Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was 10:30 p.m. Yet the two peculiar figures occupying seats before me—a swarthy man around fifty with jutting cheekbones and piercing eyes that hinted at eccentricity, and a white-haired old gentleman who appeared nearly seventy—kept murmuring nothing but disquieting crime stories from departure onward, showing no signs of ceasing. At first, after our train had glided out of Tokyo Station at eight p.m., their ominous chatter had been drowned by the carriage’s din—the cacophony of voices, passengers clambering over seats to rearrange luggage heaped haphazardly on racks, shouts for boxed meals and tea at every station stop, all veiled in acrid cigarette smoke. But when those boorish travelers finished gorging themselves and littering debris before succumbing to sleep, each whispered word now cut through my ears with razor clarity, fraying my nerves until they vibrated like overtuned strings.

“That’s where it gets difficult.” The man with prominent cheekbones said. “With blackmail—since victims have weaknesses—they can’t easily go to the authorities. This crime must be the hardest one to prevent.”

“Indeed it is,” the old man answered, his white beard quivering. “From now on, those with wicked ingenuity will only increase, so blackmail will keep growing more rampant.” I stole a glance at the private detective guarding me who sat to my right. He leaned back with his eyes closed. I pressed firmly against my inner pocket. Just what were these two, really? I had meant to secure a window seat by boarding quickly, but the man with prominent cheekbones was already properly seated in front of me. Then when the private detective took the seat beside me, the white-haired old man secured the vacant seat ahead with agility unbefitting his age. This brought the four of us together, but soon the two in front began conversing. They didn’t seem acquainted beforehand. Moreover, neither carried luggage suggesting a long journey. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the old man’s white hair and beard looked glued on. My whole body tensed up.

In fact, inside my inner pocket was a large sum of 10,000 yen in 100-yen bills. Why would a mere student like me be carrying such a sum? There was a reason for this. This was money I needed to deliver to my friend A—— in Osaka. If I simply called him "Friend A——," no one would know who I meant, but mention "Moneylender A——," and surely there was none who wouldn't recognize him. Friend A was his only son. Moneylender A—— was, as everyone knew, the very model of a miser—greedy, ruthless, cunning. For money's sake, he valued human compassion less than a broken straw sandal. In stark contrast, his son was a hot-blooded sentimentalist. Naturally they couldn't get along—my friend cursed his father at every turn.

Whenever he and I met, we would always study how best to extract money from his father. According to our reasoning, extracting even a little extra money from his father to use for worthwhile purposes was not only highly necessary but would serve as atonement for his sins—we genuinely believed this constituted a form of social service on our part. The two of us racked our brains in every way imaginable, but needless to say, he had no intention of falling for some armchair scheme concocted by greenhorns like us. And every attempt ended in failure.

When summer vacation began, undeterred by our past failures, we once again began discussing how to extract money from him. Amidst this, my friend departed for Osaka, but he suddenly conceived a certain scheme, so we coordinated between east and west to carry out the plan.

The trick’s secret coincided precisely with my friend’s recent arrival in Osaka, where two major extortion cases had erupted. This incident had been so sensationally reported in newspapers—even sparking public criticism of the police—that some readers might recall it: a certain violent organization (though in truth, no one knew how many were involved) had sent threatening letters and extorted vast sums from two wealthy individuals. My friend took inspiration from this and attempted to threaten his old man by appropriating the extortion group’s name without permission. I somehow feel like I’ve read something similar to this in a detective novel. Perhaps my friend had gotten the idea from that as well.

So Friend A assumed the identity of the extortion group himself, skillfully concealed his handwriting, demanded a ransom from his father, and vanished without a trace. And so it was through his own trembling handwriting that he reached out to me, lamenting the danger to his life and pleading for assistance. My role was to carry his letter, rush to his father’s place wearing an expression of shock, and persuade the old man. This was no small task.

His father was visibly shaken. He insisted on going to the police. But involving authorities would achieve nothing. I emphasized how ruthless the extortionists were and desperately urged him to obey their demands since his only son's life couldn't be replaced - finally making him grudgingly agree. Accordingly, he asked me to carry the cash to a specified location in Osaka as per the extortion letter's instructions. I readily accepted.

When I received 10,000 yen in a bundle of 100-yen bills, even I couldn’t help but tremble a little. Thinking it better not to let it look like money, he casually wrapped it in newspaper for me, so I firmly tucked it into my inner pocket.

Wanting to depart as soon as possible to both make my friend happy and escape my own responsibility, I returned to my boarding house and immediately began preparing.

When I suddenly noticed, there was a sealed letter lying on the desk. It bore only my name and clearly hadn’t come through the mail. There was nothing written on the back either. When I called the maid and asked, she said a rickshaw man had brought it earlier. I opened it with suspicion, but as I read on, I involuntarily let out a cry. The crime is grave: impersonating without permission the name of our organization that punishes the wealthy for justice’s sake, and deceiving flesh-and-blood beings for personal gain. Quickly hand over the money you have obtained. If you do not, we shall visit violence upon you.

×× Gang Ah, that was the XX Gang's threatening letter. How had they sniffed out our scheme? How did they know I had succeeded? And what on earth was I supposed to do? Going to the police now was impossible. Doing so would expose our plot completely. Yet I couldn't stomach meekly handing over the money either. Moreover, the letter gave no instructions about where or how to deliver it. I steeled myself with a "so be it" resolve, but acting alone felt too dangerous. I decided to hire a private detective.

I had previously heard about a private detective named Kimura Kiyoshi, so I went to his office. But unfortunately, he wasn’t there. Dejected, I stepped outside—only to run right into him returning by sheer luck. Though I didn’t recognize him at first, he proved his detective credentials by smiling with a manly, intelligent-looking face and asking kindly, “I’m Kimura—have you come to see me?”

When Kimura heard my request, he readily accepted it and arranged to assign his subordinate to me. The one sleeping next to me now was that person. (He was probably feigning sleep.)

Thus, ten thousand yen in cash lurked within my pocket. And so I had to keep vigilant on all fronts. The two suspicious men had unbeknownst to me begun discussing disguises. “When you read Western detective novels,” the man with prominent cheekbones—who seemed rather eccentric—said. He was crunching on something. “Disguises may be commonly used, but they’re quite a tricky business for us Japanese.” “Indeed, indeed,” the old man answered briskly. “Back in the day when folks wore topknots, you see—whether playing samurai or townsman—they could alter their look somewhat.” “When I fled during that Ueno battle myself, changed into commoner’s clothes at Senju—oh I had some close calls then!”

“Well, well, the Battle of Ueno—that’s an old event indeed.” The man with prominent cheekbones was astonished. Then he dipped his hand into the small tin placed on his lap and crunched away. When I looked, it was peanuts. Not to mention around his feet, peanut husks were scattered all the way up to my knees. “How about one?” He abruptly thrust the tin in front of the old man. “No, that won’t do—can’t chew, can’t chew.” The old man waved his hand. “Hmm, maybe so. But I’m quite fond of this myself—they say it contains vitamins.” He took one and put it into his mouth.

When I suddenly looked at the old man’s profile, I cried out inwardly. I had once read in a detective novel that while parents and children or siblings might not share obvious resemblances when viewed face-on, their profiles often revealed common features. Ever since then, whenever I spotted what appeared to be a mother-daughter pair or brother-sister pair on trains, I would compare their profiles and think Ah, of course—but now I had made a crucial discovery. This was the principle that disguises prove most vulnerable to detection when observed from the side.

The outline of the white-haired old man's profile before me appeared remarkably youthful and taut. He was definitely not an old man; he was disguised. When I examined him with this thought, though skillfully made to resemble natural hair, it indeed appeared wig-like. When I tried to alert the detective and glanced his way, he remained pressing his head against the backboard but peered at the old man through narrowed eyes. He'd noticed it too!

The train was running along Suruga Bay. Outside the window lay darkness, yet something resembling the sea could be discerned. A cool wind pleasantly brushed against skin sticky with sweat.

It’s midnight.

Before long, the train gradually began to slow down. The train rattled from side to side, then glided smoothly into the dimly lit platform. Shizuoka.

The passengers began making a commotion again. On the platform, vendors shouted loudly as they busily scurried about. The two men in front of me stopped their conversation. The man with prominent cheekbones clutched the peanut tin in one hand, pressing it against his waist while leaning halfway out the window. The white-haired old man closed his eyes and was dozing off.

“Shizuoka?” The detective—having finally awoken, or at least pretending to have—asked while lighting a Shikishima. “That’s right.” I answered while firmly pressing down on my jacket pocket with my left elbow.

“It’s rather stifling in here.” “Yeah.”

“Perhaps you should remove your jacket? It’s perfectly safe.” He said with a meaningful smile.

“Yeah.” I smiled warily and answered.

The old man in front, who had been dozing off, briefly opened his eyes but soon closed them again with a languid air.

The train began to move quietly.

The man with prominent cheekbones pulled his body back inside and plopped down into his seat, muttering to himself as if in soliloquy,

“Darn—ended up missing the sea bream rice after all.”

Having said that, he glanced at the old man next to him, but since he was dozing off, he roughly thrust his hand into the peanut tin and began crunching away. No sooner had he done so than he suddenly thrust the tin in front of me.

“How about it, you—care to have one?”

I was taken aback. With a faint smile, “Oh, no—I’m fine,” I managed an awkward reply and left it at that. “How far are you going?” He immediately withdrew the peanut tin, placed it on his lap, and began speaking. He seemed quite talkative. “I’m going to Osaka.” “You’re remarkably well-mannered for someone so young.” His words had no coherence at all. “You’re keeping that jacket on quite diligently.” I jolted. What could he possibly be thinking, asking such a question?

“Yeah.” I gave a vague response. “You’re in engineering, aren’t you?” His questions remained as abrupt as ever. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“What’s your department?” “Mechanical Engineering.” “Mechanical Engineering? How’s Tomiyama doing these days?”

The one called Tomiyama was an associate professor in the Mechanical Engineering department and a world-renowned scholar. “He’s still immersed in his research.” “Are you acquainted with him?” “Well, I wouldn’t say I know him all that well.” Having said that, he put his hand into the peanut tin on his lap. “Do you dislike peanuts?” “No, that’s not exactly the case.” “Cheap and tasty, huh? They say they’re packed with vitamins.” “Poison for the stomach, eh?” The old man, who had been awake and smiling since earlier, interjected.

“What isn’t poison?” Having said that, he turned toward the old man. The conversation that began with peanuts ended with peanuts.

The train was plunging recklessly through the darkness.

When I looked around the carriage, most were already asleep in various postures. From the corner came the occasional loud swish of a fan being waved. The senior conductor staggered through the narrow aisle lined with luggage and passed by resentfully.

It was 2 a.m.

My eyes only grew keener. “Japan’s been seeing quite an increase in bizarre crimes lately,” the old man said.

Yet another crime discussion!

“Indeed—we’ve finally caught up with the West.”

“Who cares if we lose to the West in this regard?” “It’s because transportation systems have advanced—Japan can’t very well lag behind alone. “And Japan has too many people. “This is the root of crime.”

“So you’re advocating for murder now?” “That’s not how it works.” “But this here’s killing two birds with one stone in reducin’ folks.”

I was shocked that an old man would speak so roughly. The private detective sitting next to me also opened his eyes wide and looked at the old man’s face. “That’s barbaric,” the man with prominent cheekbones said. “Well, they’ll just keep on producing more, I suppose.” “I’m against that. The country’ll weaken.” “Even if the country grows stronger, it’s no good if we can’t eat.” Having said this, the man with prominent cheekbones suddenly began eating peanuts again, as if he’d just remembered them. The express train emitted a roaring sound as it crossed the Tenryū River Iron Bridge. It gradually slowed its speed and entered Hamamatsu Station.

Some passengers drowsily opened their bleary eyes. Others leaned out windows to read the station name. The detective suddenly rose and strode toward the exit. As he reached it, the old man stood again and shuffled after him, hunched at the waist. The two men failed to reappear. Even when the departure bell rang, they remained absent. Gradually, the train began creeping forward. I could no longer contain my unease.

The only one remaining, the man with prominent cheekbones, had pressed his head against the window and was sleeping soundly. I had no recourse. As if to suppress my anxiety, I pulled my coat tight around me.

As the train jolted with a clatter, the man in front woke up and began restlessly scanning his surroundings. “Still not back,” he muttered like someone talking to himself. I swiftly seized the chance.

“Is that old man your friend?” “Something like a friend, yet not quite.” “He’s still that condescending old codger.” “Well, suppose you could call him a friend.” “Though to be precise, we only became friends from last night onward.” “Then you hadn’t known him before?” “No.” “Is he truly elderly?” “Well, I suppose he is.”

“Something feels off,” I ventured. “Strange, isn’t it?” “Yes, it’s strange.” “Hmm—you’re quite sharp.” He fixed me with an unwavering gaze. “What of that fellow who sat beside you earlier?” “He’s my associate.” “Curious business, that.”

“Huh?!”

“He’s in disguise.” “Th-that’s not possible!” I hurriedly denied this, but upon reflection—he was Detective Kimura’s subordinate who had come to Tokyo Station last night with a letter of introduction and was supposed to guard me. In other words, this was our first meeting; he might be disguised for some necessary reason. “He’s in disguise. Can’t you tell?” “—” I didn’t know what to say. “He’s not your old acquaintance, is he?”

“Yes.” I answered in a small voice. I found myself pinned by his gleaming eyes. “Hmph—a psychological effect.” “You claimed the man beside me isn’t elderly.” “That stems purely from your suspicion.” “Moreover, you cannot penetrate your companion’s disguise.” “Because you trust him.” “The chasm between trust and suspicion barely sways outcomes.” “A crime’s success or failure ultimately hinges here.” “When trusted, they prevail effortlessly—when doubted, failure becomes inevitable.”

As he said this, his fingertips kept busily rummaging through that familiar can, but unfortunately the peanuts had grown scarce, making them hard to grab. He finally tilted the can sideways to peer inside. Then, while staring fixedly at my silent figure, “Not carrying anything important, are you?” he said. I started so violently I nearly leapt up. My hand instinctively clamped over my pocket. “Aha, you’ve got it. In your left pocket... Money, perhaps?”

I turned pale. Ah, who was this dark-complexioned man with jutting cheekbones and piercing eyes? Why hadn't the detective come back yet?

The train had passed Lake Hamana. It was 3:00 a.m. “Hmph, if you’re carrying money, that’s quite dangerous. Your opponent is no easy mark. You’ve been desperately clutching your coat since earlier, but there’s a chance it’s already been switched out.” The enigmatic man said with a serious face. As if under a hypnotist’s suggestion, I stroked the newspaper-wrapped bundle over my pocket. But whether it was just my nerves or not, the texture felt somehow different. I was unbearably anxious. I turned sideways and quietly took it out to check, but since it was still as before, I sighed in relief and put it back into my pocket.

“Ah, you found it. But you can’t feel safe with just the outer wrapper.” “They’re quite skilled at switching things out, you know.” I began to feel anxious again. I couldn’t stand not checking inside any longer. I started to put my hand into my pocket, but suddenly realized—damn it! I thought. He was waiting for me to open the paper bundle right in front of him. They had his accomplice lure my detective away somewhere and were trying to make me feel anxious so I’d check the money bundle. And then they must be planning to steal it when they find an opening. As if I’d fall for that trick. While sweat streamed down from my forehead, I put my right hand into my inner pocket and firmly gripped the paper bundle. But an indescribable anxiety assaulted me. I don’t know if it’s been switched. That can’t be. But what happened to that suspicious old man? What about the detective?

Even if I checked the money here—though they were asleep—it was inside an express train packed with passengers and speeding along. It’s not like I could just snatch it from a child’s hand out in the open. I should check it. That would be more reassuring.

I turned sideways and swiftly pulled out the bundle from my pocket to cut open its seal. When I quickly opened it, a stack of bills emerged from within. Atop them sat a conspicuously displayed new 100-yen bill I recognized. Though I sighed in relief, I simultaneously felt ridiculous for doubting. Yet unease lingered—the stack somehow felt different. I flipped through the bills. Ah! I'd been had—save for the top and bottom notes, the bundle consisted entirely of cleverly disguised Western wastepaper scraps.

I panicked. My hand was unconsciously rifling through the bundle of counterfeit bills. Ah, I’d been had. Where had it been switched on me? "I’ve been had." I muttered weakly. “What? You’ve been had?” The man with gaunt cheeks who had given me that infuriating suggestion half-rose from his seat and exclaimed in a low voice. With that motion, the peanut can on his knees clattered to the floor. A few passengers looked at me in surprise.

The train was about to stop again. It was 3:30 a.m.

From when the train stopped at Toyohashi Station until it started moving again, I didn’t know what to do. Should I report this to the station attendant? That would be pointless. Maybe I should consult the man in front. No, no—I couldn’t afford to be careless. I felt tears welling up. The reproachful, disappointed face of my friend—the one who should have been waiting to meet me at Osaka Station—floated before my eyes.

When I looked at the man in front, he had his eyes closed and seemed lost in silent contemplation. Ah, what on earth had become of my detective? With frustration and vexation welling up inside me, I wanted nothing more than to beat myself down over this pitiful state of mine.

Just then, the old man unexpectedly returned. And then, just as the old man was about to take his seat, the detective appeared. I felt as if I had been saved with relief.

As soon as the detective approached, I stood up and whispered everything that had happened to him in a low voice. His complexion rapidly paled, and his eyes began to glint fiercely. He stood up straight and stared fixedly at the old man before him. For the first time, I found this detective to be reliable.

The detective wordlessly tapped the old man’s shoulder. Then he briskly started walking toward the door. The old man also wordlessly stood up slowly and followed him.

What was wrong with the man in front? He lay sprawled on his back snoring loudly, feigning complete ignorance of everything that had happened. As if someone had kicked it with their foot, the peanut can lay toppled over at my feet. I vacantly stared at the two desolate empty seats next to him and next to me.

Our carefully executed plan had succeeded splendidly unlike ever before, yet through my carelessness it had been completely ruined! But when had they switched it on me? From when I put the money in my pocket until returning to my lodgings, visiting the detective's office, and arriving at the station - though there had been ample time - throughout that period I had taken utmost care to keep my coat firmly weighed down from above. Where could it have been switched? No matter how I racked my brains, I couldn't fathom it.

What was I supposed to say to apologize to my friend? How disappointed my friend would be. I didn’t know if the detective would manage to get it back for me. It would be very difficult. My head was swirling with incoherent thoughts.

Night had dawned before I knew it, and refreshing morning air came rushing in from outside the window veiled in mist. The passengers began to stir.

At 5:00 a.m., when the train stopped at Nagoya Station, the passengers scrambled out of the carriage, some hurrying to the restrooms while others surrounded the lunchbox vendors. I lacked the energy to do anything, huddled in the corner of my seat, watching intently as the man with prominent cheekbones in front of me heaved himself up, stuck his head out the window, and conversed with a passing station attendant.

Even as the train crossed the Nobi Plain, detoured around the base of Mount Ibuki, and entered the Omi Plain, neither the detective nor the old man showed any sign of appearing. The man in front was sleeping soundly, completely unperturbed. I cradled my throbbing head and began to doze off. From extreme tension to shock, from shock to disappointment, from disappointment to lethargy, I—hovering between dream and reality as I dreamed terrifying dreams and fleeting dreams of recovering the money—continued racing along the shores of Lake Biwa.

Ōtsu, Kyoto—I only perceived them dimly.

From around when I passed Kyoto, I gradually began to regain my energy. As the beautiful green rice fields of Yamashiro Plain came into view, followed by Settsu Plain beyond where the Hattan mountain range stood out clearly, the number of houses scattered across the fields like seeds gradually increased. When I crossed the long iron bridge spanning the Shin-Yodo River, the bustling backstreets of the city—already soiled with soot and oil—began.

At 8:30 a.m., the train slid soundlessly into Dai-Osaka Station.

Neither the detective nor the old man ultimately appeared.

The man with prominent cheekbones who had been sitting in front of me had been leaning out the window since the train neared a corner of the platform. To my astonishment, upon spotting him, four or five gentlemanly figures and over a dozen white-uniformed police officers came rushing beneath the window. When he uttered something, the officers promptly divided into two groups and dashed to the right and left. Glancing around, I noticed two or three more white-uniformed officers stationed near the ticket gate as well.

I had no idea what was going on, but I dejectedly got off the train. I took a few steps when something tapped my shoulder. I turned around to find Friend A standing there with a smile.

“Good morning. You’ve had quite the ordeal.”

“――” I silently looked at my friend’s face. Tears welled up.

“What’s wrong with you?” My friend asked in surprise.

“Please forgive me—the money was stolen...” I began, when from across the way, that man with sunken cheeks—surrounded by two or three people—walked over and called out to me.

“You, you—no need to despair.” “Since we’ve identified the criminal, they’ll likely be coming this way with two suspects—which one do you think is the culprit?” When I looked in the direction he pointed, the detective and the old man were walking this way together, escorted by a large number of police officers.

I had no idea what was going on. There was no way my friend could possibly understand. He stood there with a perplexed expression.

The group came right beside us.

“Please make sure he doesn’t escape.” The detective shouted. “Would I run away?” “You mistakenly thought I took the money and kept insisting we split it fifty-fifty—what do you have to say for yourself?” The white-haired old man said. “Doctor, what should we do?”

The inspector-like man at the front bowed politely and asked Dr. Sakata. "I was summoned by the local police to consult on an extortion case, but fortunately managed to identify the criminal—or at least an accomplice—during my train journey here. I sent a telegram from Nagoya about it." "So one of these two is the culprit—" The crowd turned to look at both men simultaneously.

“I deduce it’s this one.” He pointed at the private detective. The detective thrashed about but was immediately overwhelmed by the swarm of officers. “Now, regarding this one—” As soon as they finished restraining the detective, Dr. Sakata turned toward the old man to continue, but the disguised figure abruptly interrupted him.

“I am Kimura Kiyoshi, the private detective.” He promptly removed his wig and beard. I looked at his face in surprise—the man bore no resemblance to the Kimura Kiyoshi I had seen before. Though his features did appear intelligent and alert. “Hmm, quite so.” Dr. Sakata nodded with evident satisfaction.

“And you are the distinguished criminologist Dr. Sakata, I take it.” “Precisely.” “But there’s a particular point I’d have you clarify.” Dr. Sakata stated. “Understood.” “In fact, I was engaged by the victim Mr. A—— regarding an extortion case involving his son who was traveling in Osaka.” “I counseled Mr. A—— to have his son’s friend at least convey and transport the demanded sum to Osaka.” “With the intention that I myself would subsequently pursue.” “To minimize suspicion, I deliberately adopted the disguise of a white-haired elder, yet by happenstance found myself seated adjacent to Dr. Sakata here. Being subjected to his persistent inquiries and cross-examinations proved most disconcerting.” “Had I maintained silence, all might have been well—but compelled to converse thus, even the most artful disguise must inevitably betray itself.”

“That may be beside the point, but during the train journey, I unintentionally discovered that the person here had a strange companion.” “I strictly monitored his actions.” “Once during the journey, he left his seat and seemed to want to contact his accomplices, but since I didn’t leave his side, he was unable to do so.”

When the two of us returned to our seats, the money bundle had already been switched. He thought that it was my doing. He didn’t think I was a detective and had convinced himself that I was just like him—eyeing the money bundle. Thereupon he invited me outside the train car and proposed splitting the money. According to what he stated at that time, he had been watching Mr. A while barely containing his anticipation for the Osaka extortion to succeed, thereby skillfully learning about the case Mr. A had entrusted to me. And since the fact that the threatening letter was forged became evident from his own lack of recollection of having sent it, he sent another threatening letter to the agent here present. Then, when that person came to my office for consultation, I tailed him; and when he returned empty-handed because I was out, I falsely claimed to be Kimura, deceived him by saying I would send a subordinate for protection, then skillfully disguised myself as Kimura’s subordinate and boarded the same train. “Believing that I had stolen the money, he confessed everything to me and pressured me to split it.”

“Ah, so that’s how it was.” Dr. Sakata nodded appreciatively. “And how did you determine he was the culprit, Doctor?” Kimura inquired. “From trivial observations, you see.” “After conversing with you extensively and judging you to be upstanding, I surmised you must be a detective.” “However, this individual here suggested just once that the young man remove his jacket.” “Naturally, when I later noticed two disguised persons tailing him, I reasoned they must be after something concealed in that garment—so I casually alluded to that possibility. But at the time, our culprit here believed they sought the money in the student’s coat.” Dr. Sakata explained matter-of-factly, then leaned forward intently.

“There’s one more thing I don’t understand—I meant to study psychological responses by suggesting the money had been switched, but I was astonished when that coincidentally aligned with reality.” “Who stole the money, I wonder?” “Well, that’s something even I can’t quite fathom,” Kimura answered quietly. “This remains mere conjecture, but I believe the money was likely counterfeit from the moment it came into this person’s possession.”

“Wh-what?” I jumped up.

With this, the Express Train 13-Hour Incident came to a close.

I may be reprimanded for adding a superfluous detail, but I must state for the record that the money had indeed been counterfeit from the moment I received it, just as Detective Kimura had deduced. The cunning Mr. A had been deceived by our scheme yet still harbored lingering doubts; while consulting Detective Kimura on one hand, he had given me a bundle of fake bills with one genuine 100-yen note sandwiched at both the top and bottom. Why would I have doubted it? I had accepted it trembling—the first large sum I’d ever held since birth.

After the incident, it was amusing when the three of us—myself, Mr. A’s son, and Detective Kimura—had a discussion with Mr. A in his parlor.

Mr. Kimura indeed vehemently denounced Mr. A’s counterfeit bills. “That is unacceptable. Depending on the circumstances, it could constitute a crime.” “That ain’t true,” Mr. A answered while knocking his greasy forehead. “I was threatened into handing it over, so I don’t mind if it’s counterfeit.”

“But...” Kimura pressed insistently. “In that case—since they caught the extortionist—it worked out. But had that not happened, your son would’ve been confined! (What a useful lie—he hadn’t told Mr. A the truth.) What if you’d brought counterfeit bills there? Wouldn’t both your son and the courier have been in mortal danger?” “Ain’t no need t’go on like that.” “They’re desperate too, see? All panicky-like—they’d snatch it up even if it’s fake, thinkin’ it’s real.”

“What if things hadn’t gone that way?” “What’s done’s done—it’s water under the bridge now.” “That’s unacceptable—this is a humanitarian issue! To make an uninformed person carry counterfeit bills into what amounts to a tiger’s den—” “Then I’ll make amends, I s’pose.” “Apologies won’t suffice—you must take appropriate measures.” “Appropriate measures? What’re you gettin’ at?”

“Pay me 5,000 yen as a reward and 5,000 yen to this person, totaling 10,000 yen.” “Wh-what? That’s absurd!”

I still cannot forget the look of surprise on Mr. A’s face at that moment. His face looked like that of a monkey who had burned its paw trying to snatch chestnuts from a fire. “If you do not hand it over, I am resolved.” Kimura did not yield. In the end, while half-crying, Mr. A wrote a 10,000-yen check.

What surprised me was that Mr. Kimura immediately handed the check to Mr. A’s son and said with a smile, “When making your father cough up money next time, do it with better finesse.”