Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue

“The strangeness of this tale surpasses the imagination of ordinary people, yet it is by no means a baseless fabrication.”
“It is to reveal that in this vast world there can indeed occur bizarre incidents no less remarkable than those in *Arabian Nights* or *Jiandeng Xinhua*, and to have you critique the morality hidden within them, that I have resolved to endure various complications and disclose the truth of this case.”

At the gathering of the Kidan Club, amidst pearlescent indirect light flooding the space, pianist Hiraga Genichirou began speaking in this manner.

“I presume you are all well aware that Mr. Kosugi Takuji—the rising composer who has released countless popular songs to become a darling of today’s music world—lost his wife Madame Yukiko to sudden illness. She was considered an exceptional presence among young female pianists. Then on the fourth day following her death, Mr. Kosugi’s lover Yumeko was stabbed through the heart with a paper knife and killed.”
“Though the culprit remains unapprehended even now, a full year later, being privy to all particulars of this affair through certain circumstances, I have resolved to risk grave danger by disclosing every detail here.”

At the overwhelming nature of the topic, the members packed into every corner of the venue unconsciously held their breath.

Hiraga Genichirou continued to speak calmly as he surveyed that ferocious tension.

I

Madame Yukiko, wife of composer Kosugi Takuji, was a woman of stunning beauty yet pitiable beyond measure—frail, high-strung, and innately shy, lacking any physical attributes to captivate men. She stood as one of those tragic souls the world so cruelly creates.

On the fourth day after Madame Yukiko’s death from heart paralysis—the third night following her funeral—Kosugi Takuji’s lover Yumeko had been slaughtered like an insect in that very bedroom during his absence.

The one who discovered this was Kosugi Takuji himself, who had returned the next day from a short trip and opened the door to his own bedroom with his key.

“Gah!”

When Kosugi Takuji let out a scream unbecoming of a grown man, Okura, the housekeeper who had been working in the kitchen, came rushing in.

“Oh! Miss Yumeko—”

It was no wonder Old Okura clumsily collapsed right there.

The twelve-tatami-mat bedroom—a space of utmost luxury—had remained sealed since the previous night, but the morning light streaming through gaps in the thick window drapes now starkly illuminated the horrifyingly alluring beauty lying dead upon the magnificent canopy bed: Kosugi Takuji’s lover Yumeko, her blood-smeared corpse half-slumped off the mattress.

At this point, I must briefly explain about Kosugi Takuji, his pitiable deceased wife Yukiko, and Takuji’s lover Yumeko.

As you know, Kosugi Takuji was a delinquent youth-type artist, but his talent as a popular composer was considerable. As his saccharine pop songs flooded records, radios, and vaudeville halls across the city, such ill-gotten gains flowed into his pocket—enough to render most people utterly ecstatic.

It could indeed be said that Kosugi Takuji—a man of low education and low moral sense—losing all restraint in his lifestyle and gradually descending into dissipation, shamelessness, and even immorality was an inevitable course of events.

Madame Yukiko was twenty-four, eight years his junior, but unlike her husband Takuji, she possessed exceedingly refined tastes, was blessed with artistic talent, and as a Chopin pianist, had established a distinctive style and renown.

Despite this, Takuji—unsatisfied with Yukiko’s physical charm—brought in a bewitching former movie actress named Yumeko, and without hesitation even in Yukiko’s presence, commenced an outrageous lifestyle where he relentlessly engaged in shameless amorous games under the same roof.

Yukiko was a woman of refined education and virtue, but oppressed by her husband Takuji’s cruel treatment, she gradually lost her vitality until—as I have mentioned before—she suffered cardiac arrest and died suddenly one year ago.

The moment the funeral concluded, Takuji had a concert in Atami and departed.
Regardless of personal feelings, given that his wife had died, he ought to have observed mourning for at least a week or ten days. However, with programs already printed and tickets sold for the concert, this was something he could not possibly cancel.

Kosugi Takuji accompanied popular singers on piano, performed his own short piano compositions, and found himself in rather high spirits. After spending one night in Atami, he took the first train back the following day—only to walk into this chaos upon returning to his Shibuya residence.

Later police investigations confirmed Takuji had indeed stayed overnight in Atami that evening—engaging in idle chatter with singers at the same inn, fooling around, and keeping awake so late that the maids grew exasperated. Therefore, where Yumeko’s death was concerned, Takuji stood completely beyond suspicion—a fact that must be emphasized unequivocally from the beginning.

Be that as it may, after discovering Yumeko’s body in the bedroom, Takuji had the old housekeeper Okura keep watch at the room’s entrance while he himself telephoned the police.
The procedures in that regard were handled with remarkable efficiency. Without delay, officers from the local police station arrived on the scene, and needless to say, a photography team and fingerprint unit from the Metropolitan Police Department also rushed to the location.

Given that this incident occurred in a celebrity’s household and considering that Yumeko Kyōno had once shouldered considerable popularity as a movie actress, the investigation was conducted with utmost rigor. However, the grotesque mystery of a beautiful woman being stabbed through the heart with a sharp paper knife in a bedroom sealed like *The Yellow Room* appeared unlikely to be easily solved.

II

“The bedroom door was indeed locked, wasn’t it?”

The detective in charge inquired.

“There is no mistake.
“The bedroom door has always been locked from the inside before sleeping as a matter of habit—and this morning I unlocked it with this key and entered.”

Kosugi Takuji produced from his trouser pocket a nickel-plated—small but sturdy-looking—key and showed it.

“How many keys are there?”

"There are only two."
"The remaining one should be in Yumeko’s possession."
"It’s probably placed by the bedside stand."

As Takuji had said, another nickel-plated key with distinctive features lay beside a stylish celadon lamp adorned with a Saracen-patterned shade.

“You didn’t touch the windows, did you?”

“I didn’t touch them. Even while making the call, I had the old woman keep watch—I didn’t move a single thing in the room. However, since it was too dark, I had her open part of the curtains.”

“That was prudent—the windows are all shut—no signs of forced entry—”

The detective muttered half to himself and swiftly brushed aside the remaining unopened curtain.

Outside the window stretched a grove more extensive than one might expect; through branches just beginning to bud, distant Mount Fuji could be glimpsed.

It was precisely around noon on a beautiful early spring day.
The mansion district near Shibuya Station possessed a tranquility unimaginable for Tokyo, and even the distant passage of government railway trains created an illusion akin to having journeyed a hundred miles.

When the bright light flooded in, one couldn’t help but feel a kind of resentful admiration at the opulence of the bedroom furnishings.
The slightly classical mahogany furniture, Morris-style wallpaper, luxuriously thick Chinese rug, Persian-looking wall tapestry, and Renoir-esque paintings all testified to a coordinated extravagance and remarkably good taste that seemed unthinkable for the bedroom of a mere pop song composer.
This was probably also thanks to the refined taste of his late wife, Madame Yukiko, wasn’t it?

In this opulent atmosphere lay a single brutally murdered corpse.

Yumeko Kyōno—the actress once elevated to screen royalty for her voluptuous physique and extraordinary facial beauty that radiated every emotion like fragrant incense—now lay dead beneath this beautiful canopy upon a mahogany-finished bed, her heart pierced through.

“Even in death, she’s performing”—so immoral a lament did one officer later utter—that it was a scene of devastating allure, or perhaps a life-risking spectacle, unparalleled in its ferocity.

Her tall frame stretched to its full magnificent length, with ample subcutaneous fat—though this alone held no mystery—her limbs possessed the soft yet resilient beauty of creeping vines, her skin the luster of pink pearls now tinged by death’s brush into a waxen pallor. Yet the upper body emerging from the bedding defied comparison—what could possibly rival such beauty?

Her two full breasts—through the white silk nightgown below the left breast—bore a paper knife with a crown-shaped handle thrust upright with accursed precision, savagely embedded.

Blood seeped out from around where the paper knife stood thrust, spreading like peony blossoms from her neck down to her flank—yet it seemed almost paradoxical that such copious blood could flow from this woman, a creature who possessed no virtue beyond amorous artifice, who seemed incapable of harboring warm human blood. Even so, the uncanny bewitching beauty lingering in this blood-drained corpse was such that even those familiar with her theatrical performances couldn’t help but gasp in awe.

“What about this paper knife?”

The detective in charge collected himself and asked.

“It was from the next room—my study.”

Takuji responded modestly.

“What about the study key?”

“It uses the same key as the bedroom, but I always lock it from this side at night.”

“――”

The detective silently approached the door leading to the study and placed his hand on the handle, but it appeared securely locked—pushing and twisting had no effect.

When they brought the nickel-plated key that had been beside the stand and opened it, the door swung open without resistance, revealing a Western-style study about eight tatami mats in size, bathed in spring sunlight streaming through the windows and laid completely bare to view.
The place appeared to be seldom used and contained not a single item that could serve as evidence.

The officers who had returned to the bedroom once again meticulously detected fingerprints throughout the room.
Apart from those of the murdered Yumeko, only fingerprints belonging to Master Kosugi Takuji and the elderly maid Okura were found. However, distinctly whorled fingerprints detected across various surfaces were ultimately attributed to Madame Yukiko—who had died four days prior and been interred according to her wishes at a temple in a village just beyond Tokyo’s outskirts.

This temple served as the ancestral family temple on Yukiko’s maternal side, where her parents and siblings had been laid to rest; thus it stood to reason that Yukiko—estranged from her husband both physically and spiritually—would choose this place to repose her own remains.

Be that as it may, faint fingerprints were also present on the handle of the crown-shaped paper knife.
They were extremely unclear, and nothing definitive could be stated, but whether by trick of perception, they resembled the fingerprints of the late Madame Yukiko.
Likely because Madame Yukiko had occasionally used this while alive, traces of her fingerprints had coincidentally remained on the handle of the knife now embedded in Yumeko’s chest.

When he heard this account, even Kosugi Takuji shuddered violently.

Okura the elderly maid was thoroughly examined next after her master, Takuji.

“Did anyone come from yesterday through last night?”

“A few condolence visitors came, but when I informed them that the master was not at home, they all left at the entrance.”

“Did Yumeko go out?”

“There was that storm since morning, and by the time the weather had cleared, it was already evening.”
“Last night she listened to the radio, read magazines, and around ten o’clock retired to the bedroom as usual.”

From the old woman’s testimony as well, they could extract no trace of the culprit.

III

Half a year had passed.

The murderer of Yumeko remained unidentified thereafter, and on a certain early autumn day when the case had entered a complete labyrinth,

“Pray excuse me.”

A young woman stood at the entrance of Kosugi Takuji’s house like a fragrant breeze.

In her refined Western attire, carrying a small cobalt suitcase, with heavily applied rouge and an air of refreshing briskness—as if about to whistle—she tapped the rhythm with her shoe heels and once again,

“Pray pardon me.”

She cheerfully called out once more in this manner.

“Who might you be?”

While saying this, the elderly maid Okura turned the handle and opened the door—and upon first seeing the visitor standing bathed in autumn sunlight,

“Good heavens!”

She nearly collapsed.

A terror like ice water splashed over her head coursed through her entire body.

“Is Master present?”

Even her voice was identical to that of Madame Yukiko, who had died half a year prior—wasn’t it?

Her face was slightly fuller, her makeup flashy, and there was an air of lighthearted freshness about her—but from her height and refined facial features down to the intensity in her eyes as she stared fixedly at things, she wasn’t merely similar to the deceased woman; she was the very image of her.

“I am Sumiko, Yukiko’s younger sister. Having heard of my sister’s death, I have come from Hokkaido.”

“Ah—so you’re the wife’s younger sister? Oh my, oh my, oh my…”

The elderly maid Okura’s astonishment was theatrical.
When freed from the terror of having seemingly seen a ghost in broad daylight, she found herself utterly dumbstruck—as if witnessing some divine miracle—by the unforeseen emergence of a twin sister bearing such an uncanny resemblance.

“I look just like her, don’t I? Everyone gets startled at first.”

Sumiko said this and smiled disarmingly without hesitation.
This casualness and brightness alone were things her sister Yukiko had never possessed.

“Oh my, oh my, welcome! I had heard the late Madame had twin sisters, but I never imagined you’d bear such a striking resemblance! Ohoho...”

Okura, the elderly maid, forced an old-fashioned flattering smile in a flustered manner while,

“How delighted Master will be! Oh my, oh my, please come in.”

She continued her endless stream of “Oh my” as she took the suitcase from her hand.

“Where is Brother?”

“He is here. Oh my, how delighted he must be!”

The elderly maid hurriedly ran up to the second floor.
After seeing off the retreating figure, Sumiko hurriedly took out a compact from her handbag.

The marriage of Kosugi Takuji and Yukiko was what society calls a love marriage, disapproved of by Yukiko’s old-fashioned parents, and thus they had cut off all correspondence with their blood relatives. However, when her parents had passed away one after the other a year prior, her relationship with her younger sister naturally resumed their former closeness, and Yukiko even made a special trip to Hokkaido to meet her long-unseen younger sister.

There had been talk that Sumiko had since been employed at a certain company in Sapporo as the president’s secretary, but her relationship with her sister Yukiko had reverted to its former state of distant estrangement, with their exchange of letters becoming exceedingly rare—and this marked the very first time that Yukiko’s husband, Kosugi Takuji, was meeting her sister Sumiko.

“Because my sister’s temperament differs from mine—” Yukiko often used to say. Compared to Yukiko—artistically inclined and prone to gloominess and introspection—Sumiko, with her practical disposition, was capable, bright, flashy, and cheerful; by nature, the two were incompatible.

“What? Miss Sumiko’s here? How unexpected—Where is she? The entrance?”
“Don’t act so standoffish. Show her in at once.”

While saying such things, Takuji—leading the elderly maid ahead of him as he descended from the second floor—stuck his face out into the bright entranceway. Upon catching sight of the woman standing there, even he couldn’t help but startle.

“Brother.”

She bore too striking a resemblance to the deceased Yukiko.

“Miss Sumiko?”

That was all he could manage.

“You did see the letter I sent from Hokkaido, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I saw it. It arrived the day before yesterday.”

A letter of notice had arrived two days prior; however, Takuji—who had little interest in his dead wife’s sister—had even completely forgotten about it.

“You will welcome me, won’t you, Brother?”

“Of course I’ll welcome you.”

“Then,”

Sumiko extended her hand for a handshake with perfectly natural, Western-style poise.

“Ah, thank you for coming. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Even as he said this and somewhat flusteredly returned the handshake, within Takuji’s palm lay Sumiko’s small hand—cold and soft, trembling as though it might vanish.

“No, no—completely different.”

Takuji muttered under his breath.
Sumiko’s blatantly unreserved attitude formed an appallingly stark contrast to her gloomy and reserved sister Yukiko.

Four

Sumiko’s arrival became both a driving force in Kosugi Takuji’s daily life and a vitalizing essence for his very existence—he who had been met with scornful eyes from society ever since Yumeko’s murder.

According to what she later explained after settling in a bit—having grown weary of life in Hokkaido just as her company in Sapporo was dissolved—she had come to Tokyo alone with nothing but herself, hoping to find a new job by relying on Kosugi Takuji.

“Work?”
“Never mind all that—I’ll just stay here awhile and amuse myself.—Now then…Sumiko-san…what *are* you good at?”

Takuji inquired about this like the proprietor of an employment agency.

The early autumn evening breeze and the lingering sunset glow at the window strangely tempted the heart of this amorous hunter.

“Well, if someone were to ask me—it’d be a bit embarrassing to say—but… what I can manage at an average level is the typewriter.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s about right.”

“And then—mountain climbing, swimming, golf, skiing.”

“Wait—isn’t that worlds apart from your sister? What about piano?”

“I detest music. Tie a rope to a piano and I might drag it somewhere.”

“Well, I’m surprised!”

“Especially when it comes to popular songs—just hearing them makes my teeth ache... though I say this right to your face, Brother. Heh.”

Everything proceeded in this vein.
That suggestive laugh—so eerily alluring—

“This is harsh—a proper impeachment, isn’t it?”

Even a man as shrewd as Kosugi Takuji was no match for this woman.

“Instead, shall I tell you what I do like, Brother?”

“Hmm, interesting. What do you like?”

“Naniwa-bushi, boxing, baseball, and—”

“That’s intense.”

“And then… oh, what was it?”

Sumiko’s finger was pointing straight at the Italian-made vermouth bottle visible through the glass in the cupboard.

“That’s delightful. If it’s all the same, I’d rather you’d said whiskey, but vermouth is safer, I suppose.”

It goes without saying that Takuji stood up and brought the vermouth bottle and two cups.

“Oh, you underestimated me a bit, didn’t you?”

Even as she said this, Sumiko skillfully stacked the vermouth cups.

Her capacity for alcohol seemed as weak as her bold claims suggested; after the second cup, she completely collapsed like a crumbling jade mountain, and the elbow of her pale grape-colored dress kept brushing against Takuji’s arm, waist, and knee as they sat side by side on the long chair.

Her facial features were of a refined, beautiful type, closely resembling her sister Yukiko, yet her body was more voluptuous than Yukiko’s and a hundredfold more captivating. Her wild and straightforward demeanor was far more bewitching than Yumeko—a former movie actress who had drowned in theatrical affectations and contrived, coquettish expressions.

“Did you come to dislike Hokkaido that much?”

When Takuji tentatively broached the subject,

“That’s not true! Sapporo—with its lilac blossoms, elms, and poplars—is Japan’s greatest city by any measure. As for Tokyo—it reeks of dust and chaos, people bristle like thorns, you can’t ski even in winter, and come spring, not a single delicate flower like lilacs or Chishima geraniums blooms...”

“Enough—I’ll grant Tokyo loses that contest. But Tokyo has—”

“You’re going to say there are concerts, kabuki, new movie releases—that sort of thing, right? Well, I hate all of that.”
“That won’t do. I’ll have to take you to see boxing or baseball soon—let you savor Tokyo’s real merits.”

“By the way, Brother.”

“What?”

Sumiko suddenly became unusually formal.

“When I arrived in Tokyo, I thought I’d ask you right away, Brother—what kind of woman was Yumeko?”

“———”

“There’s no need to hide it—I’ve already heard everything from Sister, you know.”

Sumiko pressed in a fierce tone.

“She was a dull woman—a washed-up movie actress.”

Takuji spoke in a tone that seemed to chew up and spit out the words.

“But she was beautiful, wasn’t she? After all, you chose her over my sister who was so lovely.”

“Nonsense! Yukiko was far more beautiful—she was just a bit lonely, that’s all.”

“Well,”

“You can’t compare her to Miss Sumiko. What’s required of movie actresses isn’t beauty—it’s some peculiar individuality.”
“Moreover, you should consider what sort of creature a woman becomes when she’s uneducated, shameless, and putting on an act from morning till night.”

“Well,”

Sumiko was dumbfounded.
Given that her sister Yukiko had her life cut short because of that woman, she couldn’t discern how much of Takuji’s words deserved credence.

Five

Sumiko radiated health while pushing her audacity to its limits. Yet this unrestrained attitude held a unique charm—one absent from Yukiko’s maddening refinement and Yumeko’s theatrical flirtations—an indescribable allure that gradually wrapped itself around Kosugi Takuji’s heart day by day. Yet whenever Takuji drew one step closer to Sumiko, she would dart away like a dragonfly evading a mischievous child—vanishing just as his hand seemed poised to grasp her.

Sumiko showed complete indifference toward music—particularly displaying intense disgust for the popular songs composed by Kosugi Takuji—but possessed rather refined tastes in literature, art, and other fields, seeming to hold qualities that a vulgar man like Takuji could never hope to attain unless reborn.

Sumiko’s beauty and audacity intensified with each passing day, and Takuji—subjected to this daily display—gradually began descending into madness.
What could explain this? The handsome pop composer—who had once prided himself on never being rejected by young women—now found himself dismissed so casually by a mere typist from Hokkaido, his obsession growing more intense by the day.

The one who appeared there was H—a young man who was Kosugi Takuji’s old friend and a pianist.
H had also been close to the late Yukiko, and during their music school days, he had been an honor student who competed with Takuji for top honors. But while Takuji rapidly achieved worldly success as a popular song composer, H remained an inflexible pianist who composed artistic piano pieces that seemed unlikely to ever gain public acceptance—a man content to remain a poor, solitary pianist indefinitely.

However, this simple and sincere nature of H’s made him the best possible friend for Sumiko, the girl from Hokkaido.
As H’s visits grew more frequent, the relationship between Sumiko and H visibly began to approach one another at a velocity akin to free-fall.

“Miss Sumiko”

One day, Kosugi Takuji finally broached the subject.

If he endured any longer, he felt he might lose his mind.

“What is it, Brother?”

“Lately, Miss Sumiko seems to be on remarkably good terms with Mr. H.”

Kosugi Takuji grinned slyly, but his words carried an odd sting.

"Oh, but he's a good person, isn't he?"

"He's good—too good, I'd say—what with him churning out those dreary New Objectivist piano pieces and staying as poor after ten years as if it were yesterday. A trick only saints can manage."

"Isn't that what makes an artist worthy, Brother?"

“So they say in all the books—by the way,”

“You can remain as you are, Brother—you’ve achieved such success after all. But Mr. H has his own artistic realm and pride to uphold, don’t you think?”

“Well, never mind that—Miss Sumiko, what I mentioned before—”

Kosugi Takuji had been proposing to Sumiko during this period that she succeed her sister and marry him.

“Well, please allow me to consider—whether my deceased sister would wish for such a thing—that’s what I must think about first.”

With those words, Sumiko slipped free of Takuji’s grasp and escaped.

Such scenes, with time and place altered, were repeated time and again. Kosugi Takuji’s emotions were stirred up as never before, yet Sumiko kept him at an ambiguous distance while appearing to grow increasingly intimate with H, who now visited nearly every day.

During this time, Takuji had not abandoned his suspicions regarding Sumiko’s background. He extended his investigation as far as Hokkaido to look into her circumstances, but the company had indeed been dissolved, and it was also true that Sumiko had taken her personal belongings and gone to Tokyo—there was nothing suspicious about any of that.

Finally, taking care not to let Sumiko notice, he quietly obtained her fingerprints and, through connections, had them analyzed by the Metropolitan Police Department—which turned out to be remarkably well-formed whorl-patterned fingerprints, identical to those found throughout the house when Yumeko was murdered—the ones they had presumed were likely those of the deceased Yukiko.

Could it be that identical twins share not only facial features but even fingerprints?—Takuji was tormented by this dreadful question.

When he considered that those fingerprints had indeed been left even on the handle of the paper knife that killed Yumeko, Kosugi Takuji—though enthralled by Sumiko’s allure—would occasionally feel an inexplicable shudder.

(Note) Twins are classified into monozygotic and dizygotic types, and it is said that monozygotic twins closely resemble each other both physically and mentally.

Six

This love triangle gradually grew increasingly tangled.
As Sumiko’s demeanor grew increasingly cold and her interactions with H more intricate by the day, Kosugi Takuji’s fervor was fanned into flames—until this man found himself driven into a madness of emotion he had never before experienced—no, *never even imagined*.

Kosugi Takuji was a seasoned veteran without flaw in the games of love—a man of unsurpassingly ill repute in matters moral—but precisely because his character embodied both a provincial Genji and a latter-day Don Juan, his self-esteem burned all the fiercer regarding his magnetic appeal to the opposite sex—and thus, his obsession grew more intense toward any woman who turned her back on him.

Finally, the day arrived when this situation was driven to its terrible climax.

“Brother—I think I will move out after all.”

It was already December by then.

Her attire had changed, but carrying the same cobalt-colored suitcase she had brought three months prior when arriving here, Sumiko went to bid farewell at Kosugi Takuji’s cluttered study.

“Moving out?”

Kosugi Takuji seemed not to grasp the meaning of Sumiko’s words for some time.

“I have long been indebted to you for your care, but as remaining here no longer appears beneficial for you, Brother, I have resolved to remove myself.”

It was not a conversation; it was a declaration.
It might as well have been a final notice of severance thrust before him.

“Where are you going? Are you saying you’ll return to Hokkaido?”

“No, I will not return to Hokkaido.”

“Then?”

“I intend to remain in Tokyo and seek work, but as Mr. H happened to inform me there is space available in his own apartment—”

“What? To H’s place?”

“――――”

A heavy silence hung in the air for some time.

“That’s fine too—but before you leave this place, Miss Sumiko, there’s one thing I want to show you—a memento of Yukiko’s.”

Kosugi Takuji nodded with unexpected ease, then stood up as he was and opened the partition door.
The next room was, needless to say, that bedroom where Yumeko had been murdered—a small yet luxurious room—a space with tightly shut windows that exuded a strange, uncanny atmosphere.

“――――”

Lured by the unexpected calmness of Kosugi Takuji’s demeanor, Sumiko followed after him.
Though three months had passed since coming to this house, Sumiko had yet to enter this particular room.

Sumiko, looking around curiously at her surroundings, exchanged places with Kosugi Takuji as he stepped back to the door and firmly locked the one connecting to the study.

"There we go."

While muttering to himself, it was settled with an uncanny calmness.

“Oh, Brother—”

With Sumiko staring in astonishment,

“You may sit there.
“That chair is one both Yukiko and Yumeko sat in.—And for your reassurance, here are the keys.”

Takuji tossed the nickel-plated key he was holding through the gap in the door into the corridor with a clatter.

“Oh, what do you intend to do, Brother?”

Even Sumiko turned pale.

“There’s no need to be surprised.
“There are two keys to this door—the other one is with the housekeeper—and that housekeeper won’t return until nightfall—there’s still a good three hours until sunset.
Shall we have a leisurely talk until then, Miss Sumiko?”

Takuji, perfectly composed, sat down upon the canopied, luxurious bed—the very bed where Yumeko had been stabbed.

“――――”

Sumiko stood silently before him, and though she had fallen into this terrifying cage-like trap, she strangely showed neither surprise nor alarm—instead gazing coldly at Kosugi Takuji’s triumphant face.

“Miss Sumiko, it seems you’ve resigned yourself.”
“That’s the sensible choice.”
“Whether it’s been two months or three, living under the same roof as this Kosugi Takuji—the world won’t consider you pure. Rather than being looked at with suspicion, why not take the plunge and marry me?”

Having finished saying what he had to say, Kosugi Takuji quietly searched his pocket and took out a pipe.

“Mr. Kosugi.”

Sumiko no longer referred to this violent opponent as “Brother.”

“?”

“Mr. Kosugi, do you intend to commit bigamy?”

Sumiko’s words were utterly unexpected.

“What are you saying, Miss Sumiko?”

“No, are you trying to marry the same woman twice?”

Sumiko stood straight before Takuji, raised her finger, and pointed it directly at his face.

The faint afternoon sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains eerily illuminated the bedroom, lending even the furnishings' imposing presence an air of strange mystique.

7

The two glared at each other for a while.
The doubt that had once taken root in Kosugi Takuji’s heart now appeared to be growing with terrifying momentum in these few seconds.

“Do you know who this me—the one you’re trying to marry—really is?”

Sumiko’s tone turned sneering.

“Sumiko.”

“Please look closely—does this body of mine, these eyes, this voice, differ in the slightest from your former wife Yukiko, who died consumed by shame and resentment?”

“Yukiko!”

“Yes.—I am Yukiko—the Yukiko who was deceived into marriage by you, insulted, trampled upon, defiled, tormented, and left to die.”

“It’s a lie! A lie—Yukiko is dead! I saw her buried in that country temple’s cemetery with these eyes!”

Kosugi Takuji stood up.
Trembling violently, he nearly pushed Sumiko aside and tried to rush out of the room—but there was no longer any crucial key there.

“It was an interment. Mr. H stubbornly insisted it was Yukiko’s will and had her buried at the rural temple where her parents rest.”

“――――”

“You’ve read Poe’s novel *The Premature Burial*, haven’t you? Yukiko lost consciousness from overwhelming grief—and you heartlessly falsified the doctor’s death certificate with the mindset of performing an exorcism, burying her in less than a full day and night!”

“――――”

“I—Mr. H, who had genuinely mourned Yukiko’s death—stealthily went to excavate my grave that night, intending to at least see my lifeless face. Though legally a terrible crime, through that premature burial I—interred alive—was unearthed into fresh air and revived in Mr. H’s arms.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Whether it’s a lie or not, go investigate Yukiko’s burial site thoroughly—you haven’t even visited her grave once since she was interred, have you?”

“――――”

“If that’s too unpleasant for you, send someone to Sapporo to investigate properly. You’ll find my sister Sumiko still working at another company there as always. Sumiko and I may be twin sisters, but our faces and dispositions share no resemblance whatsoever.”

“――――”

“Come, let us marry—this me who emerged from the grave, your wife—let us marry once more. And shall we announce all these details to the world?”

Yukiko stood before Takuji, pale with excitement yet lifting a face brimming with self-respect.

“――――”

“I’ll tell you one more thing—about the fingerprints on the handle of that paper knife standing upright in Yumeko’s chest, that filthy woman. Do you know what they were?”

Yukiko had completely triumphed.
Kosugi Takuji, collapsed on the bed and seemingly crushed by this blow to the point of lacking even the strength to rise, nevertheless after a moment lifted his desperate face and lunged fiercely toward Yukiko.

“Fine, you must indeed be Yukiko—but having died once, you legally don’t exist in this world."
“Here and now—whatever I do—you have no means to prevent it, nor does the law have any way to punish it. Mark this well, Yukiko—watch closely what this Kosugi Takuji will do to you who murdered Yumeko!”

Yukiko barely evaded Kosugi Takuji’s swiftly lunging hand. But in the cramped twelve-mat bedroom, this struggle could not possibly last forever.

The side tables, lamps, vases, sculptures—everything was overturned and smashed.

Kosugi Takuji’s violent gorilla-like hands persistently pursued Yukiko—her kimono was torn to shreds, her hair pulled out, her skin wounded.

But Yukiko defended herself fiercely until, finally cornered at the door bordering the study, she somehow produced a key, easily opened the door to leap into the study, and slammed it shut with a sharp snap right in the pursuing Takuji’s face.

“This is the third key, Mr. Kosugi—there were only two keys, but do you think Yukiko would have neglected to make another one for the room where you and Yumeko lived your shameless, licentious life? By taking a wax impression and bribing a locksmith, we easily obtained a third key.”
“As long as there was a third key, there would be nothing strange about Yumeko being stabbed in a locked room—well then, Mr. Kosugi, farewell.”

“Wait, wait!”

Leaving Kosugi Takuji stamping his feet in frustration in the bedroom, Yumeko quietly descended the stairs.

Before long, the magnificent sound of a piano began to echo from the parlor downstairs.
It was Chopin’s Sonata in B-flat Minor, third movement—that beautiful *Funeral March* filled with sobs and lamentations.

Finale

“As for who the pianist H—the one who rescued Mrs. Yukiko from her grave—was, I will leave that speculation to all of you.”
“However—I would like to mention only that since then, Mrs. Yukiko has withdrawn from the music world but lives in utmost happiness, having established a new household.”

Having finished his tale, the pianist Hiraga Genichirou bowed to the astonished audience and briskly disappeared into the early spring darkness outside the venue.