Pathway to Japanese Literature

Ear Perfume

1

Mrs. S had been invited to the “Society for the Pursuit of the Bizarre and Appalling,” formed by five or six ladies of leisure.

“I would like to request an interesting story that has not yet been made public.”

Following Mrs. A’s words as the organizer,

“Make it unconventional—something bizarre—”

“We want a story so breathlessly thrilling it leaves us gasping.”

“Genuine and unvarnished—that’s essential.”

“It must be based on actual events to provide proper stimulation,” came another demand among many others.

Mrs. S moistened her lips with tea on the table while laughing softly, surveyed the faces of the assembled ladies, then began speaking in a low, quiet voice.

"This concerns a story from when I went to China in connection with a certain incident—"

"The case where Mrs. K—wife of Mr. K, branch manager of a major corporation—was brutally murdered at her own doorstep must still linger in your memories, ladies."

"A beauty, a model wife, and devout Christian—precisely because she was such a lady of impeccable reputation, over there the rumors about her had dominated conversations for weeks."

At that time, a murderer dubbed the Gray Man was causing frequent disturbances in society.
However, no one had ever seen that man’s true identity.
“Some years back, there had been a time when preaching bandits were rampaging through Tokyo as well.”
“And as they failed to capture him and his notoriety grew, all sorts of imitators—‘So-and-So Bandits’—began springing up everywhere, causing quite a commotion.”
It seemed human nature was the same everywhere—whether by intent or chance, murders began occurring all at once here and there, until the entire city transformed into a capital of terror.
A waitress was killed in a café in broad daylight.
The night before, a dancer at a dance hall had been stabbed through the heart by her partner mid-waltz and died.
A robber broke into a wealthy mansion where the wife was shot with a pistol.
The victims were always women.

It was unclear whether all of these were the work of the Gray Man, but while he was initially thought to be an ordinary robber who killed to avoid being recognized, midway through, the rumors shifted to claim his purpose was not merely to steal money.
He craved blood.
His purpose was to see blood.
A woman’s blood, a beautiful woman’s blood.
The beauty of that moment when white skin flushed crimson—it gave him an indescribable pleasure.
There were those who spoke as if they had heard it straight from the man himself—that he was being drawn by the allure of blood and accumulating crimes.

But then a new strange story came to light—that he did not commit murder and robbery merely to satisfy personal desires, for there was said to be a man who invariably visited impoverished people shortly after what could be considered a murder’s occurrence, bestowing upon them modest sums of money. This figure who brought relief to slums before vanishing like smoke carried an aura perfectly befitting the Gray Man’s moniker. That must have been him indeed. What began as speculation gradually hardened into accepted truth, with voices proclaiming him a chivalrous thief emerging until this man of unknown identity achieved such renown that he existed in paradoxical duality—both feared and revered.

While it had naturally been concluded that Mrs.K too was killed by that Gray Man, since the culprit remained completely at large, the victim’s husband became indignant and lodged a stern protest through the consulate against the Chinese police.

Then again, they immediately caught the culprit. Unlike the chivalrous thief celebrated as the Gray Man, he was a spineless, limp coolie-like man. He was likely a decoy they panickedly bought off with money, I suppose.

The strange thing is that ever since that man was captured, the Gray Man has ceased appearing anywhere, and incidents of people falling victim to him have completely stopped. Whether they had caught the real criminal, or whether he—being a man called a chivalrous thief—had returned to good conscience from the thought that it would be inexcusable for substitutes to emerge and be beheaded in his place, that much remains unclear—.

What I am about to tell concerns the beautiful Mrs.K.
About two weeks before she was killed, I happened to see her at a particular place.
And not just once.
Until then, Mrs.K and I had never met.
That I should have seen her two or even three times in quick succession just as she was about to depart this world—isn’t that utterly mysterious?
"I must apologize for such an excessively long preamble."

2

After finally finishing a late meal and taking a sip of coffee, I heard the desk telephone's bell ring frantically.
Still holding the glass in my right hand, I hurriedly pressed the receiver to my ear.

"There's been a murder at the Kielun Hotel on Nanking Street—just now."

It was my assistant's voice.
Rushing there now would be pointless.
Since I held no official position, I didn't even know if they'd let me into the crime scene.
But I did know the Kielun Hotel's owner couple.
The fact was, this pair had previously worked as cook and maid at my relative's house.
Having proven faithful and hardworking, I'd naturally supported them when they opened the hotel, and continued assisting them since.
Given this connection, I thought they might grant me some access if I asked.
Though not particularly interested, I felt obliged to my assistant who'd gone through the trouble of informing me. Deciding to go regardless, I threw on my half-coat and left the house.

Despite it still being early evening, the residential area lay hushed and desolate. Grand mansions lined the streets, their sparse streetlights leaving everything dimly lit. Just as I was about to turn the corner, a woman suddenly emerged from the opposite direction and nearly collided with me.

As we passed each other—Oh, what a marvelous fragrance!—I instinctively breathed deep. Houbigant's Quelques Fleurs! Certain that only a true sophisticate or society lady would wear such perfume, I turned to look—only to have my curiosity utterly deflated. Wasn't this just some apron-clad waitress? Her frail little body swam in a plain, cheap Western dress. An oversized hat hid her features, though she clearly wasn't any beauty. Clutching at a mansion's long earthen wall, she walked hunched and unsteady—perhaps some invalid? Now that I thought of it, her breathing when we'd passed had rasped like a consumptive's. But even so—that a common waitress would wear Houbigant!

I stopped for a moment, and as I watched her retreating figure, a sudden curiosity to follow her arose within me.

Turning on my heel, I followed her while keeping out of sight.
At the end of the earthen wall, I turned left, but in front of the fifth or sixth house, I suddenly lost sight of the woman.
I supposed she must have turned into one of the side streets there, but unfortunately, the streetlights were out, making it terribly dark.
But upon closer inspection, it was a house surrounded by a low wooden fence.
But not a single light escaped from within.
It stood hushed, with no sign that anyone lived there.
Inside the gate, weeds grew thickly, and the pitch-black, solitary building somehow appeared utterly dilapidated.
Could it be an empty house?

Had I been mistaken, I wonder?
I stood there suspiciously thinking there was no way she would enter such a house.
It had felt quite long, but even so, perhaps only fifteen or twenty minutes had passed—
The sliding door soundlessly swooshed open, and the woman from earlier emerged.
I hurriedly hid behind the trunk of a roadside tree.

The woman carefully surveyed her surroundings, then passed right in front of where I was hiding and briskly began walking.

When I looked, she appeared like a completely different person; I was first astonished by her splendor.
From head to toe—flawless in every detail, fashionably impeccable—a lavish Western ensemble.
Perhaps because she was wearing high heels, her stature appeared significantly taller; her gait was elegant, and the glimpse of her profile caught in the streetlight’s glow was stunningly beautiful.

Could this be the same woman as before?
What was the purpose of this disguise?
On the way back from a masquerade ball?
The timing didn’t fit that.
It was far too early.

It was said that a certain noblewoman had disguised herself and tailed her husband to uncover his secret rendezvous. I had also heard tales of women who wandered in disguise seeking thrills.
But those were nothing more than games born of curiosity.
Even when they called it a disguise, it amounted to just putting on glasses or changing their hairstyle—they were quickly seen through. In other words, amateur work.

However, this woman’s disguise was far too skillful and thoroughly practiced. Such expertise could not be attained through mere pastime or play. Yet with this, I had finally solved the mystery of the perfume—

Before long, after walking for about ten minutes, she entered through the imposing gate of a corner mansion. Through the welcoming maid’s demeanor, I confirmed she was the lady of this house.

Looking at the nameplate, I learned for the first time who she was.
That was Mrs.K.

3

Having taken quite a detour—when I arrived at the Kielun Hotel, everything stood utterly silent as if all had been settled down, with nobody at the front desk.
Part of it may have been due to the passage of time, but the surroundings remained remarkably composed, bearing no trace whatsoever of a murder having just occurred.
When I peered into the tearoom beside the front desk, there sat owner Mr.Zhang and his wife with their foreheads nearly touching as they whispered furtively about something.

“Ah, welcome!”

Mr. Zhang amiably stood up and welcomed me.

“Didn’t they say there was a murder?”

Mrs. Zhang looked back and forth between her husband and my face, laughing.
Mr. Zhang was smirking sheepishly,

“It was just a mistake.”
“Because some panicked fool went and called it a murder—”
“It turned into a huge commotion, but—”
“Oh well—they died of a sudden illness.”
“It was nothing at all.”

I felt slightly let down.
That was precisely why the house was so quiet inside.

“Was it a death from illness?”

“He died of a brain hemorrhage—the police doctor said so,” his wife chimed in.

“Right.
Well, that’s a relief.
If there were a murder, the other guests would dislike it, you see.
If it was a brain hemorrhage, then there’s nothing to be done about it. This was rather fortunate for us, wasn’t it?”

“If we’d known from the start it was like that, it wouldn’t have been any trouble at all—”
“For a moment there was quite a shock and commotion.”
“The officers came and—”

It was after they had confirmed it was a brain hemorrhage and everyone had withdrawn.
However, since I had come all this way, I thought I should at least have them show me the room under murder suspicion before leaving, so when I requested a tour, the wife readily agreed, led the way up the stairs, and opened the door to Room 13 at the very end—the one with the placard—and entered.

A bleak, truly shabby room.
The sunshade meant to block the western sun was covered in stains, and here and there on the walls were water marks resembling maps.
On the bed in the corner against the wall, a corpse had been laid face down.
A white cloth had been placed over the face, and a neatly arranged quilt covered the body.

“I’ll be worried until someone comes to take care of it.”
“After all, this guest arrived around lunchtime and was already cold by evening.”
“We didn’t even have time to have him fill out the guestbook.”
“We’re troubled because his identity isn’t clear at all,” Mrs. Zhang complained.

I bowed toward the corpse and, as I was about to leave the room, caught a glimpse of a small white object lying in the shadow of the cheap pine bed’s legs.
When I hurriedly picked it up and looked, it was an ivory figurine.
It was no larger than the tip of a little finger—a tiny thing—but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a standing Chevalier figurine wearing a silk hat.
The police had concluded it wasn’t a murder, so it appeared they hadn’t investigated thoroughly.

It was so small and exquisitely made that when I fiddled with it using my fingertips, the silk hat—shaped like a spiral—began spinning round and round.
While spinning it, the hat suddenly came off.
The hat had been a lid.
Inside was filled with fragrant perfume.
It was ear perfume.

I dabbed some on the tip of my little finger and smelled it.
This scent...
Ubigan’s Kerkufleur?
It was that very scent whose mystery should have just been solved.
I said as I handed the ear perfume to Mrs. Zhang.

“This was lying here.”
“Madam, is this yours?”

She was looking at it with a puzzled expression but firmly gripped it in her palm.

After returning to the family room, she placed it on her husband’s palm and said.

“That person—they must have dropped it in a hurry when leaving.”

Mr. Zhang was twirling the ear perfume with his fingertips, sniffing its fragrance, and gazing at it curiously, but—

“Whenever I pass swiftly by the front desk, this scent always wafts over me.”
“This is that Room 13 guest’s scent.”

4

“The guest…? A man?
“A woman?”

“A woman, but—” Mrs. Zhang trailed off ambiguously while watching her husband’s expression, but Mr. Zhang picked up where she left off and stated matter-of-factly:
“That Room 13, you see, was used by the waitress as a meeting spot for trysts.”
“She was quite free with her money—paying a month in advance, and over two years, she never once missed a payment.”
“She pays so properly, you see.”
“At the hotel, she was a valued customer, but—”
“It finally went wrong.”
“What a shame we let that happen.”
“She might not come anymore, I suppose.”

Mr. Zhang said, half to himself, in a genuinely regretful manner.
Mrs. Zhang looked at her husband with evident vexation,

“It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”
“If you’d just stop renting it out—”
“This mess happened because you’re too damn greedy!”

“But you—in two whole years there wasn’t a single time she came two days running.”
“She only just came last night.”
“Never imagined she’d show up again tonight.”
“When luck turns bad, everything goes sour.”
“That waitress went white as a sheet—‘Murderer!’”
“‘Murderer!’”
“If she hadn’t screamed like that, this whole ruckus wouldn’t have happened—”

“Can’t be helped.”
“Anyone’d be shocked.”
“Don’t you think, Madam?”
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Finding some strange man dead in your own rented room.”
“And him all swollen up with blood leaking from his nose—horrid sight.”
“But that waitress kept her head.”
“I’d have fainted clean away.”

“What’s the waitress like?” I asked the two of them.

“I’ve never seen her face—”
“She always comes during the busy evenings when customers are bustling in, and since she has her own key, she doesn’t stop by the front desk but swiftly goes up the stairs, then leaves again before anyone notices.”
“She doesn’t stay overnight, doesn’t come to the dining hall, and even though she rents the room on a monthly basis, she only comes once in a while.”
“So to be honest, if I’m asked what her face looks like, I can’t quite give an answer.”
“But that waitress is quite the philanderer.”
“Partners change, but she remains the same—that’s how it goes.”
“The men change often.”
“The partners are always Westerners—”
“That waitress?”
“She’s such a frail woman, not bothering with her appearance and wearing shabby kimonos.”

“But she’s quite a looker, though.”

“So what happened? When that waitress came for her tryst, there was an unknown man in her own room, and moreover, he was dead—is that what you’re saying?” When I said this, Mr. Zhang hunched his shoulders and replied with a laugh:

“Around noon today,” Mr.Zhang continued, “the guest arrived and went straight to order lunch in the dining hall. He seemed quite the drinker—wine, whiskey, guzzling and gorging himself until he got drowsy from being stuffed full.”
“Let me rest! Where’s the room? Take me there!” he demanded.”
“But as bad luck would have it, every room was occupied.”
“With no choice, we decided to temporarily put him in the waitress’s room and showed him there.”
“The waitress had only come last night—we never dreamed she’d return tonight too.”
“Even before—”
“Whenever that room was free, we found it handy to rent it out again.”
“Besides, this guest wasn’t staying long-term.”
“He told us, ‘I must leave by five in the evening—wake me up.’”
“But we got so swamped that we even forgot about waking him despite being asked.”
“Had we gone to rouse him at five, this whole foolish mess wouldn’t have happened—”

“And we had no idea when the waitress even arrived.”

Mrs. Zhang must have recalled something from that time.
She chuckled quietly.
Then Mr. Zhang also burst into laughter as though he could no longer contain his amusement, but upon seeing me listening with a straight face, he continued speaking while making comical gestures to mask his embarrassment.

“The waitress mistook the person lying in bed for her lover.”
“Hey, you asleep?”
“After saying that, she suddenly slid into the bed, hugged the corpse, and kissed it frantically, I tell ya.”
“Startled by the icy, eerie coldness, she looked closer and realized it was a different person.”
“Moreover, its glazed eyes were slightly open and it wasn’t moving at all.”
“The waitress was shocked—and how!—”
“She went mad—”
“Murderer!”
“Murderer!”
“‘Murderer!’—and she tumbled right down the stairs, I tell you.”
“‘I helped her up and asked what happened,’ said Mr.Zhang, clutching his stomach with laughter, ‘and she glared with upturned eyes, spat vehemently while wiping her mouth with this flimsy handkerchief!’” His mirth proved contagious, and Mrs.Zhang too laughed as she added:

“It must’ve been freezing cold, don’t you think? The corpse’s lips—that bloated man’s—”

"But―"
"Isn't this all too sudden?"

When I said this, Mr.Zhang smirked and answered.

"Oh well, when you're obsessed with a man, that's just how it goes."

"What sort of person was the man she was meeting?"

“He’s a Westerner, you know.”
“A young, handsome man, I tell you.”

“In the end, didn’t that man ever come?”

“He did come,”
“Right in the thick of that commotion, he strolled in nonchalantly, you see.”
“But when he spotted the policeman, he panicked and bolted.”
“As for the waitress—soon as she saw that man—she slipped through like a gust and went tearing out into the street.”
“They were such odd ducks it turned downright laughable.”

Whether that woman and Mrs.K were truly one and the same—having heard this much of the tale, I couldn’t yet conclusively say—but the waitress-like woman I’d encountered on the street had been breathing in a frightfully labored way when we first crossed paths.
She might have been deathly ill or someone reeling from unspeakable horror—in any case, her state was anything but ordinary.
Yet when she emerged from that derelict-seeming house, there wasn’t a trace of infirmity about her.

The virtuous wife of good repute, the waitress who embraced a corpse, the ear perfume—all were enigmas to me.

From this time onward, I came to hold a profound interest in Mrs.K.

5

Two days later, I went to the church ahead of the appointed hour to attend someone’s funeral.
Because I was certain that lady would come there.
Sure enough, when the ceremony was about to conclude, she appeared in mourning attire.
Her elegance and beauty possessed sufficient power to dispel my suspicious gaze.
Had I been mistaken after all?
Had I confused her with someone else?
I wavered.
Yet this tenacious curiosity would not permit retreat, even were it a case of mistaken identity.
From that night onward, I resolved to shadow her.

The next day and the day after that, she did not go out.
On the afternoon of the third day, Mrs.K—dressed in finery—rode in her private car to a prayer meeting, a reception, afternoon tea, and return calls, spending half her day in the sort of busyness befitting a proper society matron. When visiting the final house, she dismissed her automobile, perhaps due to timing, and lingered in calm conversation. By the time she took her leave, evening darkness closed in so thoroughly that faces could no longer be discerned.

Mrs.K hailed a passing taxi and gave some orders in a low voice.
I too hailed a taxi and told the driver to follow hers.

Having suspected she wouldn’t head straight home, I watched as she indeed had the car driven in the opposite direction until it stopped before a large building where she alighted.
The area stood lined with identical buildings that by night felt eerily quiet compared to their daytime bustle—desolate in their uniformity.

Mrs.K pushed open the door and entered, then briskly headed down toward the basement.
The Far East Dance Hall located in this basement had been an exceptionally splendid establishment, renowned for attracting people of various nationalities, but having lost its former prosperity and grown somewhat desolate with dwindling patronage—until recently, when they had conceived this new venture called the Widows’ Club, about whose resurgence I had heard rumors, though I myself had never yet ventured inside.
Tonight marked my first visit.
Mrs.K passed through the dazzlingly bright grand hall and moved toward the rear.
There stood another door bearing the words “Widows’ Club” printed in large letters across its glass panel.
The entrance blackboard displayed text of this nature.

Widows’ Club

○Age of Speed Romance Market

○Love’s Contents Absolutely Confidential

○Real Names Prohibited (Pseudonyms Only)

○Mandatory Use of Masquerade Masks

○Mask Sale (Today’s Special Discount)

○Until 12 Midnight (Excluding Members)

I bought a mask.
Upon closer inspection, Mrs.K was not only properly wearing a mask but had even donned tinted glasses over it—such thoroughness that I couldn’t help being impressed by her preparedness.
Though most of her face remained concealed, the rounded beauty of her pure white, soft-looking skin from chin to neck still displayed ample charm to stir the unfaithful hearts of men.

The grand hall, dazzlingly illuminated, had walls and a ceiling entirely covered in mirrors.
The endless reflections of all things cast the entire room in an uncanny glow.
In some places, mirrors had even been laid across the floor.

Chairs and tables were scattered about haphazardly, with each table designated for one person to occupy, each adorned with a charming wooden sign shaped like Cupid.

On the wooden signs were written names from around the world: Beijing, London, Tokyo, Paris, Nanjing, Berlin, Shanghai, Kyoto, Osaka, New York, Tianjin, Marseille, Hong Kong, Yokohama, and so on.
Among them were also lesser-known place names that had been deliberately inscribed.

Here was a separate world where middle-aged women who had lost their husbands, brazen women who—though not widows—came bearing such facades, idle gentlemen of high society, and men and women who craved novelty gathered—drawn to this marketplace of fleshly transactions and romantic bargains.

The club came alive around ten o'clock at night.
While Chinese boys carried beer and Western liquor to each table, frenzied music that set hearts racing began to play, stirring romantic passions and igniting troubles between men and women.
Guests stationed at cities around the world glanced freely in all directions, sending brazenly erotic signals to those who caught their fancy—even timid souls found they could deliver surprisingly bold winks from behind their masks.

When the clock struck eleven, the courtship games, engagements, and tests of fate finally began.
The tables were already equipped with letter-writing supplies, and the boys had transformed into messengers before one knew it, awaiting the customers’ dispatches.

Tokyo had been sending sidelong glances at New York’s profile since earlier.
On peach-colored paper, Tokyo wrote things like “I am yours… But what about you?”, placed it in an envelope, rang the bell, and entrusted it to the messenger boy.
The letters would cross the sea and travel to distant continents—such was the club’s conceit.

The messenger boys with faces powdered white like operetta performers moved about casually, shoulder bags filled with letters from female patrons dangling from their shoulders.

What still lingers in my eyes is an old woman already covered in fine wrinkles, who had plastered her face in pure white and was trying to appear youthful in gaudy attire.
Because she was called a shameless “male hunter,” she had become the target of everyone’s ridicule, yet she herself remained utterly unperturbed—if anything, carrying herself with evident pride—which I found truly brazen.
But since she was a woman of considerable wealth and renown, young suitors came one after another without end.
Because of this, her correspondence was both the most numerous in quantity and voluminous.

Mrs. K was seated at Paris’s table exchanging letters with Kyoto, though her demeanor suggested reluctant participation.
Kyoto was a Westerner of about thirty-five or thirty-six with a finely profiled face.
While he did appear to have applied rather too much pomade, I kept careful watch—this might well be the man frequenting Kielun Hotel.

At that moment, I noticed the woman past forty seated at Berlin’s table persistently directing her correspondence toward Kyoto.
Kyoto nimbly skimmed her letter with an air of pleasure, theatrically clutching it as though loath to let go—yet when Mrs.K’s reply arrived, he became utterly engrossed, rereading it fervently and sinking into contemplation. Realizing Berlin would receive no further attention, she sighed resignedly, rang for a waiter, and shifted her focus toward London.

Kyoto kept directing his expressive eyes toward Mrs.K, though for reasons unclear she maintained a markedly cold demeanor toward him. To avoid his gaze, she deliberately flashed charming smiles at others, sighing theatrically and furrowing her brows whenever receiving his messages. She went out of her way to ignore him while zealously exchanging notes with Shanghai—[a passage of forty-six characters omitted here]—pursing her lips to send coquettish smiles across the room. Shanghai appeared much younger than Kyoto, every inch the scion of wealth in both bearing and attire. Naturally, he wasn’t Oriental.

Though Mrs.K’s enamored expression suggested complete captivation, to my eyes she merely feigned intimacy with Shanghai to provoke Kyoto. Unable to endure this silently, Kyoto grew increasingly agitated, scribbling letter after letter for the messenger boys to deliver. Yet Mrs.K remained outwardly engrossed with Shanghai, scarcely glancing at these missives before tearing them up and scattering the fragments across the floor. That night she seemed utterly unhinged—her brazen conduct and shrill voice suggesting total abandon. Kyoto, however, doggedly pursued her over it.

Until eleven-thirty, everyone was sitting apart, but as the waiters considerately went around urging them, the men and women who had hit it off soon took seats facing each other at the same tables.
The waiter, fully comprehending the situation, guided Kyoto to Mrs.K’s seat as per usual custom and seated them together.
Then she abruptly stood up and went over to Shanghai’s seat, where he sat alone at a distance.
Kyoto bit his lip with an awkward, displeased expression, glaring fixedly at her retreating figure—his complexion turned an unsettling shade of pale.

As celebratory music began to play, glasses were filled to the brim with liquor.
I simultaneously witnessed the engagements of Marseille and Tianjin, and Budapest and Honolulu being established.

Among them were some quite comical scenes.
The bespectacled Buenos Aires, a man in his forties, found no takers.
Flushed with embarrassment, he kept sending messenger boys to persuade the beautiful-eyed Moscow—a woman around thirty—but in the midst of his repeated attempts, the bell finally rang, bringing everything to an end.

For the waiters, guests yielding immediately wasn’t interesting, but those dawdling too much seemed to dampen their spirits.
Nagasaki’s abandonment of paper and pen to seduce Nanjing—going straight for a kiss instead—was met with roaring applause.

The closing bell rang, and everyone suddenly stood up noisily, beginning their preparations to leave.
When I was being jostled by the crowd of men and women down the basement stairs while trying not to lose sight of Mrs.K as I exited, she abruptly quickened her pace and dashed out into the street.
A tall man chased after her; once he had caught up, she reluctantly began walking shoulder to shoulder with him.
That was the man who had been Kyoto.

Mrs.K irritably raised her hand to hail a passing rickshaw when the man grabbed her wrist and began speaking fervently.
I approached close enough to hear their voices, then hid myself in a dark shadow and strained my ears.

“Quiet!”
“What’s the point of excuses now—”
“My heart will never go back to how it was!”

“Just because of that one little thing—? Does your heart really change that easily? I can’t understand.”

The man shook his head and spoke in a slightly stronger tone. At those words, the woman suddenly became excited, adopting an attitude as if ready to pounce, and began speaking vehemently.

“That’s right. Just as you cannot understand my feelings, I cannot understand yours either. However, no matter how you try to explain it away, I think you bear full responsibility for what happened that night. Even though we promised eight o’clock, you came thirty minutes late—that alone leaves me utterly appalled. If you had gone there first, you would have been the one to discover the corpse on the bed—if you had properly taken care of things, I wouldn’t have had to make such a spectacle of myself there either. Uncanny. Filthy. Merely thinking about it sends shivers down my spine. What a terrifying thing it was! That I encountered such an atrocious ordeal, that I was humiliated before the police and hotel staff—all of it stems from your irresponsibility. To make matters worse, such a heartless man—startled by that commotion and fleeing the moment he saw my face—isn’t human at all! If I remain involved with such a person, there’s no telling what humiliation I might be subjected to in the future.”

Perhaps frightened by the woman’s fury, the man’s voice quivered with a stammering tone.

“But—my watch was slow—”

“Ohohoho.”
“Are you blaming your watch again?”
“How convenient for you, isn’t it?”
“But your wristwatch is laughing.”
“‘What a wrongful accusation,’ it says.”

The woman sneered in a hysterical voice.

“You say I ran away, but in that situation, it would’ve been disastrous for me to show my face.”
“For our mutual sake—especially believing it wouldn’t benefit you—”

“Ohohoho, how eloquently you put it.”
“How very kind of you!”
“But I won’t be buying any more of that forced kindness from you.”
“I’ve had my fill of your long-practiced false kindness.”

“If you misunderstand me like this, there’s nothing I can say.”
“Madam.”
“Please calm down a little more and listen to what I have to say.”

“I’ve had enough.”
“No matter how you twist your words, it’s futile!”
“My feelings have completely left you.”
“Why don’t you stop clinging to a woman who’s done with you and just make your own turnabout already?”
“Why don’t you do it like you did at the Kielun Hotel—turning your back to me and running away?”

She was hurling abuse with palpable hatred.
The man fell silent as if sullen, but from his rough breathing, I could tell how fiercely he was burning with anger.

Just then, two or three empty rickshaws passed by their side.
As soon as she saw this, she suddenly stopped one of them and hurriedly opened the door.
At her swiftness, the man was taken aback and had no time to stop her.
He too frantically tried to leap onto it but was too late.
She snapped the door shut right in front of his face.

"Tsk," the man clicked his tongue in irritation and immediately stopped the next rickshaw that had followed.
The profile illuminated by the automobile’s headlights was ghastly pale, and my heart turned cold at those eyes brimming with murderous intent.
This was because I had discerned a savage shadow upon his beautiful face.

The next moment, I saw his automobile chase after her vehicle like a gust of wind and disappear into the darkness.

6

That night, Mrs.K lay cold upon the entranceway’s stone pavement.
The skull was shattered, the face like a clotted mass of blood with indistinguishable features, and the kimono, soaked in blood, clung to her skin.
The ring had been torn off, and the watch, pocket watch, and all valuables had disappeared.
That alone made it clear it was the work of a robber.

I had seen her only three times; no one doubted the circumstances of her death; the culprit had been apprehended. Since there was no point in exposing the shadowed half of one who had died so splendidly—mourned by all as an upstanding lady—I left Mrs.K's affairs undisturbed and turned my attention to those frequenting the Widows' Club. To my astonishment, among its patrons were a considerable number of ex-convicts and men prowling for trysts with suspects under investigation.
There was a man said to have been executed the previous year, along with unsavory types who carried pistols and counterfeit bills while compelling their womenfolk to exchange legitimate currency.

I came to profoundly realize that secret dalliance might possess great allure, but at the same time remained truly dangerous.
If those people had known what sort of person they had chosen as their partner—

On the day before my return to Tokyo, when I visited Mr. and Mrs. Zhang at the Kielun Hotel, I casually brought up rumors about Mrs.K but found no responsive traction.
These people seemed entirely unaware that the lady had been the barmaid renting the second-floor room.

“What became of that room?” I asked.

“As I thought, it remains sealed just like that.”

I felt slightly strange.

“So, do women come too?”

“No.”
“They can’t come anymore.”
“No matter how much I say—”
“No way.”

“Then—?”

“A man is renting it alone.”

“The man in question?”

“That’s correct.”

“A Westerner?”

“Yes.”

I suddenly remembered the ear perfume.

“What became of the ear perfume?”

Mr. Zhang exchanged glances with his wife and fell silent, but soon said in a low voice:

“It was stolen, you know.”
“We’d placed it on this desk, but it disappeared before we knew it.”
“When did this happen?”
“It was definitely on the desk until four or five days ago.”

“How strange.”
“That’s utterly bizarre.”

“Could it be that the barmaid’s husband took it away?”

“Ah, that might be the case.”

The two of them spoke in unison, as if having reached an understanding for the first time.

“But there’s no justification for taking it without permission.”

“That’s right.”
“Let’s go ask him once.”

I went up to the second floor with the wife. Just when I was trying to find a way to see the man in question, the topic of the missing ear perfume came up, which allowed me to cleverly lure him out. I tapped quietly with my fingertips. At once, the door opened, and a Westerner with a handsome face stuck his head out. The moment our eyes met, my heart gave a jolt. It was because his hair, mustache, and eyebrows all bore such a distinctly gray hue. Surely he couldn’t be the Gray Man.

“Is there something you require?”

Since I couldn’t come up with any sweet words in that moment, I resolved to speak the plain truth.

“The ear perfume that was placed on the front desk’s table has gone missing.”
“Wouldn’t you happen to know anything about it?”

Then the man took out the familiar ivory Chevalier figurine from his pocket, placed it on his palm, showed it to us, and declared without hesitation.

“This one, right?”
“This is my wife’s.”
“Since it was at the front desk, I retrieved it.”

He put away the ear perfume into his inner pocket as though it were something precious.

Then, about half a year later, I heard from someone who had returned from China that the real Gray Man had finally been captured.
They said he was a young Westerner who had been hiding in a Chinese hotel on Nanking Street.
However, whether that was indeed the man I saw—Mrs. K’s lover—remains unknown.

“Don’t you think it feels somehow more tastefully enigmatic to leave it all unresolved—Mrs.K, the Gray Man, even the ear perfume—as perpetual mysteries?”