—its refined and sophisticated appearance enough to make Shirafuji Rotaro click his tongue despite himself. Save for a single light on the second floor, it stood utterly silent. Probably Yamaka had gone out toward the Ginza of the Sea—Y Coast——.

Thinking that, he was about to turn on his heel when— The door—without a single light turned on—was suddenly pulled open from within. To Shirafuji Rotaro’s eyes—as he instinctively pressed himself against the hedge in surprise—appeared a man in white shorts and a white shirt, and another figure: a bob-haired woman wearing white pants boldly patterned with red lines. Though the surroundings were dark, the two figures’ whitish clothing allowed Shirafuji Rotaro to discern their outlines. He concluded that one was undoubtedly Yamaka, but as for the other—the woman—having no association with Yamaka himself, there was no way he could know who she was.

The two, seemingly unaware of Shirafuji Rotaro pressing himself close to spy on them, started walking side by side. Contrary to his expectation that they were heading for a stroll toward Y Coast, they wandered off in the direction of Z Coast—a place where, at this hour, there would likely be no one else around.

Shirafuji Rotaro hesitated for a moment but quickly reconsidered and stealthily followed after them, careful not to be noticed. There was no particular meaning to this—it was partly because that direction happened to align with his return path, and partly because his idleness had compelled him so. Yamaka and the modern woman walked pressed so close together they occasionally bumped shoulders—never once looking back (though there was considerable distance between them, but after all, their white clothes stood out in the night)—advancing along the pitch-dark night path as if deliberately choosing desolate directions while fervently discussing something. The path was indeed dark and lonely enough to make one think so. It seemed almost unthinkable that such a desolate, dead-like place could exist within K—, this summer’s pleasure resort…… Or rather, perhaps Y Coast’s overwhelming liveliness made this side feel all the lonelier in reaction——.

While Shirafuji Rotaro pondered such things, he continued following them, pressing himself against the hedges as if licking their surfaces, until eventually the residential area faded away and he emerged onto a cliff. There, with Saigyōji Temple’s back mountain looming behind as a sheer precipice, after a path of less than one ken was formed, immediately ahead lay another cliff of about two ken covered in sprawling grass that continued down to the beach below. In other words, the path was a narrow trail that had been carved into the cliffside.

When he stood there, the sea breeze blowing in from the ocean surface struck him directly, and though it was a midsummer night, he felt an almost deceptive chill.

Far to the left, across the intricately indented sea, something glittered like a string of crystal prayer beads—the lights of Y Coast, which must now be as bustling as Ginza. But here in this place devoid of a single soul or light, the sea already lay quietly in the darkness, emitting a dull luster like black satin, while faint waves washing the shore ebbed and flowed with a regularity akin to the Earth’s slumbering breath. Yamaka and the other person, upon reaching that point, abruptly came to a halt.

Then they bent forward as if searching for something, but it appeared to be a path descending the cliff, and soon the two white-clad figures smoothly vanished into the pitch-black grass.

(Hmm, what are they up to—)

Tilting his head, Shirafuji Rotaro— (Hmm—so they're descending to the coast and returning along the shore.) he reconsidered.

But—strangely enough—though it shouldn’t have taken much time for them to disappear from sight, the figures of those two who had descended into the cliffside grass were now completely erased from Shirafuji Rotaro’s vision.

There was no moon, but the stars were scattered like falling rain, and in their faint light, the white-clad figures walking along the coast below should have been visible from atop the cliff.

The sight of what appeared to be a couple vanishing into the deserted coast’s grassy thicket might have invited all manner of meddlesome speculations from others—Shirafuji Rotaro felt a sarcastic smile, the kind anyone might wear in such moments, twitch at one corner of his mouth—but he found himself gripped by a vague restlessness akin to unease. Could this be what they call an ominous premonition? Finally, as if unable to bear it any longer, he stretched his limbs fully—then, still muffling his footsteps, cautiously walked forward to search for the cliffside path where the two had apparently descended earlier.

In the faint light, when he finally located it, it was a small collapsed section of cliff—a rough path seemingly formed by naturally crushed grass. All around grew nameless weeds reaching from waist to chest height, rustling and whispering in the black sea breeze. Shirafuji Rotaro halted midway along the crumbling path, listening even more intently, but the surroundings had fallen deathly silent—as if the world itself had ended—with no sound except the rustling of leaves.

(Where on earth have they gone…) When he thought about it, where those two had gone was none of his business, yet for some reason he felt an uneasy pounding in his chest. And indeed, that had not been his fear.

It was when Shirafuji Rotaro had descended the narrow path into the lower thicket and once again bent forward to peer around his surroundings. To the right, about half a ken away in the weeds, something white that occasionally flickered dimly into view caught his eye.

_Hmm—_ And then—pressing a hand to his heart hammering like a rapid bell—he parted the dewy grass and drew closer. “Ah—”

He jerked to a halt.

The vague sense of unease he had been feeling had indeed been proven true.

There lay the young woman who had fled from Yamaka’s house, collapsed as if discarded—no, more than that—beneath the soft swell of her left breast, a dagger was plunged deep. ……The blood that flowed from the dagger’s hilt splashed across that white garment boldly patterned with red lines, spreading like scattered peony blossoms. And there it lay, laid out amidst the overgrown weeds; each time a firefly alighted on summer grass leaves and pulsed its light without thought, a pale glow would cause it to emerge like a hidden picture.

Perhaps because the firefly light was deathly pale, the face of the beautiful girl—still seventeen or eighteen—appeared strikingly white, her smooth forehead glistening with a greasy sheen like sweat, her bobbed hair clung damply to her skin. And in stark contrast, the crimson rouge—seemingly freshly applied—and the blood seared into his vision like fire each time they dimly brightened. Under the sun, that corpse would surely have been gruesome, yet beneath the dim, wavering glow of fireflies, it paradoxically displayed a perverse beauty—so detached from reality it might have been plucked from a dream.

Rather than terror, it was the unearthly beauty of the soulless girl beneath the firefly-blossoming summer grass—a beauty not of this world—that struck Shirafuji Rotaro to his core.

Four Before long, Shirafuji Rotaro suddenly snapped back to his senses and—as if remembering something— (To the police——) When he realized this, he hurriedly scrambled back up the cliff and began racing down the night path toward the police box.

“Isn’t that… Mr. Shirafuji?”

Just then, a man came swaying unsteadily from ahead and called out his name as they passed each other. He—upon being called by name—jerked to a halt. “Ah, as I thought— What’s wrong? You’re acting terribly flustered, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

Shirafuji Rotaro peered into the man’s face— Ah— He was just about to cry out.

That man was none other than Yamaka Jusuke. Yamaka Jusuke wore a yukata and geta sandals—and to cap it all—even carried a fishing rod. “What on earth is the matter…?” The other party remained perfectly composed, but Shirafuji Rotaro found himself temporarily unable to formulate any response.

The very Yamaka he had believed to be the culprit until moments ago was now standing right here, wearing a look of bewilderment. (Then where had that Yamaka Jusuke in white gone—) It was certain the figure had come from Yamaka’s villa, but upon reconsideration—having only seen a retreating back, merely a silhouette—it might have been someone else entirely, he realized. (Even so, where had that man disappeared to—) That man was almost certainly the murderer, though he had likely mistaken him for Yamaka in the darkness.

“Where are you headed…” “I thought I’d go night fishing—what happened to you? Did a ghost appear or something?” Yamaka wore his usual sarcastic smile.

“A ghost?—No, it’s not that—it’s murder!” “Murder—again?”

Yamaka, too, seemed to recall the murder from the beach opening ceremony.

“Yes, and again—it’s a beautiful girl.” “That’s terrible! Where is it—” “Just… in the grass thicket up ahead…” As he spoke, Shirafuji Rotaro recalled the astonishing beauty of that scene beneath the summer grass, illuminated by fireflies. “Anyway, the police—” Yamaka spun around and began striding back along the path he’d come, fishing rod still slung over his shoulder as he walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Shirafuji Rotaro. The two exchanged no further words.

Though Shirafuji Rotaro had resolved never to speak to Yamaka again after their previous awkward parting, the gravity of this murder case compelled him to engage in conversation despite himself—only for the two, both this time and the last, to fall abruptly silent as if suddenly reminded of their estrangement, exchanging deliberately cold stares. ×

That night, the only thing ultimately determined was that the dagger used as the murder weapon was of the same type as the one employed in the killing during the bustling beach opening ceremony—a common variety found in cutlery shops nationwide.

Moreover, though the death scene appeared so tranquil that distinguishing suicide from murder proved difficult, it was finally determined to be a homicide based on Shirafuji Rotaro's definitive testimony about having seen two people together—combined with the fact that not a single fingerprint remained on the dagger (for had it been suicide, her fingerprints would have been present without gloves)—to such an extent that authorities reached this conclusion.

But—where had that “man in white” vanished to?

Even without the moon, the star-filled sky meant it wasn’t dark enough to lose sight of someone in white. Moreover, Rotaro had been paying attention only to that—but the fact remained that he hadn’t seen it.

The man had vanished as though he had melted into the corpse of the woman he killed. Even the police seemed perplexed by this, but ultimately, “That’s because while you—you alone—discovered this corpse and came to notify me—someone was hiding in the darkness of the grass thicket all along and managed to escape—”

Shirafuji Rotaro couldn't feel entirely satisfied, but under these circumstances, there was no other even remotely suitable resolution to hope for. The reason he couldn't shake his unease was, of course, that the man's retreating figure bore a striking resemblance to Yamaka Jusuke, and that the pair had emerged from Yamaka's villa.

To the police, “The two seemed to have emerged from around that corner somewhere, and while taking a walk, when I suddenly glanced ahead, those two were walking while talking about something—” He had mentioned it, but later, he couldn’t recall why he had said such a thing. But this was not out of a desire to protect Yamaka; rather, it seemed an unconscious reluctance to carelessly divulge information there and then—preserving it as a casting vote to decisively bring Yamaka down should the need arise.

Now, having finally been dismissed from their official duties, the two set off on their return journey, relying on the lantern Yamaka had thoughtfully brought along.

Yamaka appeared deeply troubled by Shirafuji Rotaro’s statement—“When I came to my senses, there they were: a man in white and that girl walking ahead with certainty—”—for reasons unknown. “Hey Mr. Shirafuji, where exactly did those two come from…?” things like, “What did the man look like—”

…he pressed with relentless persistence. Shirafuji Rotaro,

“Well—hmm, where was it… But there were definitely two people.” He answered lightly with feigned annoyance while thinking: (As I thought… Yamaka’s a suspicious bastard…) And alongside this: (Look—right there, I’ll smash that arrogant nose of yours—) he felt a triumphant urge to cheer—a sense of superiority. Since Shirafuji Rotaro refused to engage, Yamaka eventually fell silent too, and the two continued walking the night path in wordless determination, guided only by the slender, flickering light of a lantern on the verge of dying out.

Then, suddenly—

“Ah!” Yamaka let out a startled cry unbefitting of him and dropped the lantern with a clatter. The moment he gasped, the lantern clattered across the now pitch-black road.

Shirafuji Rotaro reflexively pressed himself tightly against the hedge, holding his breath as he braced himself. But… there was no sound at all around them. “What’s wrong—?” he barked, “G-ga... moths! Moths!” That voice—despite it being summer—was an unimaginably cold, bone-chillingly cold, hoarse voice. “Moths—?”

Shirafuji Rotaro was struck dumb with astonishment and asked back. “What’s this—you’re that scared of moths—” Fumbling in his sleeve, he struck a match, picked up the fallen lantern, and transferred the flame. In that dully brightened light, Yamaka—his face twisted like a wailing infant’s, all traces of his usual arrogance and sarcasm utterly forgotten—appeared to have a moth that had likely flown toward the lantern’s flame land on his right hand. He rubbed it against his clothes so vigorously one might fear his skin would peel off.

For a while, Shirafuji Rotaro stared blankly at Yamaka Jusuke’s madness-tinged state, but soon enough, Yamaka let out a deep sigh and, still vexed, held the back of his right hand up to the lantern’s light before beginning to mutter in a dry, husky voice—a self-justifying monologue delivered with evident discomfort. “Well… you see, Mr. Shirafuji… I’m more terrified of these moths and butterflies than anything else in this world… Sure, people have their own fears—some dread snakes, others spiders, some faint at the sight of caterpillars—but for me, there’s nothing as dreadful as moths and butterflies… isn’t that right? Everyone has something they fear…”

“Well… I—I suppose for me, someone who doesn’t even think bad things *are* bad is the scariest of all.” Yamaka, oddly enough, seemed not to notice Shirafuji’s sarcastic-laden words, his heart still pounding with agitation as he— “That’s right. “Everyone has at least one thing they truly fear deep down, but in my case, it’s those butterflies and moths—the likes of them. “I consider snakes and spiders rather lovable little creatures, but this—this simply won’t do. Moths—moths—the moment I think of them, I simply can’t bear it. “The core of my head grows piercingly cold—like malarial chills—and I tremble violently. It sounds like a child’s foolish tale, but you can’t imagine how I’ve suffered from this terror. Once, I even bought one of those Buriki-craft butterfly toys to acclimate myself… but it was no use. “When that Buriki-craft butterfly flaps its gaudy wings—those indescribably garish, unpleasant stripes—noisily, frantically, I just can’t bear it anymore. “I feel like those garishly colored wing scales are being scattered everywhere around me. “For me, those wing scales are more terrifying than poison. “When I was a child, because those wing scales got on my hand, the entire area became covered in blisters, and I suffered terrible pain—a bitter experience I’ve carried with me. “Physiologically, butterflies and moths are contraindications for me, and that seems to be the cause of this intense fear… in other words—”

“Huh, is that so? Moths aside, butterflies are such pretty, lovely things, aren’t they? Though if you grab one, sure enough—just like those silhouette prints—yellow and black stripes’ll stick to your hand…”

“Ah, that’s precisely what I can’t stand.” “That torso covered in fur like a wild beast’s—how should I put it?” “And that tightly coiled mouth—that mouth is unquestionably not of this world.” “That is the devil’s mouth—a mouth that drags in terrible karma.” Having said this—despite it being a sweltering midsummer night where one would walk about with clammy sweat beading on their skin—he hunched his shoulders as if chilled, shuddered violently, and at the fork in the road now before them, gingerly pinched the lantern handed over by Shirafuji Rotaro between his fingers. Without so much as a “goodbye,” he strode off and vanished into the darkness. After they parted ways, he noticed that Yamaka’s retreating figure was not carrying the fishing rod—perhaps it had been dropped during the earlier commotion.

Five

Shirafuji Rotaro entered through the sanatorium’s service entrance and was about to pass through the medical office corridor when—despite the late hour—the lights still blazed brightly and voices were talking. *Did something happen—…?*

While thinking this, as he tried to pass by, from behind—

“Rotaro—” He was brought to a halt. When he turned around, there stood Sawamura Haruo—the son of Director Sawamura and his school friend—smiling cheerfully. “Hey—long time no see. What’s up?”

“It’s not ‘what’s wrong.’ A patient wandering around somewhere at this late hour—it’s troublesome, you know—” “Hahaha! I’m staying here ’cause it’s comfy—I’m not a patient anymore—” “That’s precisely the problem. If you think you’re cured and play too hard, it’ll relapse right away—night outings especially aren’t safe.” “D-don’t joke! Quit overthinkin’ stuff—*you’re* the one gettin’ all worked up!” “Hahaha, well come in then. I took some leave myself—came to check on you. Tokyo’s boiling with heat these days.”

When he entered the doctor’s office, Deputy Director Dr. Kuroyanagi—who seemed to have overheard the corridor conversation—was smirking. “Good evening—is something wrong?” “No—patient thirty-three had hemoptysis. When I was called here, Haruo-san had been waiting for you.” “Oh—settled then—” “Yes, it seems stabilized—you shouldn’t overexert yourself either.” “That’s not it—this is problematic… Mine concerns a major incident. In fact, there’s been another murder at Z Coast.”

“Well, another one—” Dr. Kuroyanagi, too, seemed to recall the murder from the day of the beach opening ceremony. “That’s right—another beautiful girl, killed with the same murder weapon as before—” “And then I happened to pass by and became the discoverer, so I’ve been questioned about all sorts of things up until now.”

"But that dead face was truly beautiful, you know—a beautiful girl lay as if broken and decaying amidst the coastal weeds, a dagger embedded in her chest. Yet with the light so faint, everything blurred just enough… not the least bit gruesome." "And then—the fireflies cast their pale light upon that sharply defined, high-nosed profile… flickering… flickering… until it felt as though I were gazing upon a beautiful painting." "Well, you’re oddly impressed—was she as beautiful as your Liebe?"

“No, of course not—hahaha.” “Hmm… And do you know who did it—” “No idea—even the police are clueless. But any amateur can see it’s connected to the previous case—same type of dagger, nearly identical method. Always a single straight thrust beneath the breast, straight to the heart.” “Hmm… You.” “Won’t you tell me everything properly from the beginning?”

Haruo made the chair creak and leaned forward.

Rotaro, (Right—Haruo loved detective novels—) recalled while “Well, here’s how it goes. The first incident—you’ve likely read the outline in the papers by now—occurred on July 10th during the beach opening ceremony.” “Amid Y Coast swarming with people—let me see—Rumiko, was it? The eldest daughter of a businessman named Oi—had been warming her chilled body on the sand when she realized that, without anyone noticing, a dagger had been thrust into her chest. The peculiar thing was that nobody had been near her at the time; and since she was such a striking beauty who’d become the center of attention—this much is certain—she also lacked any motive or reason for suicide.” “In short—she was murdered. But then how exactly was she killed?”

“The sister went to check and, sensing something amiss, let out a shrill scream—so a nearby student rushed over and checked her pulse, but it had already stopped. And then, in front of the crowd that had gathered with a clamor, when they lifted her from where she lay facedown, there was that dagger I mentioned earlier—stuck right in.” “That student—” “They thoroughly investigated him along with the sister, but no matter how much they grilled him, not a speck of dust came out. Moreover, since the group claimed they’d never seen such a dagger, it ultimately came to nothing.”

“Hmm… So when the first student went there, she was already dead—and that student isn’t a suspect—is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s right—” “Hmm… So… what do *you* think?”

“I—don’t know either, but I just saw a strange man there—that Yamaka Jusuke.” “Yamaka? Ah, right—you mentioned having a terrible time with him once—” “That’s right—it’s that bastard.”

“Was he nearby?” “No—he was about thirty-six meters away…” “Then there’s no way.” “Yeah, but somehow I get the feeling he’d do it—maybe because I don’t have a very good impression of him—that Yamaka came rushing over and meddlesomely tried to lift her up, saying, ‘What’s wrong?’ I just can’t shake the feeling that he’s suspicious—this ‘feeling,’ you know?”

“But you—before Yamaka lifted her up, the student had already said there was no pulse, hadn’t he?” “Yeah.” “That’s flimsy—a mere ‘feeling’ doesn’t count as evidence, does it?”

“That’s true—but even *you* wouldn’t understand that.” “Well, I haven’t seen the crime scene myself.” “That’s sneaky—even if you had seen the crime scene, would you really know any more?” “Hmph… As *I* said earlier—Yamaka does seem suspicious…”

Dr. Kuroyanagi, who had been silently listening while directing the head nurse in patient care, took a sip of tea and said. “But couldn’t it be that Yamaka had already died before approaching?”

Haruo turned toward Dr. Kuroyanagi with evident dissatisfaction.

“That’s right—when Yamaka approached her, she was already dead. Haven’t you considered she was poisoned? Before the incident occurred, Yamaka must have given her poison through some method—coating her lipstick with it, or approaching her while she swam and pretending to accidentally splash tainted water. In any case, he administered it. Then she’d naturally feel unwell, lie down on the sand, and never rise again.”

“Then why did he go to the trouble of using a dagger when he’d already managed to kill her—how exactly did he use it?”

Haruo pressed on with his questioning. “Either it was a crime designed to appear impossible at first glance—intended to deceive people’s eyes—or that man was a heinous villain who harbored a desire to stab her directly. Most likely, it’s due to both causes—” “The fact that he was twenty ken [about thirty-six meters] away—with a crowd between them—yet rushed over first, even before those right beside her reacted… That proves he’d been watching that girl closely all along.” “Being thirty-six meters distant—arriving before even the people next to her grasped what happened—lifting her up while asking ‘What’s wrong?’… Only someone who already knew could’ve done that.” “How was she stabbed?” “Simple enough—while saying ‘What’s wrong?’ and hoisting her up, he’d swiftly plunge the dagger into her chest. With planning, it’s child’s play.” “And if he feigned shock with an ‘Ah—,’ the effect would’ve been flawless.”

"If a living body gets stabbed with a dagger, there's no way it wouldn't let out a single scream—this proves she was already completely dead at that moment. There's no explanation except poisoning." At this clear answer from Dr. Kuroyanagi, "Ah... So that's how it was—" Rotaro and Haruo stood stunned into silence. Haruo hunched his shoulders as if bearing a weight, "Poisoning—how very doctor-like of you to come up with that."

He muttered it almost inaudibly, but beyond that, there was no room for objections to this clear answer.

“By what method and what he administered—the quickest way would be to ask the culprit himself.” Having said that, Dr. Kuroyanagi laughed nonchalantly with a gentle smile. Rotaro gazed up at Dr. Kuroyanagi, who had proven his “intuition,” while sensing an unusual brilliance in the thick gold-rimmed glasses.

“Well then—shall we call the police—” As Rotaro began to rise— “Wait, I beg of you—”

Haruo stopped him. “Wait—tell me about this other incident first. If Yamaka’s unrelated to tonight’s case—which seems like the same perpetrator’s work—then maybe he wasn’t involved in the previous one either. There’s no need to rush off and report it.” “No—tonight’s incident is definitely Yamaka’s doing.” “I saw him with my own eyes.” “Hmm… So you kept that from the police?” “It’s not that I hid it—there were just some questionable details.”

“Look here—what’s this all about?” “No—when I went to Yamaka’s house, a pair came out from the gate. It was dark, so I couldn’t see clearly, but from their retreating figures, I thought it was Yamaka and a woman. At Z Coast, they both hid in the grass—when I went there next, there was no sign of the man who looked like Yamaka. Only the woman had been killed. That’s how it went.”

“Then Yamaka was hiding there, wasn’t he?” “Yeah, the police said the same thing. But even the woman killed in the grass thicket was found because she wore white clothes—so if another man in white had been hiding there too, he should’ve been spotted immediately. What’s more, not only did he vanish, but the man who came sauntering from the very direction I was about to go report was Yamaka.” “That’s odd—were you wearing white clothes?”

“No—I was just wearing a yukata and carrying a fishing rod. Said I was going night fishing.” “Was that white-clad person from earlier definitely Yamaka?” “Well… I’m certain someone came out from Yamaka’s house, but between the darkness and only seeing their back…”

“Hmm… Things are getting fishy now.” “But the real mystery is how this white-clad man who looked like Yamaka completely vanished.” “If we assume the white-clad man was Yamaka—could he have killed the woman, disappeared somehow, rushed home to change clothes, and come back here again in that timeframe?” “Impossible.” “The window was only two or three minutes.” “Even hurrying, it takes ten minutes one way to Yamaka’s house—” “Hmm…”

Haruo fell silent as well, and Dr. Kuroyanagi—evidently no omnipotent detective—now listened wordlessly to Rotaro's account.

Even though it was a summer night, a chillingly cold wind blew in. Dawn seemed to be approaching.

The three of them exchanged glances and lifted swollen eyelids,

"I’ve gotten all foggy-headed… I’ll catch a quick nap and think it through slowly…" To Haruo’s murmured words, they nodded silently.

VI

The next day—

The midsummer sun blazed brilliantly, flooding the entire sanatorium with blinding light. As Rotaro lay sprawled on his bed contemplating the previous night’s events, the drilling, oppressive cries of evening cicadas showered down from every direction.

Earlier, Haruo had gone for a quick swim and still hadn’t returned. Haruo also seemed unable to solve that question.

Deputy Director Kuroyanagi was nowhere to be seen. He was likely occupied with examinations at the medical office. Shirafuji Rotaro, who had thought there was no point wandering aimlessly under the blazing midday sun, ended up spending the entire day in a daze. However, during that time—though the murder case seemed to have already spread among the nurses and he heard frequent rumors—strangely enough, not only the identity of the murdered beautiful girl but even her name remained completely unknown.

It had been reported as nothing but "unknown" in the morning papers and even in the evening editions—delivered unusually early—that reeked pungently of ink. It was truly a strange thing. Despite such a beautiful girl having been killed, and even having her photograph published in the newspapers—despite the police presumably conducting desperate investigations—it remained utterly unclear. The fact that even the victim’s identity remained unknown meant that under current investigative methods, this case was an intractable problem.

It was truly absurd that in the opulent seaside city of K—, the identity of the bob-haired girl in Western attire—a beautiful young woman whose clothing suggested she was at least middle-class—remained utterly unknown, as if she had sprung from a tree fork. And yet, even after the case had been closed, it was never ultimately discovered.

×

Before long, the sun set, and lights came on at the S Sanatorium.

Shirafuji Rotaro had never experienced a day as filled with impatience as this one. He firmly believed with unshakable conviction that Yamaka Jusuke—the man who had once swindled even him—was the perpetrator behind this recent succession of beautiful girl murders. Yet due to one final small stumbling block, he found himself unable to declare it definitively.

As he was thinking such things,

“Hey—”

Dr. Kuroyanagi entered.

“I’ll show you something rather interesting—won’t you come along?”

“What is it… I’ll go, but…” “It’s an experiment—please watch me—”

Now that he mentioned it, the doctor was dressed differently than usual in a white dress shirt and white shorts. It was exactly the same outfit as the white-clad man they had seen the previous night.

When they exited the gate, Haruo was also waiting, wearing white pants. The three of them hurried wordlessly toward Z Coast.

Before long, when they arrived near the site of last night’s incident,

“Rotaro. “Please wait here. Haruo and I will enter the grass like last night’s two people—since I’ll vanish—” “Huh—” While Shirafuji Rotaro stood dumbfounded, Dr. Kuroyanagi had already taken Haruo and proceeded into the deepening twilight. It was exactly like a replay of last night’s nightmare, identical in every detail. The two of them paused for a moment, then like that man and woman from before, took the path toward the grassy thicket—and in the blink of an eye, their figures had dissolved into the darkness.

And then—just as Shirafuji Rotaro, still dazedly waiting what must have been a minute or two, thought he heard footsteps—suddenly from behind came a sharp tap on his shoulder. “Ah, Dr. Kuroyanagi…” When he jolted around, there stood Dr. Kuroyanagi—who until moments ago had been wearing a white shirt—now clad in a dark vertical-striped yukata, smiling placidly.

“What do you think， Rotaro? Did you know I had circled around behind you—”

“No, I didn’t notice at all.” Shirafuji Rotaro was still blinking his eyes. “Well…?”

Haruo also climbed up the cliff.

“Ah, a great success! Just as I’d suspected.” “The man in white last night was Yamaka. Here’s how it worked—Yamaka had hidden a yukata and fishing rod in that grassy thicket. After carrying out the murder as planned, he immediately—see?—threw the yukata over his white shirt and pants, then circled around behind you along the shore through that thicket.” “With this dark vertical-striped yukata, it’s practically camouflaged—you can’t make it out under faint light, especially when you’re convinced it’s ‘white clothes.’” “Plus at night, it’s harder to see downward from above—but looking upward against the brighter sky makes things clearer. That’s why they say, ‘If you get lost on a night path, crouch down and look.’ When Yamaka tried sneaking back disguised and glanced up, he must’ve noticed you there without realizing it. Then he panicked and came probing under the guise of night fishing.” “But since you looked completely clueless, he probably relaxed… though depending on how you’d acted, you might’ve ended up like that woman…”

“You mustn’t joke like that—”

Even if he thought it was a joke, Shirafuji Rotaro didn’t feel particularly good about it. “How on earth did you figure this out?” “Well, it’s because last night you mentioned Yamaka had dropped his fishing rod. After that, on my way back to the sanatorium, I went to check carefully—and there it was. If I’d been any later, Yamaka might’ve retrieved it himself. But when I picked it up—you see what’s odd? That rod had no hook. Not just missing one—no sign it ever had one attached. You can’t imagine someone going night fishing every single evening without ever using a hook unless they’re some legendary angler! So after thinking it through, that’s how we reached that conclusion—but once you see it, it’s almost like child’s play, you know— It was just a matter of the grassy thicket, dark striped camouflage, and the difficulty of discerning low areas at night—compared to that, the murder on the day of the beach opening ceremony was far more ingenious.”

“Dr. Kuroyanagi, I’ve finally come to understand that the cleverness of a trick doesn’t necessarily directly correlate with the difficulty of the crime—especially in actual cases.” Haruo also looked up at the deputy director with a deeply moved expression. And then,

“So it’s finally settled that Yamaka Jusuke is the culprit—with three of us here, we should be safe.” “Let’s go and see—” Dr. Kuroyanagi tilted his head slightly for a moment but,

“Very well—”

With that, the three of them hurried down the night road in high spirits.

That Yamaka Jusuke—the very man they'd suspected from the very beginning—had now been definitively determined to be the culprit. Shirafuji Rotaro walked at the group's forefront, feeling a certain pride that even an amateur's instincts shouldn't be dismissed.

But Yamaka’s villa showed not a single trace of human presence. All the lights had been extinguished, and no matter how much they pressed the doorbell, they ultimately couldn’t get a response. “Dr. Kuroyanagi, do you think Yamaka has fled?”

Rotaro gritted his teeth at the thought that they might have let the culprit slip away even after having finally identified him.

“No, that’s impossible.” Dr. Kuroyanagi muttered something with an air of confidence.

“Let’s come tomorrow—”

VII

The following day, as if foretold by last night’s starry sky, dawned perfectly clear—not a single cloud in sight. Shirafuji Rotaro rose early in the morning and had the nurses help him catch butterflies and moths until they filled a Western confectionery box to the brim. Moths with bodies as thick as a thumb and butterflies of various sizes—about twenty in total—were gathered. “What are you going to do?” To Haruo, who inquired with a puzzled look, “A present... for Yamaka.” Shirafuji Rotaro answered with a smirk. Imagining Yamaka’s trembling figure, he inwardly exulted in triumph.

Before long, when Dr. Kuroyanagi finished his work, the three of them set out together and hurried along the road. Yamaka, whom they had been worried about, fortunately seemed to be at home; when they pressed the doorbell, an old maid came out. As prearranged, they left Rotaro behind and hid in the shadows—the two of them.

“This is Shirafuji—” “If Mr. Yamaka is here, please inform him I’ve come for a visit.” Deliberately making sure to display the Western confectionery box, he held it up. “Certainly, please wait a moment.” Shirafuji Rotaro turned around and gave a signal. At the same time, the old maid came out again.

“Please…”

Along with that, ignoring the startled old maid, the three of them clattered in one after another. “Oh—”

Yamaka, who had come out, also made a displeased face for an instant but, calmly showing no intention of leaving, “Please…” The reception room was about eight tatami mats in size. Shortly after taking his seat in the chair, Dr. Kuroyanagi, “Mr. Yamaka, would you show us the basement?” “Wh—?” For some reason, Yamaka’s face abruptly paled.

Shirafuji Rotaro stiffened in surprise. How could Dr. Kuroyanagi have known about a basement in this house none of them had ever visited before? And what did Yamaka’s shock mean—? Yamaka, his pallor unchanged, swayed to his feet. “Please,” he said, “this way.”

He muttered this and started walking, supporting himself against the wall with one hand. From the undulating shoulders of his retreating figure—each labored breath betraying how deeply those words had gouged into his chest.

The entrance to that basement had been concealed within his study wall with unimaginable cunning. Regarding the basement’s existence, Dr. Kuroyanagi had answered nonchalantly, “Because he’s been buying provisions from suppliers that exceeded his household’s needs—” With Yamaka leading, the three filed in silently. There waited a quintessential basement staircase—utterly dark and cold, fourteen or fifteen steps in total—which brought them to another door. When this door opened,

“Ah—” Involuntarily, all three of them groaned in unison, their voices low. The interior felt bright as spring, warm, and—whether imagined or real—there even seemed to waft a rich fragrance, sweet like some aphrodisiac. Moreover, for a villa, this basement seemed disproportionately wide, with an ample layout that appeared to extend even further back. Moreover, all four walls were lined with mirrors set in beautiful frames; the ceiling was entirely frosted glass, with daylight-mimicking lamps glowing at a suitably soft intensity; and the floor was laid with an opulent carpet so plush it seemed to swallow one’s feet whole.

While the three of them stood transfixed, gazing about at these surroundings, Yamaka closed the door and turned to face them with his back against it. Ah—that face of his! The sarcastic wrinkles normally etched into his features now cut deeper than ever, twisted into a visage worthy of a demon. “Heh… heh… heh… So you’ve finally fallen into my trap,” he rasped. “I’ll grant you this—discovering the basement was impressive work. But to come waltzing straight in? Like moths to flame, as they say. Now that you’ve seen this place… none of you will ever return to the world above. Whatever becomes of you here… not a whisper will reach the outside… Heh… heh… heh…”

As he spoke those words in a low voice, a dull-glinting pistol was now gripped in his right hand.

Ah, damn it! All three ground their teeth in unison for an instant. “Ah, a moth!”

Shirafuji Rotaro pointed at Yamaka’s shoulder and shouted. “Huh?” The instant Yamaka’s body faltered, Shirafuji Rotaro’s form lunged at him like a cannonball—both movements occurring in the same split second.

“Damn you!” As a thud sounded, the pistol fell. Dr. Kuroyanagi scooped it up. “Yamaka!” “Don’t try any tricks.”

In an instant, their positions completely reversed. It was a moment straight out of a Western movie. “You bastard—” Haruo’s right hand cracked against Yamaka’s cheek. Then, stripping off the clothes, he took out the door key and examined it. Shirafuji Rotaro picked up the “gift” box that had been thrown aside in the commotion, “Yamaka, this is the ultimate ‘gift’ for you… Look—butterflies and moths are swarming all over—”

“Th-that…”

Yamaka’s entire body turned as white as paper and began to tremble violently. His eyes were bloodshot crimson and bulged out, and his lips turned grape-purple, twitching spasmodically. Could there exist in this world a terror so utterly overwhelming? Even though they were just those adorable butterflies— The over twenty varieties of butterflies and moths released from the narrow box, intoxicated by the surrounding brightness, swiftly took flight and in an instant began fluttering about throughout the room. Perhaps because the surroundings were all mirrors, it appeared as though countless moths filled every corner of the room—an ethereal vision like scattering cherry blossoms, like a dreamland of spring, forming a beautiful spectacle.

And around Yamaka, who had collapsed limply from the overwhelming sight, they too scattered and fluttered about as though watching the finale of a revue.

The three of them watched the scene for a while, but since Yamaka was no longer moving and they had taken the key—making escape impossible—they proceeded to open the inner door and pressed onward.

The next room—similarly structured and roughly twenty *tsubo* in size like the previous one—contained opulent furniture and beds. What utterly staggered them, however, were the approximately twenty young girls within: some clad in sheer gauze barely qualifying as clothing, others completely naked. All raised terror-stricken eyes at the sudden intruders while shuffling hesitantly about.

And soon, they realized that what had appeared to be twenty girls was actually only four or five—another trick of the mirrored walls—but what story could this naked kingdom of beauties, constructed underground, possibly tell? They all had skin as smooth as polished stone and artfully made-up faces. But it was as though kimonos were unknown in this world; no matter where they searched, nothing resembling them could be found.

Then, noticing an unusual snoring sound and fixing their eyes to look, they saw—to their astonishment—the pig-like slovenly sleeping figure of Tamozawa Gensuke, Shirafuji Rotaro’s uncle who had strictly forbidden him from associating with Yamaka and even taken over management of his assets, sprawled upon a bed just ahead.

In an instant, Shirafuji Rotaro had grasped everything. His uncle Tamozawa Gensuke had been none other than the patron of Yamaka’s secret organization—meaning Shirafuji’s assets, first deceived away by Yamaka and then managed under that pretext, had likely been consumed to fund this nation of nudes. As he became lost in these thoughts, the nude girls—apparently having determined that the three meant no harm—boldly approached. He found himself at a loss where to look—for wherever he turned, the surrounding mirrors hammered full-frame images of their limbs into his eyelids—and so the tale they recounted to him proved utterly bizarre.

To put it bluntly, they were orphans whose parents remained unknown or children of the poor sold for money. Yamaka, who had bought them like stray puppies, dressed them up like dolls and made himself the ruler of this bizarre kingdom of beauties. Yamaka Jusuke—so deeply sinful—what a heinous devil he was. Even that demon, finding no more stimulation from these dolls and having fallen in love with Rumiko Ōi only to be flatly rejected, had ultimately killed her.

And the allure of "murder" must have provided the ruler of this doll kingdom—who had grown weary of this stimulation—with a new, intense stimulus. And the success of that labyrinthine endeavor must have spurred on his impulses, driving his craving for stimulation to seek out these unfortunate girls as sacrifices one after another.

It was no wonder that the identity of the girl stabbed with a dagger at Z Coast had remained unknown. Even she herself, pitifully, seemed not to have known her own real name—. These girls—their entire bodies hammered with the fragrance of powder—though versed in bewitching charms and techniques, possessed an ignorance inferior even to elementary schoolchildren—. What a terrifying educator of a man Yamaka was. Shirafuji Rotaro’s anger surged through his entire body like fire, and before he knew it, he had rushed over to Yamaka in the adjacent room.

“Oh—” Whether due to having left his clothes stripped off earlier to retrieve the key, every part of his body that had been struck by the butterflies’ and moths’ wing scales had swollen crimson as if showered with embers, become blistered, and he had already ceased breathing.

“Yamaka was killed by butterflies—”

Shirafuji Rotaro murmured. The girls, too, looked down upon Yamaka’s corpse—the man who had treated them like cats—with apparent satisfaction. “Disgust—what a cruel thing it is. Just coming into contact with wing scales can cause skin ulcers or even induce cardiac arrest.” When Haruo said this, Dr. Kuroyanagi nodded deeply,

“Hmm, something smells…”

He stared at the door. Immediately, the door was opened.

“Ah, fire!” For some reason, it appeared Yamaka’s villa had caught fire—choking, acrid smoke already swirled up to the basement door. “Ah—that old woman—”

Haruo dashed out.

“Don’t panic—” Dr. Kuroyanagi bellowed, but everyone was already scrambling over each other to dash out through the exit. There was no time to retrieve Yamaka’s corpse or Tamozawa Gensuke’s body—dazed and asleep in his stupor. As everyone rushed out, just a step behind, the beam came crashing down with a thunderous roar, golden sparks scattering like fireworks. The flames grew increasingly ferocious. In flames more splendid than any staged firework—a ferocious conflagration—those several completely naked beauties darted frantically about, their forms beautifully illuminated as though they were fire spirits. Upon the hill of coastal city K, an eerie mad dance continued unabated.

...The blazing, raging flames cast their respective shadows upon the hearts of the three and flickered.

“This is how it should be…” Dr. Kuroyanagi looked back at Rotaro and said. His voice had been rendered hoarse by the smoke and flames, but…….