Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

At the eaves of Yanagie-tei, the variety theater in Sanjūgenbori, hanging lanterns wrapped in oilpaper smoldered smokily in the rain. A rare act was on, and the theater was packed to the rafters. Through stifling air thickened by body heat and tobacco smoke, beyond where the rakugo storyteller sat on stage, a pair of tall candlesticks flanking either side cast dim, wavering light that made the auditorium—packed tight with spectators—appear thick with shadows. The heat was sweltering enough to make one reach for a fan, but no one so much as stirred. Perhaps summer had come early that year, for even though it was only May, there were already times when just sitting still in crowded places like this could leave one damp with sweat.

Military storytelling, rakugo, musical performances, puppetry, voice imitation, mimicry, jōruri, eight-person acts, lively ballads, shadow plays—with such a full lineup of major acts, it was a lively venue. Particularly, the strongman Ōishi Buemon—reportedly from deep in Echigo’s mountains—had become a sensation, and these days Yanagie-tei was thriving so fiercely it turned crowds away nightly. The one currently on stage was Ukiyotei Enshi, a young but skilled rakugo performer, resting both hands on the knees of his fine-striped kimono with pronounced brushstroke patterns,

“Well, the rumors of your indulgences are something this humble storyteller has often mentioned before—” He began. The audience all listened intently, their faces poised to catch the laughter that was sure to come as they stared at Enshi’s lips. Near the rear passageway, sitting with his back against a pillar, was Kuginuki Tōkichi. He had tucked both arms into the sleeves of his karakane-striped kimono, hands emerging from its sloppily gaping collar to prop his chin—perhaps asleep, or perhaps contemplating something else entirely. He kept his eyes tightly shut and frequently tilted his head with a grim expression.

When in foul moods, it was Boss Tōkichi’s habit to clamp his mouth shut for days on end, as if he’d bitten into something foul. Kanji of Inui-ko and Sōshiki Hikobei knew these nuances well; whenever Tōkichi grew tight-lipped, they would keep their distance—adhering to the adage "let sleeping gods lie"—and leave him undisturbed. And in such instances, Tōkichi was invariably working on some major case without informing a soul, so he perpetually appeared to be secretly mulling things over. Both Kanji and Hikobei, through years of experience, knew this well and had made it a rule not to ask anything until the Boss had finalized his thoughts and had something to say.

“Hiko, come here. Let’s check out the variety hall.” With just these words, Kuginuki Tōkichi had emerged from the Gatten Nagaya in Hatchōbori, casually making his way through the rain with only Hikobei in tow. Of course, they had free entry privilege. Though flustered men at the Boss’s arrival tried to part the crowd and guide them to good seats, he jerked his chin dismissively at there being no need, then promptly sat cross-legged at the base of that pillar. From then on, he kept his eyes closed, showing not the slightest attention to the stage. Hikobei thought it must be another one of his whims, but even so, he couldn’t fathom at all why the man had gone to the trouble of bringing an umbrella to the variety hall.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but tonight especially—as if something strange were about to happen—Boss Tōkichi appeared tense. His normally weather-beaten face had turned pale and drawn tight like a corpse’s—clear yet sunken. He shook his broad head crowned by a thin topknot streaked with white hair before running his bony yellowish hand over angular cheeks’ unshaved beard with a gritty rasp. Bulbous eyes ill-suited for courtesy workmanship; cheekbones jutting like crowbars; lips perpetually twisted into an inverted V—none were new features by half-measure nor did they make for endearing looks by any reckoning.

“The Land of the Rising Sun has been since the days of the Rock-Cave Dance—a land where night cannot break without women.” Enshi’s voice carried over from the stage. “As for the wellspring of allure, why, they say it’s you fine ladies—”

Tōkichi opened his eyes. With his squinted eyes glinting, he surveyed the people around him. Neither quite a bitter smile nor a yawn—he opened his mouth. His large tobacco-stained snaggleteeth came into view. As if steeling himself, Sōshiki Hikobei began, “Boss, don’t you look sleepy. Shall we head back?” “Nothin’—” “Enshi—can’t blame him being young and all—but he does rattle on with that yappin’ way of his.” “That so?” When Enshi withdrew, a flurry of musical instruments stirred up, and there appeared the renowned Five-Man Strength himself—Ōishi Buemon from Echigo.

Sōshiki Hikobei, being the owner of a paper-scrap-like, frail physique, seemed to take twice the usual interest when it came to giants or strongmen. Immediately stretching his long neck, he began gazing intently at the stage. Clad in a persimmon-colored kamishimo-like garment bearing a crest the size of an ordinary palm, Ōishi Buemon loomed mountainously upon the stage, his presence filling the space. But once this first impression faded and one looked closely, he was nothing more than a sumo wrestler of slightly larger build—his physique itself held nothing particularly astonishing.

“So they say, ‘Buemon, why not come see Edo?’ Well, if you’ll let me see the sights, I’ll go!” “So I barged in here like, ‘You folks come all the way to Edo thinkin’ you’ll be sightseein’, but nah—you’re the ones gettin’ seen!’” “You’re the ones gettin’ seen—.” He delivered such lines to laughter while flicking his kamishimo. He let his kimono sleeve slide. He stripped to the waist. Indeed, his muscles were magnificent.

II He crushed a teacup. He bent fire tongs like thread. He drove a five-inch nail into the board with his clenched fist. He pulled it out with his teeth—no trick, no mechanism. It was sheer strength alone. The muscles of his shoulders and arms swelled up like knotted lumps. They rippled and shifted like crawling creatures. The audience swallowed their exclamations of admiration and watched intently. As if snapping back to themselves, they stirred. Hikobei had also leaned forward before he knew it, his slender body stiffening as he stared intently. Truly, as a strongman, there was likely none who could surpass Ōishi Buemon.

“They’re exactly the type to drop dead out of nowhere.”

Suddenly, Tōkichi said. When people admired something, Tōkichi’s flaw was the urge to disparage it. When in a foul mood, if you said right, he’d say left—responding to everything with sarcasm regardless. He wouldn’t so much as force a polite smile—let alone offer courtesies to anyone—and if some incident were to occur during such times, Boss Tōkichi, for all his standing, would immediately dismiss even the most trivial matter—something as insignificant as an iron kettle boiling over—with remarks like, “This here’s a tough one—can’t handle it myself,” his tone suggesting he’d already given up from the start. However, it was always the case that they would be effortlessly resolved from beneath such dismissive words. As for these habits of Tōkichi’s, Hikobei knew them through and through and had long since resolved not to pay them any mind. In truth, Tōkichi’s pessimistic attitude was merely that—an attitude, signifying nothing in particular.

So even now, when he spoke ill-omened, sharp-tongued words about people—saying Ōishi Buemon would drop dead any moment—Hikobei showed no surprise. He merely twisted his face into a faint smile and ignored him. As Buemon’s performance progressed, all of the audience except Tōkichi had their every shred of attention drawn toward the stage. Hail-like applause surged and subsided.

Hiko— “Trying to nab a beast like that—it’d take nothing but bones to manage.” “Arrest ropes? He’d snap through any number of ’em, even if you bundled ’em together tight.” Tōkichi acted as if he hadn’t heard. When Buemon withdrew, the group called Ume no Yakara—billed as a maiden dance—took his place, and three young women began dancing across the entire stage. Looking increasingly bored, Tōkichi was scanning various parts of the venue.

The door beside the stage leading to backstage opened, and a man with a flustered expression appeared. He had just hurried along the wooden corridor by the wall toward the entrance when he immediately called for the theater owner Kōshichi and turned back. The man whispered something, and Kōshichi’s complexion changed. Scanning the audience as if searching for someone, Kōshichi soon spotted Tōkichi and approached with a slight bow. In a low voice, “Boss, something awful has happened—I’m terribly sorry, but could you come backstage?”

“You need me for something?” As usual,Tōkichis eyes remained listless. “Some kinda brawl?” “No—it’s just that having you here at such an opportune moment’s a godsend.” “What’s this about… I hear someone’s been killed—” The voice stayed hushed to avoid nearby ears,but Tōkichicouldn’t press further.With a glance toward Hikobei he stood silently. Leading both flustered attendant and Kōshichibefore him he entered backstage from beside elevated platform.

The elevated area at the far right served as the room where performers waited for their turns, its threshold lit by a single bare candle flickering dimly. Running straight along it stretched a long, narrow corridor with plank flooring that led all the way to the back exit. The candlelight spread wider as it traveled forward—closed room shoji screens glowed a faint white in the distance—illuminating only the floorboards beneath their feet while a dusk-like dimness enveloped everything else. From the stage came nothing but the sounds of Ume no Yakara’s women dancing to song and shamisen—the swish of their feet across tatami mats, their rhythmic stomping—while backstage lay utterly silent. There was no trace of anyone present.

But as the young attendants guided them forward through the narrow corridor, something like a large black mass lying collapsed in a dim area slightly past the midpoint gradually came into clear view. On the way there, the shoji of the adjacent room stood slightly open, revealing a puppet stage set up and ready for performance. It was about the size of a writing desk, with puppets suspended by strings from above serving as its stage. Thinking that this must be the famous puppet of Takekusa Monsuke—scheduled to perform later tonight—Tōkichi passed by.

“What happened to all the others?” Tōkichi said this and crouched over the corpse. The corpse—it was unmistakably a corpse—but this was Ōishi Buemon’s body: the strongman who had just retreated from the stage moments earlier.

“See? Look. That’s why I told you so.” As if declaring Big brutes always end up like this—Tōkichi’s sardonic smirk turned back toward Hikobei. But far from taking pride in this lucky guess, Hikobei was staring wide-eyed at Buemon’s corpse, his own shock obliterating all awareness of self. “What’re you tryin’ to do—ain’t nobody here.” When Tōkichi repeated this, the attendants took over, “Right. We haven’t told anyone else yet—soon as we found it, we dashed out front and only reported it to Master.”

The ‘Master’ here referred to the theater owner, Kōshichi. “Is that so. Might already be too late.” Tōkichi turned his still-bored face toward Kōshichi. “Sorry ’bout this—but you’ll make sure not a single soul leaves this theater till I say so.” “It’s a simple matter for us to handle. This has turned into quite a troublesome affair. If unpleasant rumors start spreading, our customers will stop coming. So please, Inspector—I beg you to keep things quiet.”

“Ah, sure. If there’s someone who did the killing, we’ll just arrest ’em—let’s keep things quiet and wrap this up quick.”

Kōshichi hurried toward the back entrance where performers came and went to arrange the lockdown.

III Tōkichi crouched over the corpse and began his examination. Buemon had died in his stage costume upon returning from the performance, his face nearly purple and eyes bulging out. There was a single rope mark on the neck, and it had creased into leaden wrinkles.

“He was strangled.” Tōkichi groaned. “Or did he hang himself—?”

“Maybe with something like a thin cord—”

When Hikobei interjected, “No—judging by how the wrinkles crease here, I’d say it’s something like bundled strings.” “Maybe shamisen strings—”

Releasing his hand from tracing Buemon’s throat, Tōkichi turned to face the men who had discovered the body. “Now then—your name. What might it be?” “Fujikichi.” “Huh?” “Fujikichi, I said.” Glancing briefly at the smirking Hikobei, Tōkichi— “Mr. Fujikichi, is it?” “Right. “I am called Fujikichi of the attendants.” “Right.”

“Hmm. “Mr. Fujikichi, I’m from Hatchōbori—” “Oh yes, I’m well aware.” “It’s quite something to share your name, Boss—” “That don’t matter. “Just give me every detail of how you found him.” “Well now—I came through here from the front to check if all later performers had arrived, meant to ask Hachibei at backstage. But it was dim as you see—couldn’t spot much—though over yonder room across from where they keep that puppet stage, Master Takekusa Monsuke and Okoyo were deep in talk.” “It’s one long narrow corridor—clear line of sight.” “No others about.” “Then—you’ll laugh—a shadow flickered ’cross that shoji there. Just ordinary man-sized.” “Danced-like—there then gone. Thought someone was about—went closer—nobody there. Just this corpse—Buemon laid out cold.” “Drunken antics gone too far.” “Big lout sprawled in a passage—right nuisance.” “Hey Buemon—” Shook him—something off—so I doubled back to fetch Master Kōshichi at the gate.”

Tōkichi closed his mouth and exhaled through his nose.

“Is that so. Got it clear enough.” “But that story ain’t likely to be much use.” Tōkichi turned to look back at Hikobei, “Well now, colleague—let’s go sniff around a bit, shall we?”

And then he suddenly fell silent and surveyed his surroundings. At both ends of the narrow wooden corridor stood two doors—one leading to the front seating area they had come from, the other to the back exit. To the right lay a room's shoji screen; to the left, a solid wall—to move in or out required passing through one of those doors. From deeper within came the carefree laughter of stagehands still oblivious to the tragedy, their merry chatter echoing through the passageway. When he glanced back toward the corridor entrance, the large exposed candle still sputtered as before, its yellow light spilling across the shoji screens in a wide arc of faint illumination. It resembled some natural sorcery of light—the flame's glow traveled along a single narrow path yet wove such intricate patterns across walls and ceiling that it bordered on uncanny. Under these conditions, Tōkichi reasoned, even distant shadows would have been cast with striking clarity.

He scratched his head slowly, “Hey, Mr. Fujikichi. “Let’s have you go over this part again.” “Listen up—you came in through this audience seating door.” “The room’s shoji was slightly open, and there was Master Monsuke the puppeteer and—what was her name again? The woman…”

Before anyone noticed, Kōshichi—who had returned—interjected,

“Okoyo-san—she’s Master Monsuke’s shamisen player.” “Hmm.” “Okoyo-san and Monsuke were deep in conversation, and there lay Buemon dead exactly as we see now.” “So you’re saying there was no one else there—ain’t that right?”

“Yes, that is correct.” “At that time, I saw a large shadow on this shoji screen.” “No one was there, but you saw just a shadow?” “That’s right.” “What were Master Monsuke and Okoyo doing?” “Since it didn’t seem important, I didn’t look closely—but Master Monsuke was busily mimicking voices while prepping the puppet stage.” “They were likely discussing their act’s coordination.”

“You said the shadow moved hurriedly like this, yeah?”

“Right. It wasn’t even a matter of hurrying—the shadow just fluttered onto the shoji screen and vanished immediately.” “Can’t you remember what the shadow looked like?”

“What kind of shadow, you ask—” Attendant Fujikichi stroked his neck repeatedly. “It was a bloated human shadow—wearing what looked like a kimono and hakama—”

“Hmm.” “It was wearing hakama,” he said.

Tōkichi yawned rudely.

IV “What? “It was wearing hakama?” Kōshichi, in a loud voice, turned toward the attendant,

“You must’ve been dreaming. There’s no one wearing hakama backstage, is there?” “It must’ve sneaked in from outside.” In front of Hikobei, Attendant Fujikichi pursed his lips. “However, there was only a shadow—certainly no one was there.”

“That’s you.” It was Tōkichi. “Couldn’t this shadow have been Mr. Buemon’s?”

“This ain’t no joke.” Attendant Fujikichi was working desperately to defend his testimony.

“At that time, Mr. Buemon was already lying right here like this.” “Then, let’s hear a bit more about that shadow.”

“Well, sure!—but like I said, it all happened so suddenly, I’m afraid my account is rather hazy. But Boss, that shadow… it looked like a hunchback.” “A hunchback—?”

“Yes. It had its hair done up in a large style and was holding something in its hand.” “What was it holding?”

“I don’t know what it was, but I saw it holding something like a string—.”

Everyone fell silent, exchanging glances one after another. Deafening applause rang out; then another song and shamisen began, and everything fell completely silent.

“No wonder,” Tōkichi said quietly. “With just a shadow, there’s no way you could know that much. Especially when it was just a fleeting glimpse—asking for fine details now would make you a damn fool, wouldn’t it?”

“But Boss, how come there was no one there, yet a shadow was seen?”

“Well—that’s just it—”

“Monsuke and Okoyo—” Hiko peered into the room. “They aren’t here. Where’d they go—?”

Kōshichi answered.

“Behind here, there’s a room for adjusting costumes before going on stage. When showtime approaches, everyone enters there—shall I call them for you?” “No need.” Tōkichi halted.

“Can you get to that dressing room without going through the corridor?” “Yes. Without coming down here—if you open that sliding door over there—it’s right on the other side.”

“So Buemon was killed in this corridor shortly after leaving the stage—that’s how it went down?” “Yes—he came down from the stage... made it about this far... all over in an instant.”

“Okoyo and Mr. Monsuke were so absorbed in discussing the rehearsal that they remained unaware of Buemon collapsing in the corridor outside the sliding door——” “Well, Boss—it was just when the Plum Troupe was taking the stage as replacements, and this spot’s where the musical accompaniment sounds loudest—so a bit of a commotion wouldn’t reach their ears.” “Especially since they seemed utterly engrossed in their conversation.”

“That’s about right. Alright—he comes down from the stage. He is killed immediately. There’s no one in the corridor, and only a shadow was cast—.” “Mr. Monsuke and Ms. Okoyo must’ve entered the dressing room without knowing a thing—while this humble one went back to fetch Master Kōshichi and came here with you now, Boss.” “That’s right. We’ll know once we ask ’em.”

“So, in a corridor where there was no one,” Hikobei said tersely, “Buemon was strangled, then?” “Well, such a thing wouldn’t come to pass.”

At the far end of the corridor leading to the back entrance, the pale face of old man Ginbei, drained of color in shock, peered out timidly.

Ginbei was the cloakroom attendant in charge of the backstage entrance, a small, withered old man resembling dead wood. “Hey, Gin!” Kōshichi called out.

“Ain’t no one gone out.” “Oh, since that was the order, I closed the back entrance.” “You idiot! Closing it now’s no damn good!” “It’s about time Master Hakuchō arrives, but even if he comes, we ain’t lettin’ him in.” “Ah, don’t you worry.”

Tōkichi chuckled—a rare occurrence—and said, “Once we collar the culprit, I’ll get that door opened quick.” Then to Ginbei: “Hey, old man—you just catch wind ’bout Buemon croakin’?” Investigator Tōkichi hurriedly whispered to Kōshichi: “Next’s Hanabōzu with his jolly tunes—we tip him off?”

Tōkichi interrogated.

“The performers ain’t a single one in sight—where’re they all holed up?” “This room serves that purpose as well, but since it’s right behind the stage, only those about to go on wait here—everyone else is sprawled out way over in the seating area.” “The dressing room I mentioned earlier is even further beyond that.”

“I see.” No wonder he hadn’t seen any sign of them. Buemon must have been trying to return there by passing through here as well. When Tōkichi turned his gaze back, Ginbei continued speaking.

“I hadn’t the slightest idea. When Master came around and said we couldn’t let anyone out—it was like I was just finding out about it then——.” “You didn’t leave the back entrance, did you?” “Ah. I’ve been keeping the performers’ footwear.” “Someone must’ve gone through this corridor and left, eh, old man?” Ginbei looked bewildered and shook his head.

“No—there’s only one back entrance—and nobody’s gone through.”

Five With a snort, Tōkichi flared his nostrils and fell silent, but immediately raised his face and signaled Ginbei to go over there. “Truly, there’s no one who went out. “This humble one was sitting at the back entrance the whole time—Enshi-san’s geta strap broke, so I was helping him fix it——.”

The cloakroom attendant Ginbei repeated this once more, but Tōkichi didn’t seem to be listening. He hung his head as if peering into his own chest, biting his nails incessantly.

Ōishi Buemon was, as one could see, a hulking and obese man—the equivalent of three bulls combined. Moreover, he was currently the star attraction at Yanagie-tei—an unprecedented strongman performer unlike any seen before. As Ōishi Buemon descended from the stage, his back bathed in the light of a single candle while passing through a narrow straight corridor toward the greenroom, someone looped a cord around Buemon’s neck—and in an instant, skillfully strangled this giant to death.

Unbelievable. That such a strongman could be strangled so easily—even someone other than Kuginuki Tōkichi, boss of Hatchōbori Atte Nagaya—was something no person of common sense could accept. Moreover, at that time, in the raised waiting room adjacent to the narrow corridor just behind the stage—where performers prepared to go on—only puppeteer Takekusa Monsuke and shamisen player Okoyo were deep in conversation, while the clearly visible corridor reportedly held not a single soul.

This was the testimony of Investigator Tōkichi—who had entered the corridor from the audience seats immediately after the incident, right when Buemon collapsed, likely before one could even count “one, two, three, four, five, six——”. And now Ginbei—the cloakroom attendant for performers at the backstage entrance—asserted as if to corroborate this that no one had passed through the corridor to exit out back. What was particularly strange was the shadow Investigator Tōkichi reported seeing—a shadow that danced across the shoji screen and vanished when he entered the corridor——.

Even though there were no people present, only the shadow figure—illuminated by candlelight at the stage entrance—had been cast upon the shoji screen, they said. Investigator Tōkichi insisted he had indeed seen it clearly—a figure of ordinary size that appeared swollen as if wearing thick garments and hakama trousers. It was also described as having worn a large topknot and seeming hunched over. He claimed it had been holding something resembling string, but since everything—from that startled instant of perception to how it flashed past the shoji screen and vanished—lasted mere moments, any attempt to recount details became hopelessly vague, like hearing secondhand about someone else’s half-remembered dream.

A snap of the fingers—it must have occurred in that brief moment.

But even so—could it really be possible for Ōishi Buemon, a man of such formidable strength, to be killed so easily? Tōkichi had judged from the twisted condition of the skin at the wound site that the neck had been constricted by what appeared to be five or six shamisen strings bundled and twisted together—but precisely because of this, he found it utterly impossible to accept that Buemon could have died instantly from mere strangulation with such strings. But given that momentum plays a role in such matters—even conceding he was strangled in that manner—it was still Buemon. No matter how sudden the ambush was, unless the attacker was a demon or monster, Buemon must have put up a fight. No—even if only briefly, he must have literally exerted every ounce of strength to resist. In this narrow corridor, Buemon—whale-like—urged by his instinct to live, grappled with something. He must have struggled violently—it’s safe to assume as much. The big man was in his death throes before dying. One could only imagine how desperate and clamorous the struggle must have been—yet despite this, the fact that Monsuke and Okoyo, who had been hurriedly preparing for their act in the room facing the corridor, had not heard it—or rather, that they had noticed nothing at all—failed to sit right with Boss Kuginuki. Even with the explanation offered by Investigator Tōkichi and theater owner Kōshichi that the Ume-no-Ya troupe’s maiden dance act had just ascended to the stage at that very moment to replace Buemon, making this the spot where the musical accompaniment reverberated most deafeningly and thus drowned out any noise, it still struck him as profoundly unconvincing.

Now that he mentioned it, nothing added up.

Tōkichi had remarked that those like Buemon—performing feats of strength onstage—were precisely the sort to oddly drop dead, and indeed it had happened exactly so: the moment Buemon descended from the stage, there he lay dead in this manner—an ineffable strangeness, though of course merely coincidental. Yet as Hikobei stood uncannily astonished, muttering that the Boss’s perceptive eyes reached even this far by attributing it all to Tōkichi’s intuition, one could discern the funeral arranger’s trust and pride in his superior.

Tōkichi felt slightly ill at ease. While laughing inwardly—as if his prediction had come true—he made sure to show Hikobei his most triumphant expression. But soon enough, even he couldn’t maintain such nonchalance about the matter. Two times two equals four; two times three equals six—simple arithmetic. But Buemon’s death defied this logic like two times two yielding five or seven or eight—an anomaly among anomalies. A truth beyond reason. Kuginuki Tōkichi had no choice but to ponder deeply.

When he settled into thought, he had a habit of biting his nails.

And now, Tōkichi was biting his nails incessantly like this.

Six From the stage came the lively sounds of the Ume-no-Ya troupe's dance—rhythmic stomps and hand claps blending with musical accompaniment.

Four or five people were all gathered in the narrow corridor, overlapping each other as they peered down at Buemon’s corpse.

Outside, the misty rain of the early summer night appeared to be thickening.

Nearby, as large cargo carts loaded with heavy goods passed over the edge beams of Kii-no-Kuni Bridge, their rumbling sound continued—sometimes as loud and prolonged as thunder.

As Ginbei departed, Tōkichi—accompanied by theater owner Kōshichi and Sōshiki Hikobei—returned to the door near the stage entrance where a bare candle stood.

Peering through the door crack at the stage, he could see women dancers lined up with their backs to him, swaying in unison. Tōkichi started to turn toward Kōshichi as if to speak when his eyes caught Enshi the rakugo storyteller and Okoyo—Monsuke’s shamisen player—standing dejectedly beside a Bunraku-style puppet stage in the cramped side room where performers waited for their cues, their heads bent together in anxious whispers.

Okoyo had a beautiful hairline, wide-eyed features, and a face that still retained the freshness of a young girl.

Both of them, catching Tōkichi’s gaze, had already turned pale with agitated foreheads before uttering a word. Crouching timidly toward Tōkichi, Enshi— “It seems something’s happened to Mr. Buemon, but it’s nothing major—” A hoarse whisper scraped from a constricted throat. Since they’d only ever seen him cracking jokes onstage—since delivering laughs was his trade and that naturally comical face his trademark—the sight of this man being deadly serious now felt unnerving, almost monstrous.

“Yeah.” It was Boss Tōkichi’s expressionless response. “Ain’t nothin’ much, ya know. “Just got himself strangled a bit, that’s all. “Whole damn hulk of a man cluttering up the place—no dignity left in ’im at all. “Hey now, Master Enshi—hahahaha.” “Th-that’s no joke, Boss!” Flustered yet visibly pleased, Enshi replied: “Praising someone my age like that’s a sin, y’know. “I ain’t near worthy of bein’ called ‘Master’ yet.”

As he spoke, Enshi glanced fleetingly at Okoyo—and Tōkichi perceived in his eyes an irrepressible glint of pride. *So Enshi’s quite smitten with her*, he thought, secretly linking them and forming a hypothesis about what might lie between the two. All the while, he casually turned his words toward theater owner Kōshichi standing behind him.

“Ain’t this Ume-no-Ya dance ’bout to end soon?” “Hmm… They’ll be comin’ down any moment now.”

“Make sure t’ send th’ corpse back t’ th’ green room through this chamber without lettin’ anyone see it.” “Don’t let ’em use th’ corridor.”

No sooner had he spoken than the stage entrance swung open, a riot of colors swaying into view as four or five women from the Ume-no-Ya troupe came chattering noisily down the corridor.

“Hey, Mr. Hana’s next.” Kōshichi, attempting to keep the stage occupied, raised his voice toward the green room where performers waited. “What’re you doin’, Mr. Hana—?” “Oh dear—ain’t even got time t’eat.”

Hanabōzu, the lively ballad performer who had been picking at Yasuke in the green room, was stuffing his mouth full and mumbling,

“Yes. “Here I am, at your service!” “Pardon me.” He slipped through Tōkichi and the others and went out to the stage. His head rounded and smooth, wearing an antique-purple shibori-patterned crepe haori teetering on slipping off, its crimson lining flashing glimpses of crimson. “Well now—though I’m but a humble substitute, I’ll strive not to disappoint. “My humble apologies for these well-worn tunes, dear listeners—but with so many of your favorite acts queued up after me, I’ll just breeze through two or three lively ballads and be on my way. Now then—”

Hanabōzu’s voice reached Tōkichi’s ears behind the stage, sounding distant and muffled.

The Ume-no-Ya troupe women, who had tried to proceed down the corridor, were stopped by Kōshichi and hurriedly ascended to the adjacent room immediately to the side.

Before the young women who were wondering what had happened—Tōkichi stood before them. Yet once word spread among them that Buemon lay sprawled on his back in that corridor, terror swept over their pale faces all at once. Tōkichi peered at the Ume-no-Ya troupe members lined up in a row, surveying them with his characteristic squint—right to left, left to right, two or three times with a lingering, caressing gaze—before finally muttering from the corner of his mouth:

“Dancin’s a tricky business, ain’t it.” Having assumed they would at least be questioned—the abruptness of this inquiry caught them off guard, leaving the women oddly deflated as they hurriedly exchanged glances. Like a goldfish shaking her long sleeves, one woman attempted to laugh. One of them, who seemed slightly older, “Oh. But someone as skilled as you, Inspector...” “Yeah.” “Ain’t like I’m completely useless at this myself.”

Having said this, Tōkichi abruptly shifted both legs into an odd posture and performed something resembling a dance gesture. The Ume-no-Ya troupe members completely forgot Buemon’s death, cackling shrilly as they scurried deeper into the back; Kōshichi too snorted back laughter—yet Tōkichi and Hikobei themselves didn’t so much as twitch a smile.

Seven “Master Enshi withdrew earlier. “Okoyo-san was there having a conversation with Master Monsuke, I take it.”

Tōkichi called out to Enshi and Okoyo, who were still standing there vacantly.

Enshi, looking blankly bewildered, replied.

“Hmm.” “This humble one handed over the stage to Buemon-san and was engaged in idle chatter in the back green room the entire time.” “I’d meant to head straight back,” he continued, “but on my way here, my geta’s thong snapped. Old Man Gin at the backstage was kind enough to fix it for me—only that took an age—so here I still am waiting.” Okoyo fixed her calm eyes on Tōkichi’s face and nodded demurely.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Tōkichi said to Okoyo. “Didn’t ya see anyone in the corridor?” “Yes. Mr. Buemon descended from the stage and passed by here—that was all.” “’Course I know that.” “After a while, Mr. Tōkichi—Tō from the police force—seemed to arrive from the front, but at that time, I entered the next dressing room with Master, so what happened after that—.”

“Did you only just now learn ’bout Buemon’s—ruckus?” “That is correct.” When Okoyo and Enshi answered together, Tōkichi clamped down hard on his lip, but—

“Master Takekusa…?” “In the green room, waiting to perform.”

“So you’re sayin’ there was no one else around here?”

“Yes.” “I did not see anyone.”

“Hey, Mr. Enshi.” Tōkichi suddenly lowered his voice and thrust his face forward. “Can’t hide it now. “Whoa now—no need to panic. “You’d been feudin’ with Buemon for ages, hadn’t ya.”

As Enshi, who had suddenly turned pale, silently opened and closed his mouth without a word, Okoyo interjected, "That, Inspector, I will explain. Mr. Buemon was certainly a good person, but he kept pestering me so persistently, and since he knew I disliked it, Mr. Enshi would step in to protect me whenever something came up."

“What an outrageous lovers’ boast.”

A wry smile twisted Tōkichi’s mouth. “Took a shot ’round here to stir things up—but seems your testimony’s pure gold through ’n’ through, Okoyo-san.”

With a grin, he glanced back at Hikobei. The funeral director stood shivering like a pauper as he asked, “Boss, how’d a strapping man like that get strangled so quick? This humble one still can’t make heads or tails of it.” “You idiot!” Tōkichi snapped. “There’s no way that face of yours could’ve figured out what even I don’t know.”

“But here’s the thing, Boss. This here—rather than bein’ strangled proper-like, he had a cord wrapped ’round his neck, then got startled and in his panic ended up stranglin’ himself—ain’t that it? Well, s’just this humble one’s theory—” “Well done, Hiko. In fact, I’ve been thinkin’ the same damn thing myself—that Buemon basically strangled himself, so t’speak. But who wrapped the cord around Buemon’s neck as he passed through the corridor—and how—?”

“It’s the shadow’s handiwork, Boss.”

“Exactly.” “It’s the shadow’s handiwork.” “And that shadow’s—” “There it is—.” When Hikobei crossed his arms snugly, Tōkichi, uncharacteristically, broke into a grin, “Hiko, one step.” “Think it through.” “I’ve already got a rough idea of how it went down, hahahaha!”

Due to reports from Ginbei and the Ume no ie troupe, people began emerging from the performers' gathering room, and the backstage corridor teetered on the edge of commotion. Takekusa Monsuke, renowned as a master puppeteer, had slipped unnoticed into the room at some point, his stern aged face visible behind Okoyo and Enshi. He appeared thoroughly ancient—body draped in persimmon-hued kamishimo vestments, waist slightly stooped, skin like oiled parchment, face akin to weathered timber—a frail, pitiful veteran artist.

Tōkichi’s eyes crinkled into a gentle smile when he spotted Monsuke. “Wouldn’t that be Master Takekusa?”

Okoyo turned around in surprise, “Oh, really…” “What an unforeseen matter—I appreciate your efforts in carrying out your duties.” Courteously greeting Tōkichi with a somewhat reluctant air, the elderly Monsuke stepped forward. Tōkichi said, “Hey, Master. Only a shadow showed on the shoji screen, yet they say there was no actual person—so where in this blasted two-exit corridor did the culprit vanish to, I wonder.” “Ah, I see. How peculiar that such things can occur—”

“But more than that—even with a cord wrapped around his neck, why didn’t Mr. Buemon crush his attacker? I can’t help but find that strange.” “Well, indeed…” “After all, with that strength of his...” “That strength of his—” “Couldn’t his hands reach?” Muttering as if to himself, Tōkichi stared intently at the candle by the stage entrance. Monsuke merely tilted his head and did not answer.

八

“Inspector, might we now dispose of the corpse?” Even when one of the male attendants came inquiring—a man also called Tōkichi—the investigator remained silent throughout, keeping his gaze fixed on candle flames until at last giving only the faintest nod. Immediately came clamorous voices and clattering from beyond shoji screens as many hands set about moving Buemon’s hulking corpse down distant corridors.

Monsuke appeared to be listening intently to it, straining his ears. From the stage, the melodic phrasing of Hanabōzu’s lively ballad drifted through—stylish and seductive. Tōkichi beckoned Okoyo to a corner. The two of them stood beyond the puppet stage, their voices low. “What are you to the master?” “What do you mean…,” Okoyo, with a surprised look, said, “I am the shamisen player—.” The elderly Monsuke, having overheard,

“It’s not just the shamisen. “She’s a hand of my puppet. “Monsuke’s puppets can only truly win the audience’s favor when guided by Okoyo’s strings, yes.”

“Oh, such a thing—.” Okoyo, with the modesty of a novice, blushed as she denied this and shifted her gaze from Monsuke back to Tōkichi. “It’s Master Takekusa’s artistry, you see.” “My shamisen only gets in the way—.” “Miss Okoyo,” Tōkichi straightened up slightly. “I’ve never handled such a troublesome investigation before.” “I’m at my wit’s end here—how ’bout you tell me a bit more ’bout that Buemon bastard?”

“As for Mr. Buemon’s affairs—I myself know nothing about them—but it seems he didn’t get along with anyone at all.” “Since he’s passed on now, it feels wrong to speak ill—but truly, he was a detestable person.” “Hmm—why d’you suppose they all hated him so—” “Why you ask...” Okoyo hesitated briefly before continuing, “He chased after women relentlessly—and on top of that, fancied himself some grand charmer—it was downright unbearable.”

“That man—didn’t he just come out from some mountain backwoods in Echigo this time and meet you here for the first time, eh?”

“It may seem like I’m betraying a fellow performer’s secrets, but since he’s dead now, I don’t mind.” “No, far from this being his first time appearing here, he’d been touring all over from Kamigata for years on end.” “We’ve met him in many places over the years.” “Is that so.” “I figured it’d be something like that.”

When Tōkichi fell into thought, Okoyo continued speaking unprompted, “I often shared a troupe with Enshi-san during travels, but—” “Hmm. With that Enshi-san—since Buemon was makin’ eyes at you, I’d wager there were frequent clashes between ’em.” Okoyo looked down. Master Monsuke spoke in a slightly irritated tone, “Please refrain from inquiring about such trivial matters—.” “If you think I’m the one asking—it pisses me off.” Tōkichi grinned,

“But when duty makes you ask—well, even if this pisses me off, there ain’t nothin’ to be done. Well, Master—that’s about the size of it.”

“But—,” Okoyo looked up, startled.

“But at that time, Enshi-san was right beside me the whole time, and besides, that person is not the sort to do something like murder—such a crude—.”

“Inspector—” Enshi, who had been speaking with Monsuke, interjected from across the way. “To suspect me—that’s way too cruel.” “I—Inspector—”

“Oh… So you were there.” “Just hush now, you.”

“Telling me to hush depends on the circumstances, you know.” “This is show business.” “To be called a murderer—.” In the audience seats, laughter welled up and immediately vanished. Tōkichi’s expression soured once more as his gaze darted restlessly between the faces of those around him—a seemingly meaningless survey. As the time for the performance approached, Monsuke and Okoyo took out the puppets and arranged them on the puppeteering stage. The kyōgen play was “The Serrinō Village Terakoya Scene”—Genzō, Tonami, Suga Shūsai, the village children, their numerous parents, Genba, Matsuō—many puppets, each one exquisitely crafted.

The puppets had strings attached at key points—joints, torsos, necks—and Monsuke manipulated them from above with godlike mastery. These were truly the puppets of Takekusa Monsuke, peerless under heaven. "Takekusa Monsuke could indeed be called a master. Manipulating the puppets as though they lived, with this Master and Okoyo on shamisen—both individuals of renown past and present—standing together to perform, this was hailed as a peerless spectacle the likes of which the world had never seen. The matters of puppetry technique originate from the ancient San’i Ittō text and can be attributed to the principles of yin and yang and natural order. As for the profound intricacies, though they lie beyond the scope of these old texts, their general principles have been compiled into waka poems to facilitate memorization, as shown below."

When stepping forth: man to the left, woman to the right—this being the distinction of yin and yang. For perplexity: stroking the forehead with downcast eyes while turning away—the established method. For surprise: withdrawing the face, thrusting forth the shoulders, and placing a fist aloft—such being the method. "When laughing: a man raises his shoulders; a woman covers her face with the sleeve and looks down."

In addition to these, there were fifty-three poems that demonstrated these puppets’ expressive techniques and fundamental movements—a masterful artistry of the Takekusa family that had been renowned since ancient times.

Nine

While looking at the puppets, Tōkichi was not thinking such things. At this moment, his mind was elsewhere, working busily. Tōkichi’s eyes acted on impulse—and given that his companion was a vague shadowy figure who might have been mistaken—but regardless, the shadow cast on the shoji screen was that of a hunchback. But needless to say, there was not a single hunchback backstage.

With a dazed look in his eyes, Tōkichi beckoned Hikobei and whispered.

"I ain't gonna name names, but I considered five people as suspects." "But if you think about it—once we've cleared four of 'em with solid alibis—then that last one bein' the culprit... Well, Hiko, ain't that pretty much set in stone?" "Huh. So who's this fifth one you're talkin' about?"

Sōshiki Hikobei made a face that seemed both comprehending and perplexed.

“Now, now—no need to rush.” Carrying his pincer-like face, Tōkichi dipped down into the corridor. Then his eyes suddenly sharpened as he surveyed up and down the narrow corridor lit by candlelight from one side. Tōkichi’s shadow—lit only from behind—filled the shoji screen completely, appearing as though painted black. Tōkichi took two or three steps toward the shoji.

As one moved away from the light, the shadow grew larger—and in growing larger, grew fainter. Hazily, it spread. As Hikobei watched Tōkichi vacantly, a strange sound reached his ears. It seemed Tōkichi was suppressing a laugh. But immediately— "Hey, Hiko," said Tōkichi as he turned around, no longer laughing. "I’ve come to hate this jitte-wielder’s trade—"

Here we go again! Seeing the Boss uttering such pessimistic words, Hikobei—thinking the mystery had been solved—was suppressing a smile when Tōkichi continued:

"I must be losing my mind." “Until this very moment, I ain’t noticed such a thing—even I’m disgusted with myself. Makes a man want to give up on life, don’t it?” The sound of applause reached them—the Ukiyobushi performance seemed to have ended—and there was a sense that Hanabōzu would soon come down. Next was one of the featured attractions—Monsuke’s puppets. Then, Kuginuki Tōkichi snapped to alertness as if waking from a trance.

Suddenly, as the time for his performance drew near, he stood blocking old man Monsuke’s path as the puppeteer tried to advance down the corridor toward the stage.

Kōshichi, Tōkichi from the performers’ side, Enshi, the women of Ume’s troupe, Ginbei the backstage attendant, and other artists gathered around with stunned expressions.

Surrounded by people, Okoyo stepped forward as if to shield Monsuke.

Quietly, Tōkichi said. “Master.” Quietly, Monsuke answered. “What is it?”

“You did it, Master.” “Hmm… Regarding what matter—?”

There was a brief pause. Monsuke hiked up his bony shoulders and locked eyes with Tōkichi. "I beg your pardon, but you're mistaken." "I won't let you say that! Actually I'm— Out with it! Right now!"

The one who spoke was Okoyo. “Boss, why’re you spouting such a worthless joke?” The almond-shaped corners of her eyes were drawn up taut, as if blood might seep through.

“Master wouldn’t even harm a mouse, and look at him—he’s just an old man! The one they call Kuginuki Tōkichi ought to open his eyes and actually look at people for once.” “Boss—Master was in this room talking to Miss Okoyo using hand gestures,” Enshi said. Tōkichi from the performers’ side added pityingly, “He wasn’t in the corridor.” “Oh yeah—that hand gesture business,” Tōkichi said with a smile to Okoyo. “At that time, didn’t Master use strings to lower a puppet past the transom without looking outside the shoji?”

“Yes… In that way, while struggling with various string techniques, he would explain to me how to move my fingers—” When everyone looked up at the shoji screen, sure enough, the transom’s lattice had been opened, leaving a gap. Tōkichi began to laugh.

“Spit it out already. If the culprit ain’t got nowhere to run—right, left, or down—” “Must’ve flown up ’n’ escaped from above—ain’t no other way.”

Monsuke also smiled, “How could this old man climb up and down such places? And how could someone like me possibly kill that powerhouse Buemon-san?” “Even idiots need their rest—” Suddenly, Tōkichi’s hand shot out and seized one of the puppets on the manipulation stage. That was the Matsuōmaru puppet, with its imposing hairstyle and attire. “Even if you lack that strength yourself, Master—no—rather, at the tip of your masterfully manipulated strings lies diamond-like power.” “You lowered this Matsuōmaru puppet past the transom from the room, had it grip a bundle of shamisen strings, and with those masterful fingers that thread manipulation cords, strangled acrobat Buemon—no doubt about it! Hey, you lot—step back!”

Tōkichi pushed through the crowd to clear a space while declaring, “Take a look—with this light at my back, my shadow’s castin’ that big over there. What Tōkichi saw weren’t no human shadow. There—how’s this for proof?” When he projected the Matsuōmaru puppet’s shadow onto the shoji where Buemon had fallen, the small figure stretched to human size through the light’s angle—its head swelling large, kimono hem flaring like hakama trousers, back hunched in counterfeit deformity.

Monsuke hung his head and spoke in a small voice. “Since he seemed bent on toying with Okoyo, I thought it best to—”

When Tōkichi took on a sympathetic expression, a deep voice sounded from behind the crowd,

“However, for someone to die just from a puppet wrapping strings around their neck—with all due respect, Boss Tōkichi—I can’t help but think this way. While he was walking absentmindedly, something strange descended onto his nape, and he was startled when it grabbed him from behind. The next moment, a string came to his throat, and he frantically tried to grab it. There’s no way a puppet’s strength could kill that strongman. This happened because he startled himself thrashing about and used his own great strength to constrict his neck until his breathing stopped—so between the shock and the momentum of trying to remove it with brute force, hey Boss, wouldn’t you say Buemon-san ultimately brought about his own destruction? I can’t help but feel that way—.”

It was Hakuchō, the master military storyteller who had just entered backstage and learned of the commotion. The desperate plea to save Takekusa Monsuke—that puppeteer without peer across generations—from his crime born of pure-hearted devotion was written across every inch of Hakuchō’s face.

This must have been the very opportunity that Tōkichi himself had secretly hoped for—a chance to somehow save him.

“Oh? Well now, this must be the grand master puppeteer.” Nodding with his eyes—he suddenly bellowed at Sōshiki Hikobei, who had his hands on Monsuke’s shoulders.

“Hey, Hiko!” “Let go!” “Isn’t this Master Monsuke and Miss Okoyo’s stage?!”