Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Fever-Stricken or Madman?

Although my wound had not healed, in the sixth month after leaving my homeland, I nevertheless returned to Madrid. I did not meet anyone. Nor did I want to meet anyone again. However, I felt a desire to meet only my close friend Don Murio.

"It wouldn't be so bad to see Caspina." "I don't care who it is." "I need someone to comfort me." Don Murio's younger sister, the nineteen-year-old Caspina, had loved me for a long time. I knew that. And I too had loved that maiden not merely in an ordinary way. Even so, since that night—since I saw Lady Maria, the Foreign Minister's second daughter, at his soirée—even ordinary affection had vanished, and her ardent attentions came to feel as bothersome as swarming flies. And indeed, I had displayed a heartlessness so profound that it still fills me with regret to this day.

And yet now, I myself was being shown a similarly heartless attitude by Lady Maria. Both I and Caspina were unfortunate. An unfortunate woman and an unfortunate man—should they not have comforted each other?

On a pleasant May evening when the winter roses were beginning to fade, I visited Don Murio. Like my own family, Murio’s house belonged to one of Spain’s oldest lineages, and at the end of a long tree-lined avenue stood a seventeenth-century Chinese-style gate, built with utmost elegance. The moment I passed through that gate, Nero—a Spanish dog as large as a calf—must have spotted me immediately, for he let out a loud bark and came running to my feet, rubbing his shaggy flank against my knee.

At that moment, no sooner had the second-floor window curtains of the stone building been briskly drawn open to both sides than a small, lovely woman’s face framed by jet-black hair peered down at me. That was Caspina's face.

"Oh!" No sooner had I heard Caspina's voice—so brimming with joy it seemed ready to burst—than her face withdrew. She and I soon clasped hands in the entrance hall. "Oh! Oh! You've truly come back." "You've really returned."

Her voice quivered like a violin string strained by passion. “Yeees, I’ve returned indeed. As you can see, I’ve returned.” While somewhat overwhelmed by her passion, I spoke these words imbued with affection. “How I’ve waited for you!” Her voice grew moist with emotion. “You didn’t send me a single letter.” “…………” It’s true—this I, to her, to Murio, to anyone at all, did not send even a single letter. I couldn’t even write a letter after all. Because I was fever-stricken, even now I remain so. All love is fever. And is it not a love that has been lost? Even so, shouldn't I have sent word to her alone?

“I’ve done something inexcusable.” I gently ran my fingers through her hair. “I’m a hopeless fool.”

“No, no,” Caspina said, regaining her composure as she smiled. “The fool is me, right? Don’t you agree?”

I could not respond. The reason was that when she said this, her virginally pure eyes posed a riddle to me—those eyes were saying to me: "The fool is me, right? Don’t you agree?" "I love you. And yet you do not love me in the slightest. So I'm a fool, aren't I? Or perhaps from now on you’ll love me?" How could I possibly respond?! Do I not still love Lady Maria to death?

“Is Murio at home?” “Yeees, he is indeed at home. What would we do if he weren’t? How Brother must have waited!” Her voice grew moist again, but she turned about and guided me into the house. When we reached Murio’s chamber, she gazed meaningfully at my face.

“Brother has changed terribly. “I don’t know why… but he has become melancholic.” “Then again, there are times when he suddenly becomes cheerful.” “There are frightening moments when he seems either fever-stricken or a madman.”

"Is he fever-stricken or a madman?…" I muttered within my heart. Then was he not just like me? What in the world had happened? This once-vivacious Murio—this very man?

We entered the room.

He, Murio—ah truly, how changed he had become? He sat with a pallid face (hadn't it once been a vivid pink?), deeply sunk into a long couch draped with Persian-patterned felt, his head hanging low. His hair retained its glossy blackness, but his eyes lacked any luster.

II. A Single Shot to Kill

The beauty of Spain's dusk! The midday heat had vanished without a trace, and a cool breeze swept across the garden and around the houses. Pearl-hued evening shadows regretfully enveloped the large blooms of pure white azaleas and flame-like pomegranate flowers, while a suffocating lily fragrance streamed through the window into the house.

From the direction of the old pond came the cries of water rails, as if they had suddenly remembered. And in the sky, large stars like jade were twinkling.

I, Murio, and Caspina conversed in utmost quiet within a dreamlike room illuminated only by faint external light through the windows, without even lighting the night lamps. When Caspina left her seat, I took Murio’s hand. While passionately gripping his hand, I earnestly said to him.

“Now then, Murio—speak to me. Why have you changed so drastically? You’ve truly transformed. What could have altered you this profoundly?”

Yet Murio remained silent. With his fantasy-filled black eyes staring vacantly toward the window, he persisted stubbornly in silence. “Were we not close friends?” While gripped by sorrow, I tried to sway his heart. “No—we were supposed to be close friends.” “Our hearts were one.” “We shared both joy and sorrow, and thus comforted each other.” “It was you who first noticed the pain of my pitiful heartbreak.” “Wasn’t it also you who advised me to go on a journey?” “And so I set out on that journey.” “That journey brought no happiness—still bearing the same pain, still carrying this wound in my heart, I returned to Madrid. Yet while traveling, I found moments of respite… But upon returning like this, your once robust body that seemed the picture of health has wasted away, and your mouth that used to speak ten words for my every one remains sewn shut with thread, refusing to utter the secrets of your heart.” “Even so, can we still be called close friends?”

Even so, can we still be called close friends?—These final words seemed to pierce Murio’s heart, for his eyes—which had been fixed upon the window—flickered briefly in my direction. Tears pooled in those eyes. And within them lingered an unexpectedly pleading quality. The beseeching hue of his gaze shocked me to my core. Then, alongside terror, a dread surged within my chest—in that instant, I grasped a certain truth.

“Then Murio—ah, you too?… You’re in love with someone, aren’t you?”

“…………” Murio stared fixedly at me, his pallid lips quivering, then suddenly dropped to his knees. “I was once your close friend!” “But now we’re sworn enemies!” Murio wailed violently, “You’d say that!” “I’ll accept that label!” “Yes! I’ll accept that label!” “I’ll confess everything!” “I love her!” “From a very, very long time ago.” “From that moment we both saw her at the soirée!” “I tried every means to approach her.” “You were an obstacle—that’s why I sent you away!” “I coerced her.” “Again I knelt before her.” “For her I wept! For her I raged! For her I became a demon... She loved you.” “At first—yes, at first! But now she burns for me!” “Why? Because she too is a Spanish woman!” “Just as they relish bullfighting’s cruelty, so they crave love’s cruelty!” “I’ll be frank—how I vilified you to her.”

“That man is an idiot—unprincipled and without a shred of romantic fiber!” “In this way I said those things.” “At first she feared my words as a demon’s curse.” “But before long she came to delight in them.” “After all, humans are creatures who delight in speaking ill of others.” “Especially Spanish women… By badmouthing you, I won her love!” “Now that I’ve won her love, I’ve come to eagerly sing your praises.” “I praise you in front of her.” “Then she says this: ‘Poor Danchon, poor man.’ You see, Danchon? Hey, Danchon—you’re being pitied by her.” “Pity!” “In other words—the graveyard of love!” “Lady Maria may shed a tear for you, but she’ll never permit a passionate kiss.” “Because I snatched away the lips prepared for you from the side, I must be a villain! But you should know that Spanish men become villains for love’s sake—that they’d betray even parents and close friends.” “Because you too are a Spanish man.” “So, you see, Don Danchon—there’s no longer any trace of friendship—or anything else—between us.” “Now then—if you were to throw your glove at me, I would gladly prepare pistols.” “Let’s exchange shots in the Spanish style, shall we?…”

Murio’s voice gradually took on an increasingly mocking tone. And his eyes became filled with a cruel gleam like that of a wild beast.

He stood up smoothly from the floor and began pacing around the room. He was waiting for my answer.

I placed him before my eyes and muttered in my heart: "Is this the man who was once my close friend? Was Don Murio—who had been so loyal to me, so cheerful and honest—truly this man? No—no, I simply cannot believe it. The man here isn't Murio. A demon king from hell disguised in Murio's likeness. To mock this pitiful self who clings to a lost love and lives without peace of mind, the demon has taken the form of my close friend and walks here like this."

At that moment, Murio stopped abruptly before me and crossed his arms. He flashed his white teeth in a smile so malicious—one that could drive a person into a frenzy with its mere existence, making one want to strangle the man who laughed from hatred—that it brimmed with pure malice. Indeed, I flew into a rage. I too stood up smoothly.

“Murio!” I called out. “Let us forgo throwing the glove.” “Why?” Murio shot back.

“Duels are what gentlemen ought to engage in.” “And so you refuse?” “I refuse. Because you’re no gentleman... You betrayed your closest friend. You show no remorse. If anything, you seem to revel in it.”

“I am a Spanish youth.”

“And you call yourself a gentleman?!” “But I do not acknowledge it!” “I dare call you—a dog!” “I said.”

“Dog?” Murio stepped forward. “I can’t duel a dog.” “I won’t throw the glove.” I shall think for a moment. And once my thoughts are ordered, I’ll kill you with one shot—like putting down a dog. Listen well, Murio—watch yourself. “I’ll slaughter you, I swear.” “An honorable duel would be wasted on your kind.” “I’ll end you with a single bullet.”

Hearing Murio's shouts behind me, I left his room.

Caspina was standing in the hallway. Her face was as pale as lead! She appeared to have been eavesdropping.

“Danchon!” she cried out, staggering toward me as if about to collapse. I supported her with one hand and looked wordlessly at her face with eyes cold enough to freeze even fire. She pitifully bowed her head and stood there rigid as a post.

I slipped past her and exited through the entrance hall.

III. Childhood Friend

(Diary of Caspina, Murio’s younger sister…)

I am being haunted by nightmares. What else could it be but a nightmare? This is a terrifying nightmare. Just recalling it makes me shudder.

Can such a thing truly exist? How can such a thing be permitted to exist? God, God, Almighty Lord. Please save that person. And guide the souls of those two who have departed—I implore You.

Even now, when night falls, I am tormented by the sound of the silver flute. And I am tormented by mysterious hand drum sounds and goat cries. No matter how I think about it, I cannot understand. Why was Brother playing the silver flute that night? And where on earth did he get that silver flute? Everything seems like a mystery. But once a letter comes from that great detective Mr. Ibáñez, those mysteries will surely be unraveled. What a splendid detective he is! The police officials and other detectives had concluded that person was undoubtedly the culprit, but he alone shook his head and stated to me thus.

“Just wait and see. “Miss, the culprit lies elsewhere, you see. “I will surely capture them and show you. “The culprit resides in a completely unexpected direction… You did hear the hand drum sounds and goat’s cries, correct? “By the way, did you not hear bells mixed with the hand drums? “This is an important matter, you see.”

And after thinking for a moment, “Now that you mention it, I do believe I may have heard something like that.” “Amidst the hand drums’ sounds circling the house again and again—thud thud thud—echoing ceaselessly in a most gloomy manner, every so often I could hear a faint jingling, like that of small bells.” “So you’re saying you heard it occasionally?” Mr. Ibáñez, having been addressed thus, remained in thought for a while, but— “Was there wind that night?” “There was a storm brewing.”

“I see. Then unlike the drums, since the bells’ sound is much fainter, even if they had been ringing ceaselessly, they might not have been heard as clearly as the drumbeats. Now another thing—the goat also cried occasionally, didn’t it?”

“Indeed, it was occasional.” “Moreover, I did not think it was a goat crying that night.” “I thought perhaps someone had caught a cold and was walking around the mansion—that is—taking a stroll—while coughing, and so I paid it no mind.” “However, when morning came, there were goat footprints thickly plastered all around the mansion, so I thought that meant the coughing-like sounds from last night had been a goat crying.”

“Your observation is most admirable. It was likely the goat crying… However, though this may trouble you greatly, I would ask you to recount the events of that fateful night and the preceding day in as much detail and honesty as—no—that was rude of me. From what I can see, you are certainly not one to lie, Miss—but I would ask you to tell me everything. Of course, I presume you have already related these matters to the police officials and the prosecutor,” he continued, “but as you are aware, I am a private detective, and moreover—though I now regret it—I was not involved when the incident occurred here. However, with Lady Maria now—last night, in fact—having passed away in such a state, and her cause of death being deemed suspicious, the Foreign Minister, her father, with whom I had previously resolved a political matter, commissioned me. Thus, I am conducting my own independent research separate from the police... From my observations, there is a profound connection between this incident and Lady Maria’s death. Therefore, though I must trouble you greatly, it is with this in mind that I humbly request your account.”

“I am in no position to tell. “I will say it any number of times. “Even so, for Lady Maria—Lady Maria who was so beautiful—to pass away in a single night... It feels like a dream. “How should I put this… It pertains to that night, does it not? “And the day before that night? “In that case, I shall proceed to recount in detail from the events of the previous day. “That day—though I say ‘that day,’ it was merely about twenty days ago counting from today—feels as though it were yesterday.”

"That evening, after a long absence, Lord Danchon arrived." "Lord Danchon had been traveling for about half a year." "Because it was such a sudden visit, how delighted I was!" "I promptly guided Lord Danchon to my brother’s room." "My brother was greatly surprised." "And he was somewhat displeased." "I should mention here that Brother had been in a foul mood since before that time." "He was particularly sullen at that moment, his face contorted as if in physical pain." "My heart raced as I wondered what to do, but thinking they might relax better alone, I left the room." "But feeling uneasy, when I returned to check shortly after…"

“Were they arguing in the room?” “They were talking loudly.” “What were they discussing?” “Well…” I stammered, then fell silent. How could I possibly speak of what followed?

That dreadful argument between the two of them! Above all, Lord Danchon’s final words to Brother: “I’ll put a bullet through you!” How could I possibly bring myself to repeat those words?

“If you are unaware, then so much the better. It’s not an important matter anyway.”

“You say it’s not an important matter?” “Even so, the police…”

I hurriedly clamped my mouth shut. "Ah, so the police considered that important, did they? Then they must have persistently questioned you to hear it from your own lips. Since you wouldn't even tell me, you likely told that lot nothing at all back then." "I didn't say anything." "So then those people abandoned you and turned to investigating the servants instead."

“Yes, that is precisely correct.” “That’s just how those people operate.” “I wonder if they found their quarry… Well, never mind that. You made an error, did you not?”

“What kind of mistake could that be?” “Leaving them alone in the room and withdrawing yourself was indeed a misstep… For is it not so? When leaving love rivals alone together, an argument becomes inevitable.” “‘I’ll blow you away with one shot!’—such words would naturally emerge, would they not?”

I turned pale. This person knows everything! Thinking this, I grew even paler. “How could you know even such a thing—” I asked, panting,

“Are you asking how I know such things? I knew nothing at all—but at this very moment, I have come to understand it. Yes—when you turned pale and gravely said, ‘How could you know even that—’ I realized then it must be so. Though to be sure, I had harbored suspicions. Should one not naturally suspect? Given your brother and Mr. Danchon were childhood friends, yet they began quarreling immediately upon his return from a lengthy journey—there must exist some grave cause. However, both gentlemen hail from noble houses and want for no material means. If not wealth—and considering their youth—common sense dictated a romantic entanglement must lie at heart. Though most impertinent, I therefore pressed you on the matter, Miss.”

“Yet how is it that you are aware of even the words Lord Danchon uttered to my brother, sir?” “Ah! So then Mr. Danchon said such a thing to your brother? ‘I’ll blow you away with just one shot!’… So it was Mr. Danchon who said that, I take it.”

The detective laughed amiably. "But Miss, these are just ordinary insults people blurt out when slightly agitated." "Especially in bloodthirsty Spain... So I just said it offhand, based on common sense." "This matter isn't significant." "It's not significant at all—but if it were to reach the police's ears, they might consider it significant." "How about this?" "Do the police know about this matter?"

“I don’t believe they are aware.” “I haven’t told them a word, and the servants know nothing of Brother and Lord Danchon’s argument, so…”

“That was extremely convenient.” “That was for Mr. Danchon’s sake.” “If they were to learn even this much, those police bastards would surely become even more suspicious of Mr. Danchon.” “Good grief—their blindness defies all remedy.”

IV: Ethereal Tones of the Silver Flute

Detective Ibáñez smiled wryly, then asked again.

“Now then, Miss, for what reason do you suppose the police arrested Mr. Danchon?”

“That,” I said in a tearful, pleading voice. “That is how it is.” “That he was taken into custody was undoubtedly due to a misjudgment by the police, but as there was various evidence that had to cast suspicion… I shall explain everything from the beginning.” “Starting from the beginning of that night’s events—as I have described—when Lord Danchon returned home at last after his long journey abroad—I immediately rushed into Brother’s chamber.” “And then I—truly—I wept.” “I told Brother.”

“Brother is no gentleman! Brother is no gentleman!” "—and—" Then my brother said: “No—I am a gentleman. In Spain—” he said. “You must apologize. If you don’t do that, you’re a villain,” I persisted vehemently.

Brother, without another word, did not utter a single syllable and sank deep into thought, buried in the chaise longue. I also silently sat down on the same chaise longue and kept watch over Brother’s demeanor. Thus, until late into the night, the two remained deep in thought.

Suddenly, Brother spoke. "You're exactly right." "I must apologize to Danchon." "My behavior was inexcusable." "I'll go now and apologize." "Brother!" Overwhelmed with joy, I threw myself into his chest. "Now that's the gentleman you are!" "But Danchon won't forgive me." Anxiously muttering, Brother nevertheless prepared to go out and hurried off.

"Ah well—now I can rest easy. With this, those two will surely return to their former friendship without fail." Thinking thus, I waited for Brother’s return while remaining in his chamber for a time. There was a storm brewing, so I approached the window to look outside and saw that the sky had cleared up crisply, with countless stars glowing a phosphorescent blue in the distance, their refreshing brilliance occasionally interrupted by tattered fragments of clouds drifting past. A mist had risen over the ground, and it too—driven by the storm—appeared to wander aimlessly, its form resembling a young bride clad in pure white fleeing some villain, looking somehow pitiful. While shrouded in pale mist, the winter rose bush right beneath the window stood densely grown, adorned with both withered and fully bloomed flowers like hairpins.

As I kept gazing at the scene outside, I grew sad. And I grew terrified. There was no reason whatsoever. Yet despite that, I clung to the window and wept softly. It must have been an omen.

When I suddenly noticed and looked, there was Brother—who had left earlier—walking dejectedly through the Chinese-style gate that stood before me. Perhaps he had returned too soon, changed his mind along the way, grown reluctant to apologize, and turned back—with such uneasy thoughts, I waited anxiously for Brother’s arrival. Unable to wait for him to enter the room, I asked Brother.

“Did you meet Lord Danchon?” “Danchon wasn’t home.” My brother replied thus. As there was no falsehood in his tone, I believed him immediately. When I glanced over, my brother was holding a slender package in his right hand.

“Brother, what... And that package?” When I asked curiously, “This?” Brother looked at the package. “I don’t really know either. When I reached the row of trees just ahead, a young girl popped out. She asked me for money—and seeing she was a pitiful beggar, when I gave her some coins, she went and offered me the package she was carrying. Even though I refused, saying it was unnecessary, she kept insisting I take it. That was quite the line she used—‘This is a talisman sealed to ensure your excellency, born under a lucky star, continues to enjoy good fortune,’ she said. So I ended up taking it, but I wonder what’s inside.”

When Brother untied the package, a flute came out from inside. Moreover, it was an exquisite silver flute, carved all over with fantastical shapes of birds and beasts—a masterpiece of craftsmanship.

“What’s this now!” “It’s a flute!” “And that’s no cheap silver flute!” Brother, looking as though he were utterly astonished—or rather, dumbfounded—said this while staring at the flute.

“You can’t be serious, Brother—claiming you received this from some beggar girl. You must have purchased it somewhere.” Since I judged the flute to be no cheap trinket but a valuable piece, I could not accept Brother’s account. While beggars giving objects in exchange for alms was hardly unusual, what they typically offered were crude wooden pheasant whistles or clay dolls—never would one expect them to bestow an ornate silver flute adorned with carvings.

But even though I said that, Brother merely kept repeating the same words he had just spoken. “This is unmistakably Bohemian carving. “They’re remarkably rare carvings. “The tone must be quite fine as well.”

Saying such things, Brother meticulously peered into each hole and held it up to the light to inspect it. Before long, I bade farewell and departed from my brother’s chamber. Then I returned to my own bedroom two rooms away and lay down on the bed. As I was fatigued, I immediately dozed off.

And then—what do you suppose occurred? Through sleep—through my pleasant sleep—could it be that a faint thread of music reached me? Ah—it seemed Brother was playing the silver flute—I thought this while dozing off. And while dozing off, I was enchanted by Brother’s skillful playing. The melody was so lonely, mournful—the sort one might hear at a funeral—played with an eerie technique, yet despite the lateness of the hour, though I kept thinking he should stop, I found myself listening with rapt attention. Then, at that very moment, from outside came a sudden strange noise—bang bang bang—piercing through the howling storm as it synchronized with the silver flute’s melody. And though it was rare, I distinctly heard—just as you had mentioned—a tinkling bell-like sound accompanying them. I also heard the sound of a goat’s cry, like that of a human coughing. It seemed someone was beating a hand drum—the realization that those bang bang bang sounds were from a hand drum came to me only after some time had passed.

Before long, I noticed the silver flute’s sound was gradually weakening. In contrast, the hand drum’s noise grew increasingly louder. At first distant, it seemed to circle around the mansion before emerging toward the entrance hall—then appeared to reach the area before Brother’s chamber near the entrance—the sound came through distinctly, overwhelming the silver flute’s desperately fading notes. Then abruptly, the silver flute’s exhausted sound snapped off. At that same instant, the hand drum’s noise also ceased entirely. And all around fell into terrifying silence.

And then what occurred next was the sound of a pistol.

V. The Unwounded Corpse

The moment the pistol sounded，the entire household erupted into commotion. No matter how flustered everyone was，providing a detailed account of their panic would be of no use to you，so I shall omit it. Everyone in the house flew out of bed and rushed to gather in the direction from which the pistol shot sounded. To explain where that place was—it was my brother’s chamber. I also hurried over. Brother remained seated on the chaise longue—for he had not yet gone to bed，you see—still holding the silver flute in one hand，with his head drooping heavily... Was he not asleep? The window glass was shattered，leaving a large gaping hole. From there，the dawn wind blew in. Night had imperceptibly given way to dawn，and a pale light now dimly illuminated... The flowerbed was trampled...

At that moment, Mother’s scream—a madman-like voice of terror—resounded throughout the room.

“Someone—anyone—come here! Come on, touch Murio!” “He’s cold as ice!” “This child is dead!”

Mother fainted. If only Father had been there at that time, how much of a support he would have been. At that time, Father had gone to England on official business and was absent. I immediately ran over and touched Brother’s forehead—it was truly cold as ice, just as Mother had said. Brother was dead. “No, he was murdered.” However, no blood was flowing from anywhere, and there was no sign of anything resembling a bullet wound to be found—so it was.

Amidst the shock and sorrow, we did not lose our composure. I immediately called the police. We did not move my brother’s corpse even slightly from its position while awaiting the arrival of the coroners.

Before long, the prosecutor, the examining magistrate, two superintendents, four constables, followed by detectives and the police doctor arrived by automobile and began their inspection of the scene. They first examined my Brother’s corpse. There were no wounds anywhere—no bullet wounds, sword wounds, or injection marks. “The heart has been severely compromised,” “This must indeed be the fatal wound… but how could it have been compromised so suddenly?”

The police doctor tilted his head slightly. “Could he have taken poison?” A police inspector asked. “Without performing an autopsy, I cannot state anything definitive, but externally, there are no traces of having ingested poison anywhere.” “Could it be something like cardiac arrest?”

“Hmm,” the police doctor pondered again, “if we attribute it to cardiac arrest, the symptoms do seem slightly unusual...” Then everyone searched the room from corner to corner; there were absolutely no signs of any struggle anywhere.

Then, the prosecutor pointed at the broken part of the windowpane and asked me in this manner.

“Was this here previously?” “No,” I answered. “It had not been broken until last night.” “Ah,” the prosecutor nodded, “In that case, Miss, does your household typically leave both the window curtains open and the shutters unlatched like this at night?” “No, we always unlatch them, but I believe we inadvertently left them unlatched last night.” “If I may clarify—when you say this was done carelessly, does this mean there was some concern regarding your brother’s well-being that required such carelessness?”

I thought, Oh no. And so, while somewhat flustered, “I don’t know anything about that,” I said in a trembling voice.

The prosecutor then, feigning ignorance, stared intently at my face,

“There’s one more thing I wish to ask—how many people exited this chamber—that is, your brother’s chamber—last night!”

“It was I.” “Ah, so it was you, Miss? And what time was this?” “I believe it was around one o’clock in the morning.” “Was that not exceptionally late? Do you customarily converse until such an hour?” “No, we do not. But last night there were particular circumstances—” “Then would you be so kind as to outline those circumstances briefly?” As the prosecutor’s questioning grew more insistent and my desperation mounted,

“Then I shall explain. My brother had an argument with a friend yesterday evening and was in such a state of agitation that I stayed up late into the night comforting him.” “Oh ho—an argument with a friend?”

The prosecutor exchanged a brief, meaningful smile with the examining magistrate standing beside him. “And what might this friend’s name be?” “That would be Don Danchon—he is not someone who normally quarrels with others.”

“I see,” murmured the prosecutor. With a smile, he added, “You must know the reason eventually.” “The reason for their argument?”

“No, I do not know.” “So then, you were not present at that scene?” “I was not present at the scene.” “That is most unfortunate… Now, I would like to hear in some detail about the relationship between you siblings and Mr. Danchon.” So I explained that relationship in as much detail as possible. Such as that they had been close friends for years; that they were classmates of the same age at the same school; that both shared interests in painting, music, and sculpture… And on the other hand, that Lord Danchon had departed on a journey six months prior and had only just now returned after a long absence.

After hearing my account, the prosecutor nodded silently but then paused to think for a moment. "So you are certain you do not know why the two of them quarreled last night… In that case, I shall proceed to question the servants for now… Now, regarding another matter—this silver flute. It belongs to your brother, does it not?" Having said this, the prosecutor pointed with his left hand—indicating the silver flute that her deceased brother still clutched in his left hand—and inquired.

At this point, I was growing frantic under the prosecutor’s relentless questioning; even if I were to say my brother had received that silver flute from a beggar on the tree-lined avenue last night, he would surely find it suspicious! First of all, given our family standing, I found the very idea of others thinking we’d accepted something from a beggar repugnant—and so, in the end, I said this: “Yes—this is Brother’s silver flute.” “Brother must have been playing this,” he pressed on, “and last night without even attempting to sleep, remained seated here until late. That would be someone breaking the glass from outside and firing a pistol into the room. If it’s true that everyone in the household heard that sound—”

“That is certain. If they hadn’t been startled by something like a pistol shot, the entire household wouldn’t have all awoken at once.” I said firmly. “Even so, it’s strange that there are no bullet wounds to be found anywhere on the corpse.” “Even so, Brother is dead! The fact that he’s dead is proof!” “In that case, perhaps it could be thus—though the pistol’s bullet did not strike him, upon hearing that dreadful explosive sound right by his ear, your brother might have been startled and suffered a sudden cardiac failure, leading to his demise. Doctor, what do you think of this assessment?”

“It’s not entirely impossible,” the police doctor answered gravely. “Of course—though exceedingly rare—there are several precedents.” As if to corroborate the prosecutor and police doctor’s words, a detective who had been examining the room extracted something small from the picture frame—from the gilt-adorned frame of an oil painting hung diagonally on the eggshell-colored wall facing the shattered glass window.

“What is it?” asked the Prosecutor. “It is a pistol bullet.” “Show me,” said the Prosecutor as he took the pistol bullet from the detective’s hand. “I see—this is indeed a pistol bullet. Then, as the young miss stated, someone must have fired at this room from outside.” “Then let us proceed to the garden for now...”

Having said this, the prosecutor took the lead and guided the group toward the garden. I also followed along...

VI. The Half-Human, Half-Beast Specter Under the window was a flower bed. As I had mentioned earlier, the flower bed had been trampled. The beautiful flowers—lilies, touch-me-nots, marsh mallows, and hibiscus—had mostly been mercilessly trampled, and above all, the winter roses I cherished lay scattered across the ground without a trace remaining.

What surprised us most was that shoe prints were left all over that area. They were exceedingly elegant and delicate shoe prints. One of the detectives immediately copied the shoe prints into his notebook. And as another strange matter—there being goat footprints intermingled with those shoe prints—the prosecutor, police inspector, and examining magistrate all wore expressions suggesting they found this difficult to comprehend as they silently gazed at the goat footprints for some time, when suddenly the judge burst out laughing and made this quip.

“No matter how you look at it, surely a goat couldn’t fire a pistol.” At the Examining Magistrate’s quip, everyone present burst into laughter. After that, everyone once again conducted a thorough search of the area.

“Oh, there’s a glove lying here.”

Another detective bent down and hurriedly picked up a single yellow deerskin glove from the thicket of winter rose bushes. Somehow, I felt I recognized that glove. “This is a valuable clue.” The prosecutor said this as he showed the glove to the Examining Magistrate beside him. In this way, they searched around the house many times but found nothing else.

Before long, everyone discontinued their investigation and gathered once more in the room where my brother’s corpse lay.

Everyone remained silent. No one said a word.

Concerned about Mother (since fainting, she had shut herself in her bedroom, refusing to answer anyone’s questions and doing nothing but weep), I decided to leave Brother’s room to check on her.

Then came footsteps in the corridor—and there suddenly appeared Lord Danchon. Ah, how strange and dreadful his face looked at that moment! His complexion—paler than a handkerchief (utterly devoid of color)—crimson eyes flaring like flames (bloodshot)—lips twisted sharply leftward by spasms. Lord Danchon entered the room like a specter. Approaching Brother’s corpse, he reached out his hand, removed the face covering, and pressed his lips to the forehead. Then he went before the judge, drew a pistol from pocket, flung it onto the desk, and calmly began to speak.

“I am the culprit. Please bind these hands.” He thrust both hands forward.

Suddenly, the room erupted into commotion. The judge, while attempting to quell it,

“Excuse me, but may I ask your name?”

“Incendio Don Danchon.” “Ah, so you are Mr. Danchon?”

Then, in an instant, my brother’s room was transformed into a temporary inquest venue. “Since you yourself claim to be the culprit, there must be a reason for it.” “What is that reason?”

“The reason is extremely simple. Since I bore a grudge against Murio, last night I stole into the garden and shot him down with a single pistol shot.”

“Do you truly believe you killed him?” When told this, Lord Danchon made a surprised expression and replied, “I do believe I killed him. The proof lies in Murio’s corpse before us... Though I must confess—until receiving that phone call from this house informing me of his death—I remained half-convinced yet doubtful.” “What caused this uncertainty?” “The reason... is that it was too bizarre—” “Bizarre! What do you mean by ‘bizarre’?”

“Even were I to tell you of it, you would scarcely credit me...” “Belief aside, I must insist on hearing your account.” “Since you press me so—I fancied I shot not Murio, but some spectral creature.”

The room buzzed with commotion once again. “Hoho, a specter? What do you mean by 'specter'?” “From the waist up it was human, but from the waist down it was an animal—such was the specter I speak of.” “What happened to that specter?” “That specter stood outside the window and was peering into this room.” “So you claim to have fired at it? Where were you at that time?” “I was beneath the winter roses.” “A specter? A specter? You fired at a specter?” The judge exchanged glances with the prosecutor and, as if unable to believe such a thing, forced a wry smile.

After that, the interrogation continued minutely and at length. And what was conducted last was the examination of evidence items. The shoe prints left on the ground. They showed not the slightest difference from Lord Danchon’s shoe prints. One of the yellow deerskin gloves discovered among the winter roses. The other glove emerged from the concealed pocket of Lord Danchon’s trousers. The pistol bullet recovered from the picture frame. That too was a bullet from Lord Danchon’s pistol.

And so, in the end, Lord Danchon was taken into custody on the spot as the prime suspect. Yes, as a prime suspect…

7: A Letter from the Detective

“Now I fully understand. My sincere thanks.” Detective Ibáñez had been listening intently to my story when he politely spoke thus.

“Now I fully understand. “Yes, completely, everything… But Miss, even so, why did you give the silver flute to Lady Maria?” “Ah, are you referring to that silver flute?" “There is no particular reason.” “Since Lady Maria requested it, saying she wanted that as a memento, I simply gave it to her.” “That was a terrible mistake.” “And why is that?”

Detective Ibáñez, with a bitter look, merely looked at my face and made no attempt to explain. For a while, we remained silent looking at each other.

“By the way, Miss—do you happen to have your brother’s old diaries?” For reasons known only to himself, Detective Ibáñez abruptly posed this question. “Yes, I believe they certainly exist.”

"I would very much like to see them... as this is a matter of great importance."

“Then I shall go and fetch them.”

I went to my brother’s study and searched for the old diaries. And deep within the storage room, I was able to discover a bundle of diaries bound with a silk cord. “These should be all of them, sir.” When I said this and handed over the diaries to Detective Ibáñez, he thanked me and began reading voraciously. There I took up position directly facing Mr. Ibáñez, resolved to discern something from his expression, and stared intently at his face alone.

Mr. Ibáñez continued reading. I stared intently. Thus did the silent, oppressive time drag on with terrifying length. Suddenly, Mr. Ibáñez's eyes—until now perfectly calm—flared up like flames. But that too lasted only an instant, and his stony face regained its composure once more.

“This will suffice. Thank you for your trouble.” Mr. Ibáñez stood up and made his farewell greetings.

“I intend to depart Madrid immediately and set out on a journey—to corner the culprit.” “Keep watching, Miss—the culprit is someone else.” “I will surely capture them and prove it.” “The culprit resides in a wholly unexpected quarter… And should I apprehend them, I shall inform you… Please rest assured, Miss.” “Mr. Danchon is absolutely innocent.”

The detective left the room.

And then, clearly, Detective Ibáñez did not show himself to me. He must no longer be in Madrid. He must be traveling. What has become of the culprit? He must not have caught them. When will Lord Danchon ever be exonerated? I can't stand how eagerly I'm waiting for Detective Ibáñez's letter!

(A letter from Private Detective Ibáñez to Caspina, Murio's sister)

My dearest Miss (please permit me to address you thus), I must first and foremost offer my congratulations. The reason being that the culprit has at last been found. That's right—they have been found at last. This Ibáñez found them.

Now, you must be asking impatiently, "Who is the culprit?" That is perfectly reasonable. However, I wish to present matters in their proper order. For even if I were to tell you the culprit's identity this instant, I doubt you would believe it. That day after parting from you, Miss, I first returned home and entered my dressing chamber. There I donned tattered rags, daubed laurel powder on my face, crowned my head with a horsehide cap, suspended a nickel cylinder filled with mare's milk beneath my left arm using a wisteria vine, and secreted a cherry-wood-handled pistol in my coat's concealed pocket. Then I departed the house.

The first place I visited was Donime, the master of the fairground performers, who was at that time eating roasted rice in his room. When he saw me, he jumped up and burst into obsequious laughter.

“Donime,” I said in a stern voice, “there are a few things I need to ask you. “Exactly twenty days ago from now—the Bohemian bastards came, right? “Where did those bastards run off to?” “Bohemian bastards? Don’t know nothin’ about ’em.” Donime feigned ignorance as he spoke. “What’s this ‘don’t know’? Don’t lie to me! “If you insist on this course, then I too have made certain preparations. “Donime, you’re the one they say kidnapped a girl about three months ago, aren’t you? “This makes the eighth kidnapping! “Donime—how about coming with me for a quick trip to the police station?”

“Can’t handle meetin’ the Boss.” “Yes, yes, I’ll tell you everythin’.” Donime quickly surrendered to my intimidation. “The Bohemian bastards, you mean?” “Well, those bastards volunteered that they were headin’ to the Andalusia region,” “Hoho, so they went to rub shoulders with the fancy folks… And what about it then, eh, Donime? There were some beautiful girls too, weren’t there?” “As for the Bohemian girls, every last one of them was as beautiful as statues—hmm, among them, what was her name again?” “Ah yes, there was one splendid girl named Gosan.” “She was truly beautiful.” “Not even a marquis’s daughter in Madrid could hold a candle to her!”

“Alright, that’s quite enough.” I grabbed a handful of silver coins from my trouser’s hidden pocket, flung them onto the table, then bolted out of Donime’s house. And immediately I set forth for Andalusia.

VIII The Voice of a Beautiful Girl As you know, Andalusia faces Africa across the sea—to speak of its heat would render any description futile. Beneath the scorching sun, the first place I visited was the town of Seville. Then I proceeded to Granada. Yet no trace of the Bohemian troupe could be found in either Seville or Granada. Thus in my disappointment, I finally visited the town of Córdoba. You may already know this town served as the religious and political center when the Saracens ruled over most of the world, still retaining its majestic mosque to this day.

One day I strolled over to visit that mosque. As one would expect from an architectural structure built by Arabs renowned for their profound knowledge of astronomy, geography, and mathematics, every surface and space had been constructed with geometric precision—and yet with no less decorative flourish. Dazzled by the magnificent decorations—the colossal marble columns and copper-clad ceilings, the golden-laid stairs and onyx-studded stone statues, the silk-embroidered canopies—I kept wandering ceaselessly through the temple halls.

When I reached the front of the sanctuary, I found a girl there pressing her forehead against a stone bench, fervently praying in the Arab manner with chants of “Il, Allah, Il.” Though she had wrapped a toga around her body and covered her head with a turban—making her appearance undeniably that of an Arab woman—I discerned in an instant from her facial expression that she was, unexpectedly, a Bohemian. Got her! I thought. She must be one of their lot.

And so I resolved to follow that woman wherever she might go. Before long, the young girl stood up and went out of the temple, so I followed after her. The girl did not head into the city center but veered east from beside the temple, passed through the woods, climbed a small hill, then descended the hill to reach the bank of a moderately wide river, and from there walked resolutely upstream along the riverbank. Before long, I approached a small village, but the girl did not enter it; instead, she passed by its side and made her way into a lush palm grove.

Then, from deep within Kotsurin Grove, the clamorous voices of men and women became clearly audible. Thus, in that grove, I finally found the band of Bohemians I had so exhaustively sought, their company numbering about thirty men, all wearing horsehide hats upon their heads. And they hung nickel cylinders filled to the brim with mare’s milk beneath their arms using wisteria vines. “Well, brothers,” I called out, and approached them without the slightest fear.

“Well now, what’s this stray bird? You’ve gone and gotten separated from your comrades.” One of them said this. “Don’t include me in your lot.” “Sure, you can come along.” “We’re ones bathed in mare’s milk at birth (their proverb).” In this way, I effortlessly joined their group. They set up animal hide tents to block out the setting sun, and then the men began dividing the day’s spoils—items stolen from various places. Meanwhile, the women began preparing dinner by a spring deep in the grove, building up a crackling bonfire as they worked.

Night soon fell. While blending in among them, I ate dinner. Then I went outside to look around. Tents were pitched here and there. Each tent housed a family, and approximately twelve or thirteen tents were pitched. From inside the tents, mixed with human voices, the sounds of goats could occasionally be heard. The goats were their property. I proceeded to peer into each tent one by one from the edge. When I came before a certain tent, I noticed the delicate sound of a silver flute coming from within.

Feeling a sense of shock, I stood before that tent and remained motionless for what felt like an eternity. At length, I steeled my resolve and addressed her thus.

“Gosan, I have some business.” “Step out of the tent for a moment.”

“Who?” came a beautiful girl’s voice. “I’ve come from Madrid... Do you know Murio?” …………

Suddenly, no sooner had the hem of the tent fluttered like a wave than a girl emerged as nimbly as a cat.

The girl and I walked side by side in silence deep into the woods, away from prying eyes. Before long, the woods came to an end, and we emerged into a beautiful clearing where the bright moonlight from the sky lay scattered across the ground. The two of us sat down on tree stumps, and for a time gazed in silence at the halo-crowned full moon that seemed to portend rain on the morrow.

Suddenly, she said.

“So you’re from that line of work, then?” “Not exactly… I’m a private detective, you see.” She maintained her silence. “You’re a competent detective.” She suddenly burst out laughing,

“How did you figure out that it was my doing?” “There were two pieces of evidence—the crucial one being the topshin poison applied to the flute’s mouthpiece. That topshin’s formula couldn’t possibly be known except by Gypsies like yourselves. And the second piece of evidence was the hand drums that rang out during Murio’s death throes—I’ve long known that it’s your people’s custom to circle someone you kill with resentment, beating hand drums with bells throughout their suffering.”

“Truly, it is as you say. “That’s exactly right.” Gosan said in a voice heavy with anguish,

“And I, wanting to catch even a single glimpse of Murio’s corpse, tried to peer through the window. But the window was so high, I couldn’t properly see inside the house at all. So I climbed onto the goat I’d brought along and finally managed to see.” “By the way—the girl standing on the tree-lined path who handed Murio the flute—that was also you, wasn’t it?” “Yes, it was indeed me. I’d completely wrapped my face in cloth and changed my voice, so he didn’t notice... and he seemed terribly flustered besides.”

IX. She Loved That Man

“Now then, Gosan,” I asked with grave solemnity. “For what reason did you kill Murio, who was completely innocent?” “You ask if I killed an innocent Murio?” “I killed him because he was guilty!” “Yes—because he betrayed me!” Gosan’s voice quivered as though stifling sobs. “Oh ho… Betrayed me? What exactly do you mean by that?” I pressed harder.

Then Gosan proceeded to tell the following pitiful tale. “That man betrayed me. “Yes, that man betrayed me—betrayed me utterly. “Therefore, I killed that man with my own hands. “I made that man understand just how wicked it is to betray someone... Yes, that was in May of the year before last. “I first met that man at a gallery in Madrid.” “It was an exceptionally clear and beautiful evening.” “It was on that day that I went to the gallery without any particular purpose.” “Even Gypsies like us know beauty when we see it—we sometimes long to view paintings too—so that day I wandered alone through the galleries.” “When egg-hued sunlight streamed through the windows into that deathly silent gallery, I found a small framed painting of a solitary poisonous snake.” “How my heart leapt!” “I stood transfixed before it, breath held as I gazed at that beautiful serpent poised as if to slither from the canvas.” “This snake is the guardian deity of us Gypsies.” “Moreover, the topshin poison we cherish comes from cobras.” “Thus for us Gypsies, nothing in this world holds greater sanctity than the cobra—”

“And so I gazed at the cobra painting for hours,” she continued. “When I suddenly noticed then, there had been someone standing beside me for some time—that person was staring intently at my face.” “I stared back at him,” Gosan confessed. “He was a splendid young man; from his features and attire, I could tell he was nobility.” “Beside him stood another youth of similar bearing,” she added, “who paid me no mind whatsoever as he stood intently examining the various paintings on the walls.”

“This was my first meeting with Murio. The one who had been obsessively watching me was Murio himself, and the other person was his friend named Danchon.” That day ended without incident, and I returned to my companions. At that time, we were staying in Madrid’s suburbs—when night fell, our men would stealthily go plundering in town, while during daylight hours we women would open our tents and perform goat acrobatics to extract money from townsfolk who had both coin and leisure to spare.

"And so the next day, when I casually went out onto the stage to perform, there before my eyes sat yesterday's man—that is to say, Murio—Murio sitting in a chair with those large, wide-open black eyes of his, watching me with that same terrifying persistence as before. I was startled. But that day’s performance just wouldn’t go well. The next day, when I went out onto the stage, sure enough, Murio was there. He was staring with relentless intensity. The day after that, when I went out to look, sure enough, Murio was there. And so day after day, Murio’s figure sat in the chair before the stage."

“Why did that man gaze at me so persistently?” “Why did he come day after day to watch these dull goat acrobatics without ever growing bored?’ But I knew.” Why was he staring at me like that? Why did he keep coming to watch these performances? I knew the reason.

"If I were any other girl," I thought, "I would have taken advantage of his infatuation—squeezed him dry, wrung him out completely—then cast him aside without remorse." "But I could never do such a thing to him." Why? Because in truth, I had secretly loved Murio from that very first day. That passionate face! That gentle bearing! "I loved Murio."

And so I—realizing how dangerous it was to let my heart, my feelings for Murio, burn any further—resolved from that moment on to avoid meeting Murio as much as possible and even refrain from appearing on stage. But even that proved futile. There was a hunchbacked youth named Piton among our companions who, having apparently been bribed by Murio, invited me to a town restaurant one evening. When I went to look, there in the inner room sat Murio, visibly agitated. At that moment, I thought. “I had finally fallen into the trap,” I thought.

When he pushed me into that room, Piton fled away. "Murio and I were left facing each other alone."

Then Murio said. “‘I love you to death,’ he said.” I remained silent. “I remained stubbornly silent for what felt like an eternity.” “However, Murio did not give up—kneeling before me one moment, threatening the next, then crying and shouting—he courted me with all his might.”

“And so what did I do? In the end, I was won over by Murio’s courtship. It was only natural—for as I have just stated—I loved that man.”

10. The Pure Maiden’s Curse

However, before that, I made Murio swear one thing. I told him then. “Murio, I’ll do as you say right now, but first swear to me one thing—that neither of us will love anyone else until we meet again.” Then Murio swore to it on his honor. “Murio,” I said again. “If you break your oath, the curse will come crashing down on you. That’s right—my curse. You should know this well. My curse is terrifying—because I am a Gypsy’s daughter.”

Then Murio smiled and said that he understood that as well.

Thereupon, persuaded, I did as Murio said. We were extremely happy. "We loved each other completely, you see—but our happiness lasted only a brief moment." "The reason being that not long after that, our companions departed from that land and set out for Egypt." Both Murio and I, weeping, renewed our vow that until we met again, we would never love anyone else, and parted in tears.

Our companions continued wandering for about two years after that. And in the second year, precisely in May—the very month I had made my vow with Murio—we miraculously returned to this land. How delighted I was! "I immediately began secretly investigating Murio’s situation myself." But what do you know? Ah—Murio had broken the vow we made and was loving another woman besides me!

It was at that moment that murderous intent first arose within my heart! “I’ll make him clearly realize just how terrifying a Gypsy woman’s curse can be!”

“Yes… Truly… It was at that very moment this terrifying murderous intent first arose within my heart—and I did indeed carry out that murderous intent…”

“Now, dear Miss, that concludes the story Gosan related to me. If we accept this poor Gypsy woman Gosan’s account as truth, then was it not your brother Lord Murio’s own doing that he met such an end? Though I must emphasize, it is most improper of me to speak thus...” “Be that as it may, the true tragedy lies in Gosan’s circumstances. Gosan took her own life.”

“And why was that?” “The young lady will surely ask this.” “Let me explain concisely.” “In other words, Gosan had intended to kill only Lord Murio. She was deeply aggrieved that—quite unexpectedly—another person (namely Lady Maria) had been killed with the same flute that slew Lord Murio, though she herself had not wielded it directly, while also pitying how suspicion had fallen upon the innocent Mr. Danchon. Furthermore, when combined with her having already detected my intention to apprehend her and escort her to Madrid to clear Mr. Danchon’s name—a prospect she detested—this stirred her conscience and led her to resolve upon suicide.”

That night, Gosan and I, having sat on a tree stump and talked of many things in this manner, parted ways temporarily. As we were leaving, she said: “Please lend me the silver flute just for tonight.”

"This one?" I said while casually handing her the silver flute I held—that poisoned silver flute which had taken two lives. That silver flute was an important piece of evidence I had brought from Lady Maria’s chamber, and that very night I had even thrust it before Gosan’s eyes to have her confirm it. She said to lend her the flute. I carelessly lent it. For I had never dreamed she intended to play that flute and, like Lord Murio and Lady Maria, commit suicide through the poison coating its mouthpiece.

However, on that night, when the late hour had deepened and everyone had fallen into slumber, was it not subtle tones that came drifting from Gosan’s tent? And before long, the sound grew as thin as a thread. What a fool I am! It was only when the silver flute’s delicate sound thinned out like a thread and then ceased entirely that I finally realized! Why could the sound of the silver flute be heard from Gosan’s tent? Why did Gosan start playing the silver flute at such a late hour? And it was then that I first realized what kind of flute it was that Gosan had been playing.

“Damn it!” I thought. Yet I never leapt up nor ran there. The reason being that I myself understood full well how potent the poison called Topshin was. The instant the silver flute’s tones ceased, Gosan’s breath too was severed—this lay all too clear before me.

"Yes, it was clear. The next morning, inside her tent, she lay as an unmarked corpse—utterly fallen with not a wound upon her."