Pathway to Japanese Literature

To the office of female detective Sakurai Yoko came an urgent call from Takeo Arimatsu, a wealthy man convalescing at his villa in Numazu; he said that a matter he wished to entrust had arisen and requested her immediate presence. Arimatsu was a smooth operator. He was particularly courteous and gentle toward women, a truly splendid gentleman, but for some reason Yoko did not like him. She hesitated to go, but thinking it unprofessional to refuse without cause due to the nature of her work, she departed Tokyo Station aboard the 4:40 PM express train.

By the time the train reached Odawara, the short winter day had already deepened into full darkness. Yoko had just barely wrapped up a certain case and, without a moment to rest properly, immediately found herself aboard the train. Once settled into her seat, all her fatigue hit her at once, leaving her utterly drained. To make matters worse, she was assaulted by intense drowsiness, repeatedly drifting in and out of consciousness. Suddenly, voices could be heard nearby. She listened to them as if in a dream. The voices seemed to be coming from near the corridor.

“It worked.” “But it was a close call.” “After all—they’ve plastered [wanted posters] across every damn train car—”

His tone was rough, but his voice felt thin and soft. No response could be heard. “No matter how tight the manhunt—until we achieve our goal, we mustn’t get caught!”

After a brief pause, then,

“Quit your damn whining—or I’ll finish you off,” he said in a low, intense voice. With that, they fell silent.

However, it was not long after passing through Yugawara that— Suddenly, the same voice shouted “Let’s go!”, and immediately the emergency bell clanged. The train abruptly slowed, lurching toward a stop. Yoko opened her eyes dazedly. At that moment, she saw two shadows throw open the exit door, spring into motion, and leap off. One was a tall, sturdy man in a hunting cap; the other was a small, slender figure with a pale, narrow face.

Eventually, the train ground to a halt with a heavy, grating noise along the rails. The passengers all rose to their feet, and the car erupted into chaos. Through the pitch-dark outside, faces trying to discern the accident were pressed against the windows. But apparently nothing in particular had happened, and the train began moving forward quietly again.

“What happened?” “What happened?”

“Was someone run over?”

Grabbing the passing conductor, the passengers said in an interrogative tone.

“It was nothing serious. Someone must have been playing a prank—all that emergency bell ringing had us completely on edge,” he said with a wry smile. “This is outrageous! Did a passenger do it?” “Did a passenger do it?”

“We’re investigating it, but… we simply can’t determine what happened and are at a loss.” “They pulled a prank and then ran off, didn’t they?” “No, nothing of the sort has occurred. “Not a single passenger has alighted.” “—Every destination has been properly recorded here, one by one.” “If anyone were missing, we’d notice immediately, but not a single passenger is unaccounted for—” The two shadows Yoko had seen—what could they have been? If the passenger count hadn’t changed—then perhaps it had been a dream—but she simply couldn’t believe it had been a dream. However, since those around her were insisting nothing had happened, she decided against introducing unnecessary information and escalating the commotion, so she remained silent.

Then came the sound of a young wife sitting back-to-back, whispering to her official-looking husband.

“For a train to stop somewhere that isn’t even a station—it’s somehow eerie, isn’t it? Who on earth pressed the emergency bell?”

“It must have been an accidental mistake.—After all, with that famous Righteous Thief Ogishi Chizo having escaped prison, the authorities are completely on edge.” “Look here—this train’s crawling with detectives too!”

“Oh, how dreadful!—Then does that mean there are suspicious people aboard this train?” “Well, but—they’re probably keeping close watch.”

“It’s so creepy, isn’t it? When you say such things, everyone’s faces look frightening.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Ogishi is an effeminate-looking man. Not just his face—though a villain, he seems to have a gentle streak. When he pulls off a job, he promptly appears at those pitiful households from the news and gives them alms. So everyone shelters him, and since people describe his appearance as different from his true nature, I hear it took considerable effort to capture him. Another point where Ogishi differed from ordinary burglars was that the houses he targeted were always those of wealthy people who had amassed their fortunes through illicit means.”

“How do you know all that so thoroughly?” “There’s still nothing about it in the newspapers, is there?”

“At that time, I was a judicial officer, you see. I was constantly in and out of the courts, so I know.” “I had always wondered why Ogishi alone was so popular among burglars, but it seems he truly has something different about him, doesn’t he?”

The train arrived safely in Numazu.

Upon alighting onto the platform, Yoko found it somewhat unexpected that Arimatsu was nowhere to be seen. Given how meticulous he was, she had expected that he would surely come to meet her with his own car— She thought he might be waiting at the ticket gate, but he wasn’t there either. Not only that, but not a single person who seemed to be a greeter from Arimatsu had come, and she was somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t even sent a car.

Yoko moved beside the taxi and, while placing her hand on the door,

“Please take me to Mr. Arimatsu’s residence,” she said.

The driver slammed the door shut while simultaneously swinging the steering wheel.

The night wind was cold, and stars glistened in the sky. When the car approached the row of pine trees, a Ford came speeding toward them from the opposite direction. At the moment they passed each other, a burly man in a hunting cap gripping the steering wheel and, beside him, an aristocratic-looking man sitting in the passenger seat flashed into her view—but by the time she started and tried to get a better look, their car had already sped past. She couldn’t shake the feeling that those were somehow the two shadows that had jumped from the train.

Arimatsu’s residence lay silent, yet its double doors stood expectantly open as if awaiting someone’s arrival, so the taxi rumbled noisily through the gate. Still, no one came to greet her. Yoko pressed the entrance bell. No attendant appeared.

Though a light glowed in the inner rooms, the house felt unnervingly still, as though entirely lifeless. She tried ringing the bell again. As she strained her ears, she could hear the sound of footsteps in the distance. She waited two or three minutes, but still no one appeared.

Because Yoko grew a bit impatient, she pressed the bell repeatedly this time.

A pale face

Then, the door opened a crack, and from within peered two timid eyes.

“I’ve come from Tokyo. Please inform Mr. Arimatsu.”

With a wry smile, she presented her business card.

The other party wordlessly extended a slender white hand and accepted the business card. No sooner had she done so than she abruptly flung the door open, her breath catching as though she’d been waiting impatiently—

“Please come in, Madam Detective.” “You’ve come at last!”

She welcomed her with an unexpectedly friendly demeanor.

Yoko realized at a glance that this was the renowned beauty—Arimatsu’s adopted daughter, Miwako. She appeared to be seventeen or eighteen, possessing striking beauty yet drained of color like someone gravely ill. Moreover, her body trembled in small, violent shudders, with faint spasms visible around her lips. Sensing this was no ordinary situation, Yoko gently asked, “Miss, what has happened?”

When she said this gently, Miwako—as if she had reached her limit—suddenly burst into tears. "What’s wrong? Has your father’s illness taken a turn for the worse?"

“No. “Father—that father—” “Your father…?” “He... he’s dead.”

“Wh—? When?” She had heard his voice over the long-distance call just four or five hours earlier. Yoko stood shocked by this sudden reversal. “I don’t know.” Miwako trembled violently as she spoke, “I—I had no idea—I made tea and took it to the study...” “Father was lying face down at his desk—dead. Everything around him... a sea of blood—” “Did he hemorrhage?” “No.” Her voice quivered. “A burglar must have—there was a dagger stabbed through his heart. I—I pulled it out in panic, and then blood... it gushed everywhere—my hands, my arms, my sleeves—all drenched—”

Yoko couldn’t bear to listen to the end. She had Miwako lead the way and rushed to the master’s study.

The room had been completely ransacked, and amidst scattered documents, Arimatsu lay collapsed, stained crimson. In his right hand was a pistol gripped tightly, but he had likely been stabbed through the heart before he could pull the trigger. The dagger that Miwako had pulled out lay discarded on the floor.

“Have you informed the police?” “No—not yet… There’s no one else here.” “I was alone… utterly lost about what to do… Then the bell rang… I froze.” “I thought… I thought the burglar had returned… I was too terrified… I couldn’t go to the door…” “But… oh… how relieved I was… When you arrived… Madam Detective… You saved me.”

“What about the maid?”

“She went shopping in town. “I think she should be back soon, but—” Even though Miwako knew nothing of it, her fingerprints would likely be on the dagger; though coincidental, with the maid having gone out shopping and absent from the house—leaving Miwako entirely alone—what would this situation ultimately entail? Unless the criminal had left some evidence behind and departed, it was only natural that suspicion would fall.

First and foremost, Yoko was worried about that. However, Miwako seemed mentally overwhelmed more by her father having been murdered than by such matters, and when Yoko said she would go inform the police, she frantically stopped her,

“Madam Detective—don’t go anywhere—please stay by my side. I beg of you—” She clung to her hands.

“Then I’ll stay here, so please go ahead, Miss.” Seeing that this was somewhat less frightening than remaining at home, Miwako immediately dashed outside.

The postmortem examination determined that the murder had been committed between 6:00 PM and 7:00 PM. The only person who was at home during that time was Miwako.

The maid said such things in front of the officials.

“Recently, the master had become extremely difficult, constantly irritable, and even at night, he couldn’t sleep peacefully.” “He would listen to the news, then suddenly change his complexion, hastily summon a carpenter from Tokyo to have the locks repaired, and startle at the slightest sound—as if someone were after him.” “Today, he was in a terrible mood from the morning—lashing out at Miss and hurling unbearable insults at her. Even gentle Miss seemed unable to endure it, and it finally escalated into a major argument.” “I heard the master say in a terrifying voice, ‘Miwako’s trying to kill me,’ and ‘I’ll be murdered by you someday.’”

The officials’ eyes were all directed at Miwako. However, she said that between six and seven o'clock, she had been writing a letter in her room on the second floor.

Sure enough, an unfinished letter lay on the desk. The following was written in it. “I could no longer endure the agony of being indebted to someone I should never have relied upon.” When I consider the benevolence of my deceased father’s closest friend—my adoptive father—who took me in after I was suddenly orphaned and raised me to this day, I feel I must not rebel against him. Yet it pains me to be accused from the very outset of coveting the Arimatsu family’s wealth, and it wounds me deeply that my adoptive father detests how my face, unlike my mother’s, grows increasingly similar to my late father’s—to the point where he sometimes covers his eyes to avoid looking at me. If he were a close friend, one would expect him to feel nostalgic—so why does he detest it? I wonder. Yet upon reflection, that too is only natural. Because my late father was the kind of man who murdered my mother and then went mad in prison and killed himself. I do not fully understand what motive drove my father to kill my mother, but given that he was said to be intensely emotional and prone to fits of passion, I imagine he must have committed such a grave crime out of some simple impulse.

As a result of loving my mother too much, he became extremely possessive—I remember him getting angry even if she just spoke with another man. He was easily excited and quick-tempered but would regain his cheer just as quickly. That too is said to be just like me. Once I lose my temper, I can become quite violent. Today I was like a madwoman for half the day. Why? Because my adoptive father—ignoring his own carelessness—accused me of losing his tie pin and berated me harshly. He said I must have planned to steal it and run away, ending with something like, “They say upbringing trumps lineage, but blood will out in the end, huh?”

I snapped at those words and slammed the single-stem vase that was there onto the floor. Of course, in my mind, I had thrown it at my adoptive father— My adoptive father glared and struck me. With the single-stem vase I had thrown, I was beaten mercilessly and left covered in bruises.

I will leave this house today—I have resolved to work as a typist. I will earn my own living through labor. Rather than enduring this bed of needles, I shall courageously forge through brambles. If my adoptive father is to be believed—that my own father was mad—then I too may succumb to madness someday and commit unspeakable acts. His morbid dread would surely abate once I’m gone, for I sense he secretly fears me as much as... “I too am terrified of my adoptive father—”

The letter was confiscated as evidence, and Miwako was taken away from the scene.

The Righteous Thief’s Visit

Had Arimatsu foreseen his death, or had he sensed some impending danger that drove him to call Yoko? If only he had boarded one train earlier, he might have escaped that peril—she thought regretfully of the missed opportunity.

Yoko, who had boarded the last train, was utterly exhausted, yet her eyes remained strangely alert, and she couldn’t bring herself to doze off.

When she returned home, a guest was waiting in the parlor; she finished discussing their business and saw them out at the entrance—by then, it was already nearing one o’clock.

After telling the maid who had come to clean up to rest early, she remained alone in the parlor. Because she wanted to think quietly alone without being disturbed.

Miwako’s fate was far too tragic; she felt an ache that tightened her chest. Her biological father had killed her mother and died in prison; now her adoptive father had met a violent end—the rare beauty orphan’s background seemed as though painted in blood.

The night deepened gradually.

Yoko remained motionless, sunk in thought. The gas stove’s flame appeared blue.

Then came a sound like someone creeping through the garden. At this hour! With this thought, she opened the window and gazed outside but saw nothing; the shrubbery's darkness lay thick and utterly still.

She closed the window and drew a chair near the stove; just as she thought she heard another faint noise, this time a grating, teeth-on-edge sound rang out. When she turned to look, a shadowy figure appeared at the window; in the split second she was startled, the glass was cut, the latch undone, and a masked man slipped nimbly into the room.

Yoko stood up, and when she tried to press the bell, the man grabbed her hand.

“Please don’t call anyone.” “Please don’t make a fuss—I didn’t come to rob your home.” “I came because I wanted to meet you, Madam Detective—”

“Then why didn’t you come through the front door and ask to be let in?” “From the front entrance—I am not in a position to make such an approach—” Contrary to what one would expect from a ruffian who had shattered the parlor’s glass window to force his way in, his voice was soft and gentle—indeed, it even seemed somehow familiar.

The man eventually placed the dagger on the table. Yoko glanced sidelong at it. He rummaged through his pockets, placed a diamond-studded ring and two or three nails on the table alongside it, then wordlessly patted his pockets. He seemed intent on demonstrating that he no longer carried even a single blade on his person. Since he had gone to the trouble of breaking in late at night despite the danger—and she assumed he must have extraordinary business—Yoko pointed to one of the chairs,

“Please, have a seat,” she said, then added formally, “Just who are you?” she demanded.

The man removed his mask. She was startled; that face was familiar. When they had passed each other in Numazu’s pine-lined streets, he had been sitting beside the driver—an aristocratic-looking man. No doubt one of the shadows that had leapt from the train was also this same man. It was only natural that she had thought his voice sounded familiar. Because she had already heard his voice speaking in the corridor. While observing her astonished face, he remained perfectly composed,

“I am Ogishi Chizo, the escaped convict,” he declared. Yoko was startled a second time.

“Were you surprised?”

She couldn’t respond for a moment.

The man who had removed his mask had a beautiful face like that of a fair-skinned woman. Had he arrived as a lone visitor through the front door, even if he had introduced himself as Ogishi Chizo, the Righteous Thief, she likely would not have believed him. Not a trace of viciousness could be seen in either his demeanor or appearance; on the contrary, he even looked like a kind-hearted nobleman. “Madam Detective, please grant me a moment of your time to hear what I must say.”

Yoko could not possibly refuse that request. Though he had such a kind face, if she were to refuse his entreaty, it was unclear what attitude he might adopt. "I accept," she said. "But—the night grows late, so please make your story brief."

Ogishi, looking pleased, bent slightly at the waist, "I thought you would say that." "Just as I thought—my eyes did not deceive me!" he murmured.

After a brief silence,

“The reason I escaped prison this time—it was absolutely not for my own sake. “It was for that man—no, to fulfill a certain man’s request. “Madam Detective, I shall speak nothing but the truth before you. After hearing it, I earnestly beg of you—please lend me your strength.”

Jealousy.

Ogishi Chizo straightened his collar and began to speak.

“I have never failed in anything I set out to do. This marks my second prison escape—both successful. The first was to eliminate a traitor; this time, to fulfill an innocent prisoner’s dying wish. Though no ninja, I excel at diverting attention to achieve my goals—escaping prison itself isn’t hard. But once out... in cases like this, my strength alone won’t suffice. I must find someone willing to hear a prisoner’s plea—that became its own trial. This must trouble you, Madam Detective—but consider yourself fate’s chosen arrow. I ask you to bare your shoulder for this cause.”

“Depending on your story—if it’s something within my power, I will do anything I can,” she readily agreed.

“I heard a truly pitiful story from a death row inmate.” “As for how I—also a prisoner—came to hear this from one who should have been in solitary confinement, I beg you not to inquire.” “All I require is for you to hear this tale, Madam Detective—then my obligation will be discharged.” “I shall eliminate all extraneous matters.” “Oh, you need only convey the crucial points.”

“That death row inmate also went mad and committed suicide long ago,” said Ogishi, closing his eyes for a moment. After a moment, he resumed speaking, “Let us call this man Joji for now.—Joji was born in America but lost both parents at an early age; with no siblings and utterly alone, he was taken in by a compassionate missionary who dearly loved him. Eventually, they came to Tokyo together, and Joji entered school. However, as he couldn’t speak the language well and was accustomed to Western ways, he found no one willing to befriend him.” “He was always huddled alone in a corner of the schoolyard, looking lonely.” “Perhaps feeling pity for this, among the upperclassmen there was one person who kindly looked after him.” “Before long, the two became as close as brothers,” he said as he struck a match and lit a bat.

“Joji, who had made his first friend, was truly beside himself with joy.” “He would confide everything in his closest friend and seek advice—that was his way.” “After several years passed, the missionary died, and by his will, a vast inheritance came tumbling into his pocket.”

“That sort of thing does happen often with Westerners, doesn’t it?” “When the missionary passed away—since being alone in such a large house felt lonely—his close friend introduced him to a widow’s household he knew.” “Joji moved into that home under the promise of being treated as family.” “He began commuting to school from there, and his close friend would constantly visit to look after him in every way possible.” “The widow had a strikingly beautiful daughter named Fuyuko, and Joji began whispering passionate words of love to her.” “When his close friend heard this, he made a bitter face and repeatedly cautioned him.” “‘Fuyuko’s a delinquent—give up on her! A woman like that isn’t fit to be your wife—you’ve got a future ahead! Besides, she’s just some poor man’s daughter,’ he harshly disparaged.” “Yet Joji couldn’t bring himself to abandon his feelings, so he proposed despite his friend’s attempts to dissuade him.” “The widow was overjoyed, but the one who truly mattered never gave a clear answer.” “Still, they eventually married.” “Whatever Fuyuko felt, Joji was happy.” “The following year, a darling girl was born, and his close friend became a constant fixture in their home—practically part of the family.” “But for reasons unknown, Fuyuko seemed to dislike him, and this alone cast perpetual shadows over Joji’s heart.” “‘If he’s my closest friend,’ he kept thinking, ‘I wish she’d at least be civil...’”

“He must have been quite an innocent man.”

“Seven or eight years passed like a dream.” “Fuyuko had a young sailor cousin named Sen-chan who brought souvenirs whenever he returned from voyages.” “The two had grown up together since childhood—as close as real siblings.” “Joji watched their bond with warm approval, but his closest friend had already begun suspecting something illicit between them and repeatedly warned him.” “Though he never doubted his wife’s fidelity firsthand, hearing such graphic accusations so often finally made him wonder—could there be truth to them?”

“Being the words of his closest friend, he must have believed them all the more.”

“Well, from that point on, he could no longer look upon the two with the same calm eyes as before.” “Though still half in doubt, his close friend grew impatient and said, ‘Very well—if my word means so little—I’ll show you proof.’” “Show me,” Joji demanded. “I could show you,” the friend replied with an odd chuckle, “but it’s dangerous if you grow agitated.” Joji retorted fiercely, “If it’s untrue, I’ll never forgive you!” “‘The friend laughed again,’ I was about to continue—when the parlor clock suddenly struck two.” Ogishi turned briefly to glance at the timepiece before resuming his tale,

“Then on the night of the class reunion,” Ogishi continued, “his close friend came rushing to fetch Joji from the gathering.” “When they returned home together—sure enough—boisterous laughter came ringing from the back annex.” “Her cousin Sen-chan had come visiting.” “At his friend’s urging, they wound up hiding in the closet of the adjoining room to spy on them.”

“Where was the girl at that time?”

“She was sitting on Sen-chan’s lap, eating chocolate.” “Play the shamisen for me,” said Sen-chan. Fuyuko took out the shamisen from the cupboard and tuned it. “What shall we play today?” “What shall we play today?” she repeated. Sen-chan said in a feverish voice, “That part where Kesa Gozen gets beheaded—what was it called?” Fuyuko laughed brightly and replied, “Toba’s Love Mound.” “His wife had studied nagauta since childhood and seemed quite confident in it, but Joji—who liked the organ but hated the shamisen—had forbidden her from ever playing it.” “Instead, he had bought her a splendid grand piano.”

“Then it doesn’t seem like Mr. Joji truly loved Ms. Fuyuko, does it? He’s far too inconsiderate—could a woman ever love a man who tries to have everything his way?” Yoko tilted her head slightly. Ogishi smiled as though in agreement.

“In any case, Joji was furious from the very fact that she was playing the shamisen—the instrument he had expressly forbidden.” After a while, Fuyuko began to sing in a clear, beautiful voice. “‘*And so Endō Musha Moritoe—more than spring’s mist-shrouded blossoms in early Yayoi—yearned for your visage by Midori Bridge’s memorial; dawn to dusk flows this river of longing; love-tossed soul adrift between dream and waking…*’”

When they reached that point, suddenly Sen-chan said in a sentimental voice, “I’m setting sail again tomorrow. I brought a record so you could record *Toba’s Love Mound* for me.” “If I want to hear your voice, I’ll play this record,” he said. Fuyuko’s voice was low and indistinct, but Joji felt suffocated nonetheless, clammy sweat seeping through his skin. Yet his close friend kept a firm grip on him, preventing him from leaving the closet. “Though peering through the gap, he couldn’t see clearly—but he sensed Sen-chan and Fuyuko’s hands occasionally brushing against each other. He could no longer remain still,” Ogishi said with a heavy sigh, as if recounting his own ordeal.

“Before long, preparations for the recording were complete in the next room, and the girl went there.” “Fuyuko’s upper body was visible as she played the shamisen, but Sen-chan remained out of sight.” “The close friend kept lightly prodding Joji’s body. ‘Look there—see? What do you think?’” “He whispered things like that—but Joji couldn’t see anything.” “His close friend seemed even more absorbed than he was.” Ogishi paused briefly, cleared his throat with a light cough, then continued speaking.

“However, just as he sensed Sen-chan rising to his feet, he saw the man’s hand reach his wife’s shoulder at the same moment.” “Joji felt a wave of dizziness.” His hot blood surged to his head, robbing him of all reason; he shook off his close friend’s attempts to restrain him and staggered out of the closet. “He appeared so abruptly that Fuyuko froze in shock, then cried out, ‘What?!’ and clung to Sen-chan.” “It was hopeless now.” Joji, heedless of everything, lunged at them. “Then, for some reason, the light abruptly went out, and the room plunged into utter darkness.” “At that moment, he felt a blade being passed into his hand.” “Perhaps he had accidentally grabbed one that happened to be lying there—but in any case, the moment he gripped it, he flew into a rage.” As Ogishi spoke, his eyes too began to take on a murderous glint.

“Joji swung the dagger wildly, rampaging about, but met no resistance. Delirious with rage, he crashed into pillars and tore through sliding doors—then, when his wife suddenly screamed, he grew even more frenzied.” “Ah!” “Amidst Fuyuko’s screams of ‘You—help me! Wh-what?!’ came a terrifying voice: ‘He did it!’” “A terrifying voice—‘He did it!’—and with it came the heavy thud of someone collapsing.” “Joji went mad and swung the dagger wildly.” “Help! You—restrain Mr. Takeo—!” “Even his wife’s desperate cries for help, screamed at the top of her lungs, meant nothing to Joji in his frenzied state.” “Eventually, he became utterly exhausted and collapsed on the spot.” “Who had alerted them? With a thunderous clamor, police officers stormed in and effortlessly apprehended Joji.” “By that time, both Sen-chan and Fuyuko had already breathed their last.”

“The girl survived, didn’t she?”

“The girl, in her frenzy—thinking it was something precious—clutched that record and fled deeper inside.”

Record

“As Joji gradually calmed down, he wrestled with the horror of his crime.” “In an instant, he’d killed two people—one being his irreplaceable beloved wife.” “His close friend appeared to have fled home before the chaos began—when the police arrived, he’d vanished without a trace.” “There in that sea of blood, he stood alone, clutching the dagger in a daze as if unconscious.”

“Wasn’t it the close friend who passed him the dagger?”

“Perhaps?—he did consider it,” Ogishi said, “but since the dagger was his own and there was no evidence—there was nothing he could do.” “Moreover, after that, his close friend showed him such unwavering kindness—” “From hiring a lawyer to campaigning for a reduced sentence—he even promised to take the girl under his wing and raise her into a proper young lady.” “It reached the point where you’d think even a brother wouldn’t dedicate himself so completely.” “Joji wept with gratitude—regretting having doubted him even briefly—and entrusted everything to him, from managing all his assets to securing the girl’s future... or so I heard.”

“He must be quite the upstanding gentleman.”

“But as days passed, doubts began to arise in his mind.” “He kept thrusting wildly but never once felt the resistance of flesh being pierced.” “And yet Fuyuko had been stabbed through the back into her lungs, and Sen-chan through the heart.” “He simply couldn’t make sense of it.” “As his memories gradually coalesced, even his wife’s dying words—‘You, Mr. Takeo, restrain him!’—seemed strange. If her own husband had been the one trying to stab her, why would she plead with that same husband for help?” “He began to suspect someone else had done it under cover of darkness.” “Who could that someone be?” “If anyone else had been present, it could only have been his close friend—yet not only did that man leave no evidence behind, he was already gone when the police arrived—”

“Who went to inform the police?”

“It was a public phone,” Ogishi said. “Of course they never discovered who made the call.” “So Joji too began to wonder...?” “He tried suspecting his close friend—but even if that man had done the killing, his subsequent kindness was so overwhelming that Joji couldn’t bring himself to resent him.” “Whatever happened, he resolved to shoulder the guilt alone.” “Yet when he thought calmly about it—how absurd it all seemed! With no memory of committing the act, he felt compelled to fight it through to the end.” “Then he retraced his memories more carefully—how Fuyuko’s mother had once mentioned that before Joji met her, his close friend had proposed marriage; how viciously that friend had hated Sen-chan; how Fuyuko herself had detested and avoided him—and when he pieced it all together, he gasped involuntarily and bit his lip.”

“Mr. Joji came to realize for the first time that he had fallen right into his close friend’s treacherous scheme, didn’t he?”

“That’s correct.” “When he thought of how his beloved wife had been killed, how he was to be executed for a crime he didn’t commit, and how he’d even granted control of the fortune inherited from his benefactor to a man who might as well have been his enemy—his fury reached its peak.” “Then, not long after, he went mad and took his own life.”

“What happened to the close friend?” “Using Joji’s money to engage in speculation, he has now become extremely wealthy.”

“What about the girl?”

“That’s precisely the issue,” he continued. “When the girl comes of age, she’ll inevitably resent Joji.” “Her resentment can’t be helped—but imagining how she must live in shame before society becomes unbearable.” “To fulfill Joji’s desperate wish—that you might uncover the true culprit and prove her father’s innocence—this is why I’ve come to beg this favor of you.”

Yoko was perplexed.

“But there isn’t a single piece of evidence, is there?” “The evidence remains on the record.”

“That record—it’s no longer there, is it?”

“By some strange turn of events, it came into my hands.” “So I suddenly thought the day had come to fulfill Joji’s promise, which is why I escaped prison.—I heard that one of my associates broke into a mansion during a robbery and found a record among some stolen garments. When they took it home and played it, what was on it was so dreadful that destroying it felt unsettling, so they decided to hide it beneath the floorboards of a temple.”

“Where is the mansion that was burgled?” “It’s Arimatsu Takeo’s house in Numazu.”

“In that case—”

Ogishi smiled.

“I am the one who killed Arimatsu.” “Actually, when I escaped from prison last time, I visited him and told him about Joji’s story.” “Arimatsu confessed that he himself had killed both of them, so I urged him to surrender honorably.” “Despite his sworn oath to surrender, he had not done so to this day.” “Probably, when he heard that I would soon be captured and sent to prison, he must have felt relieved.” “However, after learning of this recent escape from the news, he became utterly terrified and—intending to request my capture—probably went so far as to make a long-distance call to you, Madam Detective.”

“What about the two shadows that jumped off the train?”

“One was me, and the other was my accomplice—the man who stole the record.” “Why did you have that conversation in the passageway? Didn’t you think it would be dangerous if someone overheard?”

“I only intended for you to hear it, Madam Detective.” “Since everyone was startled by the emergency bell, if you were to report hearing suspicious voices, Madam Detective, wouldn’t that stir up an even greater commotion?”

“Why did you do such a thing?”

“I wanted to prolong the stop.” “I thought it would be problematic if you visited me while I was working.” “However, I had no intention of killing Arimatsu either—but when he suddenly pointed a pistol at me—” “In that case, I’m afraid I must have you surrender now.” “Otherwise, suspicion will remain on poor Miss Miwako—”

“Of course, I will surrender.” “If you would kindly accept this matter, my task will be finished, so there’s no need to linger here any longer.”

Ogishi took out the record from his pocket and placed it on the table. Yoko played the record. The two were tense. “Like dew destined to vanish—crushing grass underfoot through the garden path, Moritō crept closer. Though moonlight shone clear, love’s darkness—Agh—! You—help—! Mr. Takeo’s attacking Sen-chan—! You! “You, come quickly—hold Mr. Takeo down! —Ugh, this bastard—he did it!” “Don’t lose your senses! What grudge could you have against me—what will killing me accomplish?! Ah! You—!” “H-help! M-murder! You—save—” The violent noise interspersing the words sounded as if vividly recounting the scene. The words cut off there, leaving only the lonely sound of the needle spinning in an eerie silence that seemed to sink into darkness. Yoko shuddered. “With such solid evidence—” She let out a cry of triumph.

The violent static intermingled with words—it seemed to recount the scene exactly as it had unfolded. The words broke off there; afterward, in an eerie silence that seemed to sink into darkness, only the forlorn sound of the needle turning could be heard.

Yoko shuddered,

“With all this conclusive evidence—” she cried out. “Madam Detective, then I leave this in your hands.” “When I consider how I’ve finally fulfilled the death row inmate’s request today, my chest feels unburdened.—Having escaped prison, my punishment will surely grow harsher.” “Yet the load upon my heart has eased.” “Please watch over Miss Miwako’s future as well.”

“Understood.”

Stepping on the frost of dawn, the Midnight Visitor vanished without a trace.