Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Honjo Tsuneo and Tatsuma Hisashi fled frantically through the driving rain. Bending their bodies double and driven by the wind, they ran headlong through the night-shrouded streets. At that moment, Tatsuma Hisashi—who had been running alongside him—suddenly twisted his body and veered into a side street. As he tried to turn next, Honjo saw a large man emerge abruptly from the darkness ahead, pursuing Tatsuma as if flying after him. Danger! Won’t he catch him? Startled, he froze in place while involuntarily crying out in his heart.

Having been invited by Tatsuma to a gambling den they were visiting for the first time, they’d had the misfortune of encountering a police raid, which forced the two to flee for their lives all the way here. Tonight of all nights, every last taxi seemed occupied by passengers—not once did they spot an empty cab. There was no helping it now—no matter how late it grew, no matter how soaked through he became, he’d have to resign himself to walking all the way back to Koyama. Just as this grim resolution took hold, mercifully, an empty cab came into view. The moment the hazy lamp illuminated that blessed 'Vacant' sign and it seared his vision, Honjo—overcome with salvation-like joy—forgot himself and thrust his signaling arm high, barely waiting for the cab to halt before,

“To Koyama—no, Nishi-Koyama!” No sooner had he said this than he grabbed the steering wheel with his right hand and leapt inside. “Ah!” He suddenly stumbled over something and lurched forward. In that instant, he thrust both palms and knees onto something squishily soft yet elastic—something almost like rubber.

"What is this?" When he groped around carefully, he felt something uncanny. It was cold yet smooth, exactly like human skin. Unfortunately, with the interior light off, the taxi was dark, and even the occasional streetlamp shining through the glass windows failed to reach beneath the seats. “Hey, could you just turn on the light?”

The driver didn’t respond. The driver’s voice had been stolen by the wind and rain—it seemed he couldn’t hear.

“Tch.”

Honjo clicked his tongue while rummaging through his pockets and struck a match. At the same moment, he flung the match away and fell back onto the seat. A doll? No—it was a person. A young woman. And she was dead. The shock froze his entire body; not even a scream escaped his throat. All he managed was a sharp intake of breath.

The next instant, his vision swam; everything went dark. His body stiffened strangely, making even the slightest movement impossible, yet his knees alone trembled violently, draining away what little strength remained to stand. The metallic reek of blood assaulted his nostrils.

When he had calmed down somewhat, driven by morbid curiosity, he struck another match, crouched down, and looked properly this time.

She was probably around twelve or thirteen—a finely dressed young girl. Her face remained unclear as it was turned downward, but her wavy bobbed hair cascaded disheveled around her nape with an indescribable beauty. The blood flowing from the shoulder of her pink dress trailed down her slender, waxen arm like a crimson thread, dripping onto the white rubber mat to pool in its sunken depression. Thinking to lift her up, he gently touched her body, only for a slick red substance to cling thickly to his palm. It wasn’t just his palms—looking closer, blood clung to his trouser knees and the cuffs of his dress shirt. He was covered in blood.

Honjo thought. What would people think if they saw this? At my feet lay a dead woman; beside her crouched a blood-soaked, drenched man—and given how agitated he was... Well, under these circumstances, I’d look like nothing less than the prime suspect. Utterly absurd! Getting mixed up in something like this would be disastrous. He was suddenly overwhelmed by terror and thought to flee. He intended to leap from the moving car, placed his hand on the door—but then reconsidered and stopped.

He sat down as if his legs had given way, let out a loud "Hah..." of a sigh, and unintentionally muttered in his heart. This has nothing to do with me! It’s just that I happened to share this taxi—merely had the bad luck of getting in right after a crime. That’s all there is to it. So what if suspicion falls on me? Where’s the need to run away?

But more importantly— He drove through the late-night streets sharing a taxi with a dead beauty. Such a rare twist of fate didn’t come around often. To abandon this good fortune and try to escape—what a waste! "What a foolish idea I had—" His abnormal curiosity gradually began to stir. At that point, he no longer felt scared or anything; rather, he even thought to take full advantage of this perfect opportunity to thoroughly satisfy his usual morbid curiosity.

At that moment, the corpse appeared to move slightly. Next came a faint, sigh-like sound. "Huh. Did she revive?" Honjo hurriedly pressed his fingers to her lips. She was unmistakably breathing. When he gripped her wrist, a pulse—so faint at first it barely registered—gradually grew distinct against his fingertips. Her warmth seemed to be returning too. "She hadn't died after all!"

What a relief! Now that she'd revived, things were likely to get even more intriguing.

Taking advantage of the driver’s ignorance, he resolved to take this girl to his own apartment. Caring for her seemed to be part of the discoverer’s duty—or so he rationalized. He thought as he faced the girl. If he were to carry her out without the driver noticing, what method should he take? If he botched it and got caught, that would spell trouble—the driver would undoubtedly go straight to the police. This is no joke—how could I possibly do such a foolish thing? I just barely managed to escape—

But there was likely no way to do it without being noticed at all. Carrying out a single person was no simple matter—no matter how small the woman was. And he racked his brain intensely over that. As the car passed near the pleasure district, he caught sight of a teahouse’s light and suddenly hit upon a brilliant idea. Without riding all the way to Koyama Apartments, he had the driver stop midway, “At that teahouse over there—get this broken into change.”

he said, handing the driver a five-yen note,

“I’m afraid I’m all out of small change—” he added deliberately, as if muttering to himself.

After confirming that the driver had taken the bill and dashed out into the rain, Honjo lifted the girl, limp as a dead snake. Small-framed but deceptively heavy, holding her tucked under his arm proved surprisingly taxing. In his haste, he hoisted her over his shoulder and walked. Struggling through the mud—shoes sucked into the mire one moment, slipping the next—he finally reached the apartment stairs, carried her to his room, laid her down on the bed against the wall, and for the first time saw the girl’s face under the electric light.

What loveliness! She looked exactly like a sleeping Western doll—her slender face and the skin from her chin down her neck appearing smooth and glossy, with a pure whiteness rare among Asians. Her eyes, veiled by long lashes that suggested elegant contours, would surely be breathtaking when opened. Honjo involuntarily let out a low sigh of admiration, utterly captivated. Poor thing—her Western-style dress clung to her skin from chest to shoulder with congealed blood. Someone must have stabbed her with a sharp dagger or something—what a terrible thing to do, injuring an angelic girl like this. Given the amount of blood, she must have sustained a severe wound, but he couldn’t pinpoint where exactly—probably around her left shoulder—so he gently draped his handkerchief over the area.

She was breathing faintly, but the girl showed no signs of regaining consciousness. He was starting to get worried.

"I wonder if I need to call a doctor," he thought. Fortunately, he remembered that his close friend—who had just graduated from medical school this year—had recently moved into the neighborhood.

"That's it. "I'll ask that guy." Once he realized this, he hurried outside. Once outside, he remembered the taxi from earlier, but the car was nowhere to be seen. He dashed off distractedly while getting soaked by the rain."

Waking his soundly sleeping friend, “You’ve got a patient in critical condition. Can’t you come right away?” “Critical condition? Who?” he asked in a sleepy voice, only his head emerging from the futon, eyes still closed. “It doesn’t matter who. I’ll explain that later.”

“Is the patient a man? “Or a woman?” “When I think about getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night like this, it makes me wanna quit being a doctor.”

The friend reluctantly got up, but having been roused from deep sleep, he was in an extremely foul mood. “I’ll explain everything in detail later. Just hurry up and examine her already! While we’re wasting time like this—it’ll be too late! She might already be dead!” “You’re really worked up, aren’t you—I hadn’t the slightest idea. I hadn’t the slightest idea you had such a woman!” “She’s not my woman.” “It’s downright scandalous, dragging another man’s woman into your place in the middle of the night.”

“Cut it out. This isn’t some stupid joke! A human life’s at stake! You think this is funny?”

The rain let up, but the north wind carried a biting chill. Honjo took the lead, walking in great bounding strides.

He raced up the apartment stairs and burst into his room—only to freeze in shock. The gravely wounded person who should have been lying on the bed had vanished like smoke. But as proof it wasn’t a dream, bloodstains dotted the sheets like scattered crimson flowers.

But that wasn’t the only shock. The room itself had been thoroughly ransacked—every cupboard torn through, every bookcase upended, every last drawer flung open. Documents lay scattered everywhere, and from an inkpot knocked to the floor, viscous black ink oozed out to stain the boards. After Honjo had gone out, someone must have slipped in—trashed the place searching for something—then made off with the girl too. But this scale of devastation beggared belief. There was nowhere to plant a foot. Seeing Honjo standing there like a fencepost, his friend curled a sneer and spoke.

“This place is a godawful mess. So… where’d you stash that critically ill woman, huh?” He bristled and answered brusquely. “Damn it! As you can see, she’s run away!”

“What in blazes happened here?” “Did a thief break in?” “All because you’ve got money worth stealing—”

“Do I look like I have any money?” he snapped, though today was in fact payday. Normally he would’ve left it in his desk drawer, but luckily he’d taken it with him when he went out. “But hey, you’re doing well enough to attract burglars!” Honjo gave a wry smile and did not answer. “Do take a good look around." “Something must have been stolen!” “On my way back, I’ll stop by the police box and tell them about it.” “You should at least file a report, y’know.”

He hurriedly stopped that. “It’s fine. There’s nothing here worth stealing, so just drop it already. It’s too much trouble—but having the place turned upside down like this, cleaning up’s gonna be a real pain.” “If you think of it as moving house, it might not be so bad. Anyway—so I guess my business here’s done then. I’m heading out.” After yawning wide and seeing his friend off, Honjo stuck his head into the cupboard again. He even looked under the bed. Suppose she’d come to naturally and found herself in this strange place—she’d surely try to run. But in that condition she couldn’t walk—maybe she was hiding somewhere in the room after all. —

"If that’s the case… was she taken away after all?"

He was disappointed. He found himself irrationally irritated, even resenting the five-yen bill he’d handed the driver.—But what kind of thief would haul away a half-dead girl? This wasn’t some ordinary burglar—they must have been scheming something. Perhaps they had been observing my actions from the very start tonight, aiming to exploit my weakness and extort money or valuables. But even so, it’s a bit strange. If they were going to extort me, why did they take the girl away? He couldn’t fathom the reason.

But who on earth was that blood-drenched girl? Her clothing had been impeccable, her features bearing an unassailable nobility—anyone could tell at a glance she came from exalted origins. There must certainly be some profound scheme behind this. The secrets festering in crime's underbelly—to uncover those would surely prove fascinating.

He sat on the edge of the bed, growing fatigued from continuous thinking until he finally plopped down as he was—even changing the bloodstained sheets now felt too burdensome—but when he tried to sleep, his mind became unnervingly clear again, leaving him unable to drift off.

2

Yet he must have fallen asleep at some point, for when the apartment manager roused him, the nearly noon sun was already spilling over the foot of his bed, its glare so intense he could barely open his eyes. Of course it was bright—last night he’d even forgotten to lower the blinds before falling asleep.

The apartment manager, while handing over the brown envelope he’d been holding, gave a suspicious glare and looked at his face. “They say it’s urgent.”

He said curtly, and while leaving the room, turned back once more to sneak a glance at him. In those eyes was a plainly evident look of contempt. Since even around his lips a sneer seemed to hover, Honjo felt an unpleasant sensation. But when he flipped over the envelope he’d been given, his face abruptly paled in shock.

"Damn it!" he cried out inwardly. That was a summons from the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Beads of oily sweat immediately began oozing across the wings of his nose. Tatsuma Hisashi must have been caught—or else, perhaps they'd apprehended whoever took the girl while fleeing. However you looked at it, things had taken a bizarre turn. His fingertips trembled as he broke the seal. Yet remarkably, the letter turned out to be an unofficial summons—and that its sender was none other than the renowned Inspector Miyaoka came as an unexpected relief. He'd heard rumors this particular officer possessed an unusual warmth for a policeman. Better still—they hailed from the same hometown. Turning these facts over in his mind, he found a sliver of hope that restored some vigor. At any rate, he needed to present himself immediately—arriving late would only invite suspicion. With this thought, he sprang up. Having seen Inspector Miyaoka's face beyond newspaper photos, he felt an odd familiarity; though the inspector wouldn't know him, this prior acquaintance made it feel less like meeting a stranger.

Honjo, believing it necessary to make as favorable an impression as possible, applied oil thickly to his hair and smoothed it neatly, meticulously shaved his beard, and took particular care with his grooming. The suit he’d worn until last night lay tossed in the corner of the bed, but when he spread it out, the trouser creases had vanished completely, splotched here and there with mud and bloodstains—a wretched, wrinkled mess. Even sending it to the cleaners as-is felt too risky. He packed them away along with the bloodstained sheets at the trunk’s bottom and shoved them deep into a cupboard. He put on the freshly pressed brown outing suit, then headed out with an air of nonchalance—doing his utmost to keep his composure—but the pounding in his chest would not subside.

He got off the train at Sakuradamon, but never before had the Metropolitan Police Headquarters seemed as strict—as utterly terrifying—as it did today. Looking down as he tried to set his shoe tip on the stone steps, he suddenly spotted someone hurrying down the staircase. That was unmistakably Inspector Miyaoka’s face. Honjo gasped and stopped in his tracks. He removed his hat, bowed as if trying to suppress his suddenly violently throbbing heartbeat, and spoke courteously.

“I apologize for my tardiness. “I am Honjo Tsuneo, the one who has received your summons.” With that, his face flushed bright red. Inspector Miyaoka spoke in a hearty, crisp tone, “Ah, good work there! “I’ve been waiting until now, but—something urgent came up—well, never mind that. Come with me.” Since the inspector’s tone was unexpectedly casual, Honjo felt inwardly relieved, thinking nothing too serious could come of this.

Inspector Miyaoka walked alongside Honjo and spoke in a hearty tone.

“You must’ve been sleepy, hm? Getting roused so early...” With clear eyes glinting a meaningful smile, he stared intently. He shrank in deference without a moment’s resistance.

“Actually I wanted to apologize—there are some other matters I’d like discuss too—” He began glancing around like someone expecting company when suddenly he flagged down a passing cab. “Urgent business came up—need quick stop at my place.” “Can’t talk here.” “Come along.” She turned toward Honjo as she spoke. Refusal being impossible he reluctantly slid onto seat beside Inspector Miyakoa. Riding cab with cop felt distinctly unpleasant. Not knowing interrogation type nor content left nerves unsettled. Honjo pressed against window sat rigid-backed. Eavesdropping driver-conversation while probing inspector’s hidden agenda left no bandwidth track route until cab halted before modest Western-style home. Inspector Miyakoa exited first bounded wooden stairs threw door open. Head bowed Honjo shuffled dejectedly trailing inspector’s heels indoors.

Perhaps it was a reception room—it had good sunlight but was utterly stark, devoid of curtains or any adornments, with only a crude table and two or three chairs. On one of those chairs, a black cat with velvety fur lay curled up asleep. Awakened by the sound of two people’s footsteps, it nimbly lifted its head, but upon seeing the unfamiliar guest’s face, startled, fled away.

Now that they were seated facing each other, Honjo suddenly felt uneasy again. Wondering what he would say next, he waited with bated breath, his excited face growing flushed.

Inspector Miyaoka began in his usual light, cheerful tone. “I’ve done you a terrible disservice.” “You’ve ended up facing such an outrageous ordeal thanks to me.” “I’d thought to let you sleep undisturbed all day today, but—” “Truth is—another case has suddenly erupted. I must head there now—but well, apologies are better delivered promptly for everyone’s comfort.” “You were quite exhausted last night, weren’t you?”

Honjo startled and averted his gaze. He felt clammy sweat seeping across his back. Inspector Miyaoka glanced sideways at him and called out with a laugh toward the adjacent room’s door: “Tommy, come here—I’ll introduce you to Mr. Honjo—”

As his voice rang out, the door opened, and a woman holding a black cat glided in. He hurriedly rose from his chair, and the moment their eyes met, he was so startled he thought his breath might stop. For this was the girl he had convinced himself had been abducted the previous night. No, that wasn’t all—he had never in his life seen a face so brimming with allure. Her neatly trimmed slender eyebrows and intellectually beautiful face stood starkly outlined against the backdrop of her jet-black permanent wave. The black velvet dress enveloping her supple body appeared almost too heavy for her slender frame, threatening to slip from her sloping shoulders at any moment—a vision that struck his eyes as extraordinarily alluring. He carefully examined her neck and shoulders, particularly the left side, but found no traces resembling wounds. She was in high spirits, as cheerful as if she were a completely different person. Last night he’d thought her a girl of twelve or thirteen, but though petite in stature, she now appeared a proper young lady—three or four years older than she’d seemed.

Honjo stood dumbfounded, momentarily robbed of speech. Inspector Miyaoka observed him frozen stiff in that rigid posture and laughed as he spoke: “Do take a seat. Now then—allow me to introduce my sister. Miyaoka Juzo. We must apologize for imposing so grievously upon you last night. —You there—that man you fled the inn with—do you know who he is?” “Yes. He is my close friend—one Tatsuma Hisashi. The eldest son of the renowned industrialist Mr. Tatsuma Masanosuke—having withdrawn from Kyoto Imperial University and currently employed at his father’s Tatsuma Bank,” he answered with evident pride.

“Ah—so you truly know nothing at all.” “Associating with someone like that—it’s dangerous for you.” “He is indeed the son of Tatsuma Bank’s president—that man—though I assumed you likely knew nothing—is the leader of the XX Society.” “Among his associates, he goes by an alias, so his real name isn’t widely known—but in truth, I’ve received confidential orders from the Superintendent General for this gang crackdown—though capturing him won’t be an easy task.” “Last night, we devised a plan to capture him using a trick—my sister Tommy and I rode in a taxi and tailed you two fleeing from the gambling den the whole time.” “But that bastard noticed midway, panicked, and ran off.” “Since I was certain you were one of them—it couldn’t be helped.” “I thought I’d check you out first, so I conducted a house search.” “I was the driver at that time.” “If there were a woman lying gravely injured in the car, anyone would resort to the same means as you.” “After all, the police are our sworn enemies,” he laughed dryly,

“After all that planning—we still botched it in the end.” With that, he presented the five-yen note that had been on the table in front of Honjo.

“The driver—no, it was passed to me—I will return this,” he said.

He involuntarily turned red in the face. It was all the more humiliating because he was in front of Juzo. But he still felt like a fox had him in its jaws—he couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. This was the first I’d heard that Tatsuma Hisashi was the leader of the XX Society. Now that it was mentioned, his ideology had indeed changed considerably lately. There was a time when he’d been notorious as a womanizing delinquent—countless women had fallen prey to Tatsuma’s venomous charm, and he was always stirring up trouble over some woman—so I’d been relieved when those rumors died down recently—what a careless oversight that had been! He had left his parents’ house and was living in an apartment—I’d heard it was for the convenience of his womanizing—but in reality, that might not have been the only reason. If I thought about it, any number of suspicious points would probably come up—but

“So then—Tatsuma is operating under an alias as the leader of the XX Society?”

Inspector Miyaoka answered gravely in a voice filled with underlying strength.

“That’s correct. That man is an enemy of women and our enemy as well,” he said, glancing toward Juzo. “Tommy was also one of those he nearly seduced.”

Juzo cast a sidelong glance at Inspector Miyaoka. Those eyes were a beautifully clear sky-blue—or were they? Those sky-blue eyes—particularly so—made him think she might be of mixed heritage. Reconsidering with this thought, her nose’s contour, those shapely lips, her cream-hued complexion—all seemed distinctly foreign; and above all, how naturally Western clothing suited her petite frame—she simply had to have European blood. The more he looked, the more her ensemble appeared stylishly refined.

Her sky-blue eyes once again revealed various expressions; her gaze—pleading, troubled, seemingly at a loss—constantly shifted, mercilessly agitating the inside of his head. Each of her movements, too, possessed a mysterious power that bore down upon his chest. Honjo had never before encountered a woman with such terrifying allure. It could be said that Juzo had imprinted upon his soul a profound impression that would last a lifetime.

The perceptive Inspector Miyaoka must have seen through his heart, for without being asked, he began speaking about her.

“Tommy and I have different mothers.” “My sister’s mother was Spanish.” “She has already passed away.” “Since she was born into a complicated family, she’s endured various hardships since childhood—a pitiful woman.” “But we can’t let her continue this kind of life forever—before long, she’ll likely find a suitable match.—”

He was about to say when he suddenly changed course, “However, Tommy cares deeply for her brother.” “She assists me frequently with my work.” “Women possess a sixth sense, you understand—they prove remarkably useful at times.” “I’d like you to help me too—working alongside my sister,” he declared in formal tones before abruptly twisting into a mocking laugh,

“In return—as a special consideration—I’ll let last night’s matter slide for you.” “Ahahahahahaha—” Honjo stiffened momentarily, stung by what felt like cruel mockery that left him seething with humiliation. Yet knowing his own vulnerabilities left him no room for retort—he could only twist his lips into a pained grimace.

Until that moment, Juzo had remained silent, stroking the black cat on her lap; now, for the first time, she spoke.

“How rude.” “We’re the ones who should be asking for your leniency.” “We went and acted like burglars, ransacking your entire room and all.” “Mr. Honjo—you’re angry with us, aren’t you?”

she said. He thought her voice was lovely—so captivated by its velvety quality that only her final words registered. So,

“No,” was all he could say.

“However, that was unavoidable in the line of duty,” Inspector Miyaoka said as if making an excuse, then suddenly straightened his posture,

“Jokes aside—this is a serious matter of importance, so listen carefully.” “The truth is, this is why I summoned you—Tatsuma Hisashi has already sensed danger closing in around him, and circumstances suggest he may go into hiding.” “We can’t afford to wait any longer.” “So last night was a failure, but tonight we’ll pull it off properly—the truth is, you…” He suddenly lowered his voice, “It’s somewhat dangerous, but we’re planning to raid his apartment.” “The idea is to seize evidentiary documents—which is why I want you to serve as our guide.” “Charging in head-on with my subordinates in tow would be simple enough, but I prefer not to take that approach.” “The reason is that his father, Mr. Tatsuma Masunosuke, is a man of integrity and a national benefactor—so we intend to handle everything discreetly, settling matters as covertly as possible to avoid public exposure.”

Honjo had lost all goodwill toward Tatsuma upon hearing of his attempted seduction of Juzo, yet even so found himself unable to willingly accept the role of guide—though refusal was out of the question. In his heart, he reasoned that since Tatsuma was at fault, there was nothing to be done. Not only was he the leader of the ×× Society, but he’d even tried to sink his poisonous fangs into this innocent beauty—no good, that Tatsuma bastard. A contemptible man through and through. But where on earth had he become acquainted with her? Under what circumstances? Even labeling it seduction left its extent unclear—this trivial curiosity gnawed at him more than the crucial matter at hand. So Honjo resolved to casually probe the issue and spoke up.

“Tatsuma—you know about him too, don’t you?”

“I do know.” “Just his face,” she answered immediately. “Does Miss Juzo also know?” “I know it well.” “Tommy became acquainted at the dance hall—” “Oh, Brother.” “There’s no need to mention such unnecessary things, is there?” her cheeks flushing red, “Oh, I’ve already forgotten all about Tatsuma-san’s face.”

She said with coquettish eyes while looking at Honjo’s face. “What a heartless bastard.”

Inspector Miyaoka stood up, glanced at his watch, and abruptly started panicking,

“That’s all I have to say—well then, I’ll be stepping out briefly. Honjo-kun, I’m afraid I’ll have to detain you temporarily. Until tonight’s mission is complete—well, just stay in this room and chat with Tommy or something. I’ll be back shortly.—”

Before he had even finished speaking, he hurried out through the door.

3 Despite having left saying he’d return immediately, Inspector Miyaoka did not come back for quite some time. In the meantime, Honjo and Juzo had grown thoroughly close. Their conversation was largely about the black cat Mimi. “I received this from Mr. Chief of Detectives for self-defense.” “When you encounter scary people, I’ll set this cat on them.” she said. Mimi was remarkably well-trained. When Juzo started running, Mimi ran after her; when she stood waiting and patted her chest to beckon, Mimi suddenly leaped up, clung to her collar, and rubbed her head against Juzo’s pure white neck affectionately.

When dusk approached, they grew increasingly boisterous. As he watched them play so merrily, he couldn’t help but think it looked like cats of varying sizes were tangled in a frenzy. On the dimly lit room’s walls, shadow figures danced, and Juzo’s figure—clad in all-black attire as she nimbly bounded about—struck him as uncannily akin to a black cat. Honjo was watching, entranced, his eyes alight with curiosity.

Night fell. What had become of Inspector Miyaoka? He still hadn’t shown himself, leaving the two of them behind.

“He’ll surely come pick us up by car soon.”

Having said that, Juzo showed no particular signs of anxiety.

As it approached eleven o'clock, just as she had said, a car stopped at the entrance.

From the driver’s seat window, Inspector Miyaoka stuck out only his head and beckoned.

She held Mimi under her arm and leaped at the car window.

"You're late，Brother," she said in a sweet，syrupy voice．"Since last night was a failure—I'll be taking Mimi along tonight，" she added while patting the black cat's head．"With Mimi here，there's no question we'll succeed，" Inspector Miyaoka responded．

Juzo held Mimi’s middle with both hands and lifted her high. “I’m counting on you, Mimi!” she said while nuzzling against her cheeks, eyes tense and sharp with a glint. Honjo stepped forward before Inspector Miyaoka and bowed politely without a word. “Ah—sorry for the delay—” he said, turning toward Juzo with furrowed brows. “Just as I was about to leave—unfortunately there was a raid—” he added apologetically. “Let me drive.”

She leaped into the driver’s seat，shooed Inspector Miyaoka toward the back，and took hold of the steering wheel herself. “Miss Juzo，that’s impressive，” Honjo said admiringly. Inspector Miyaoka gave a wry smile，

“Raised by men alone，she turns into a tomboy—it’s problematic.” “We couldn’t provide proper feminine upbringing.—”

While they were talking about such things, they arrived at Marunouchi Apartments. There was no custodian at the office who recognized Honjo’s face. When asked to lend the spare key, he made a strange face, “Mr. Tatsuma should be in his room. Until just a moment ago, he was drinking beer with a friend in the dining hall,” he said, but without showing any suspicion, he promptly handed over the spare key. Honjo followed Inspector Miyaoka’s orders, maneuvering the car to the deserted back gate and waiting inside.

After a short while, Juzo came running out, suddenly grabbed Honjo’s hand, pressed her supple body against him as if to meld into his form, and brought her lips close to his ear,

“The crucial documents are apparently stored in the bank vault.—We’re all heading to the bank now.” A lukewarm breath tickled his ear. Honjo pulled his hat low over his eyes and sat in the passenger seat, finding it delightful that he seemed to have been cast in a role straight out of a detective novel.

Before long, footsteps approached from behind; the door opened, and there came the heavy thud of someone settling onto the seat. Everyone remained silent.

The girl gripping the steering wheel had a deathly pale face drawn taut with tension. Not a single word was spoken until they reached Tatsuma Bank. When the car halted, Honjo finally turned to glance backward discreetly. Tatsuma Hisashi sat blindfolded, muzzled like a beast, his hands bound behind him. Never had that debonair man appeared so wretchedly pitiable. Wedged between Inspector Miyaoka and Juzo—who clutched a pistol in her hand—Tatsuma was escorted through the employees’ entrance into the bank. Ordered to keep watch, Honjo stood alone in the shadowed alleyway. Clutching the entrusted black cat tightly against his chest while stroking its velvety fur, he caught a faint trace of her perfume lingering on the animal’s coat. Before he realized it, he found himself squeezing Mimi against his cheek in an impulsive nuzzle.

At that moment, numerous footsteps suddenly echoed through the quiet thoroughfare. Instinctively whirling around, he concealed himself in dark shadows to observe the situation. A mass of black figures came flying closer—they appeared to be police officers. At the forefront of those rushing in was, unexpectedly, the face of Inspector Miyaoka—who should have been inside the bank. Honjo was startled and had just begun trying to peer through the streetlight’s glow for a better look when the inspector turned to his subordinates, “Continue!” he barked sternly. The timbre of that voice held a sharpness so unlike its owner that Honjo instinctively widened his eyes in shock. They looked exactly alike—a perfect spitting image—but this wasn’t the same person. This definitely wasn’t Inspector Miyaoka; it had to be an imposter. Yet here were two people with identical faces—Had my eyes gone mad? I wondered. But their uncanny resemblance filled me with an unnervingly eerie dread. But in that same instant, I also thought this. Agonizing over whether the ×× gang—having learned of Tatsuma’s peril—had come disguised as police to rescue him, thinking *This is bad—against these numbers, we stand no chance—I have to find a way to save Juzo*, the mass of black shadows tumultuously surged through the back entrance and deeper inside.

“It’s pitch black!” a man bellowed. “The switches—the wires—they’ve all been cut!” “Don’t let her escape!—The woman!—”

he roared. When he heard that, Honjo's composure shattered. As he tried to leap forward without thinking, he collided with Juzo's body bursting out from within. Startled by the impact, Mimi scratched his arm and fled; he chased after her, recklessly dashing down the street. It looked as though two black cats had tangled together and darted off. And almost simultaneously, a terrifying brawl erupted in the pitch-black bank corridor. Shouts of curses, clashing footsteps.

“Ah! They got me!” Thud—the sound of a body collapsing—followed by an earsplitting scream that drained Honjo’s courage. Let’s get out of here! The instant he pivoted on his heel, something slammed hard into his back. “Run! Hurry—” The voice—thick with authority and achingly familiar—was unmistakably Inspector Miyaoka’s. Yet inexplicably, a policeman suddenly lunged out and grappled the inspector from behind, blasting his whistle.

Honjo ran frantically.

×　　　　×　　　　×

When he came to, he lay collapsed on the floor beside the bed, utterly exhausted as though he’d been battered from head to toe.

He habitually picked up the newspaper that had been slipped into the room from under the door and spread it open to look. With a start, Honjo jumped up and, rubbing his eyes, looked again. “Tatsuma Bank Attacked by Black Cat Tommy” Seeing the article written in a three-column spread, he was utterly dumbfounded. He read voraciously, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Fortunately, his name was nowhere to be found, but there were photographs of Inspector Miyaoka, Tatsuma Hisashi, and an injured police officer.

The internationally notorious female thief Black Cat Tommy and her lover had broken into Tatsuma Bank’s vault, stolen a large sum of money, and fled. Moreover, suspicions were being raised that their guide was none other than the bank president’s own son. Honjo’s entire body shuddered involuntarily. But with so many inexplicable things, it just didn’t add up. First off, it’s strange that Tatsuma Hisashi—who should be the leader of the ×× Society—hasn’t been captured. Even if Juzo were the female thief Black Cat Tommy, what about Inspector Miyaoka? I should go meet Tatsuma. That’s it—I should go meet him and ask.

However, as he ultimately had no desire to return to the apartment, he decided to head to Tatsuma Bank instead. If I said I came to visit after seeing the newspaper, no one would suspect a thing.

In the bank’s reception room, visitors surrounded Tatsuma Hisashi and were listening to his account of the incident’s details. He planted both feet firmly, crossed his arms, and with a face flushed with excitement, was regurgitating the story he’d supposedly heard from the detectives. But upon seeing Honjo’s face, he suddenly grasped his hand, “Because of that incident, I’ve ended up in this mess after all,” he whispered. Honjo immediately jumped to the conclusion that this was related to the ×× Society,

“Why did you—of all things—become the leader of the ×× Society?” “I had no idea at all.”

Tatsuma glared wide-eyed, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Honjo floundered, “But you’re the one who brought up that incident—”

“The gambling den incident.” “They exploited that weakness.” “Oh! So that’s what you meant.” “They used that as leverage to blackmail me.” “First came to my apartment, see.”

As he listened, cold sweat drenched him. The clamor of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears. “Tatsuma—was everything exactly as the newspaper said?” “What sort of woman is this Black Cat Tommy?”

Tatsuma wrinkled the tip of his nose and snorted a laugh.

“She’s a fine woman. When I told her I didn’t have any cash on me, that woman shoved a pistol in my face and said, ‘It’s in the bank vault.’ She’s got some nerve. She forced me into a car and took me to the bank, but Inspector Miyaoka—who was already on the case—came to my rescue.” “Did you know Tommy?”

“The hell would I know?” “She’s a damn thief!” “No matter how curious I might be, I want nothing to do with that kind of fierce woman.” “Her lover was all meek and got ordered around by her.” “The bastard disguised himself to look exactly like Inspector Miyaoka from the photos.” “We ended up with two Inspector Miyaokas and couldn’t tell which was real.” “That’s why they messed up the arrest,” Tatsuma laughed. The realization that he’d been thoroughly duped and used as their tool made Honjo furious, yet somehow he found himself incapable of truly hating them.