Pathway to Japanese Literature

As we approached Hakone Mountain, the carriage grew considerably calmer. It was 10:30 PM. The two peculiar men occupying the seats before me—one a swarthy man around fifty with prominent cheekbones and eyes that gleamed with unsettling intensity, the other a white-haired old gentleman who appeared nearly seventy—had been muttering disturbing crime stories since departure and still showed no sign of stopping. From when the train glided out of Tokyo Station at 8 PM until some time later, their voices had only reached me intermittently through the carriage's clamor—the chaotic conversations, passengers standing on seats to rearrange luggage haphazardly thrown onto overhead racks, vendors busily hawking boxed meals and tea at every station stop, and thick clouds of tobacco smoke filling the compartment; but once those ill-mannered passengers had eaten their fill, scattered crumbs everywhere, and begun dozing off, every word now pierced my ears with dreadful clarity, fraying my nerves beyond endurance.

"That's precisely where the difficulty lies," the cheekbone man said. "What you call blackmail—since the victim's got some weakness, they can't just go reporting it. This crime's the hardest one to prevent, I tell you." "Absolutely so," the old man answered, his white beard trembling. "From now on, those with wicked cunning will only increase in number, so blackmail cases will keep rising endlessly." I stole a glance at the private detective serving as my escort sitting to my right. He had reclined in his seat and closed his eyes. I firmly pressed my inner pocket.

What on earth could these two men be?

I had intended from the start to take a window seat and quickly rushed into the carriage, but the cheekbone man was already sitting there in front of me. Then, when the private detective sat down next to me, the white-haired old man took the vacant seat in front with an agility unthinkable for someone his age. And so we formed a group of four seated together; however, the two in front soon resumed their conversation. They didn't seem to have been acquainted beforehand. Moreover, both carried nothing resembling luggage despite supposedly traveling a long distance. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the old man's white hair and beard seemed pasted on. I felt my insides tighten.

The truth was, my inner pocket held a fortune—ten thousand yen in 100-yen bills. Why would a mere student like me be carrying such a fortune? There was a reason for this.

This was money I was supposed to take to my friend A in Osaka. You might not know who I mean by 'my friend A,' but if I say 'Usurer A'—well, there's no one who wouldn't recognize that name. My friend was his only son. Usurer A—as everyone knows—was the quintessential miser. Greedy, ruthless, and cunning—for money’s sake, he considered human compassion as worthless as a tattered sandal. In stark contrast, his son was a hot-blooded sentimentalist. Naturally, they were completely incompatible; my friend was always cursing his father.

Whenever he and I met, we would always deliberate on how best to extract money from his father. According to our thinking, extracting even a little extra money from his father to use for useful purposes was not only highly necessary—serving as atonement for his sins—but also what we believed to be an act of social service on our part. The two of us racked our brains in every way possible, but needless to say, he would never fall for some half-baked theoretical scheme concocted by greenhorns like us. And so, it always 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 having suddenly concocted a scheme, he coordinated our actions from east and west to carry out the plan.

The trick’s secret coincided precisely with my friend’s arrival in Osaka—no sooner had he arrived than two major blackmail cases occurred there. This incident had been so sensationalized in the newspapers—even provoking public outcry against the police—that some readers might recall it: a certain violent organization (though in truth it was unclear how many were involved) had sent blackmail letters and swindled vast sums from two wealthy individuals. My friend took inspiration from this and borrowed the extortion ring’s name without permission to set out to blackmail his father. It occurred to me that I’d read something similar to this in a detective novel. My friend might have gotten the idea from that as well.

Thereupon my friend posed as the extortion ring himself, skillfully disguised his handwriting, demanded ransom from his father for his own release, and disappeared without a trace. Then he came to me bearing a letter in his own trembling script that pleaded for help while declaring his life was in danger. My task was to take this letter, rush to his father's residence with an expression of horrified shock, and compel his father's compliance. This was no small responsibility.

His father was visibly flustered. He insisted on going to the police. But involving the authorities would solve nothing. I stressed the gang’s viciousness and desperately urged him to obey their demands—arguing his only son’s life was irreplaceable—until he grudgingly agreed. Accordingly, to deliver the cash at an Osaka location specified in the extortion letter, he asked me to carry the money all the way there. I readily accepted.

When I received ten thousand yen in a single bundle of 100-yen bills, even I couldn't help but tremble slightly. Thinking it better not to let it look like money, he carelessly wrapped it in newspaper for me, so I securely stowed it in my inner pocket. Wanting to depart without a moment's delay—to bring joy to my friend and relieve myself of responsibility—I returned to my boarding house and started preparing immediately.

When I noticed there was a sealed letter on my desk. It only had my name written on it—clearly not delivered by mail. Nothing was written on the back either. When I called my maid and asked about it, she said a rickshaw man had brought it earlier. I opened it suspiciously but gasped aloud while reading its contents. To brazenly exploit our organization’s name—we who punish tyrants for justice’s sake—and deceive flesh-and-blood men for selfish gain: your crime stands immense. Surrender immediately all money obtained through fraud; else we shall visit violence upon you.

The ×× Gang

Ah, that was the ×× Gang's blackmail letter.

How did they discover our scheme? How did they find out I had succeeded? And what in the world was I supposed to do?

At this point, I couldn't go to the police. If we did that, our scheme would be exposed and finished. Yet I hated to meekly hand over the money either. Moreover, the blackmail letter gave no instructions about where or how to deliver it. I hardened my resolve with a "come what may," but being alone was dangerous regardless. I resolved to hire a private detective.

I had heard about a private detective named Kiyoshi Kimura beforehand, so I went to his place. However, he was unfortunately not there. Disheartened, I stepped outside, and by some stroke of luck, I happened to encounter him returning. Admittedly, I didn’t know his face, but being a detective through and through, when he saw me, he grinned with a manly and intelligent-looking face and kindly asked, "I’m Kimura. You’ve come to see me, haven’t you?"

When Kimura heard my request, he gladly accepted it and arranged to have his subordinate accompany me. That person was now sleeping next to me. (Most likely, he was pretending to be asleep.) And so, ten thousand yen in cash was lurking in my pocket. And so I had to stay vigilant on all fronts.

The two suspicious men somehow began discussing disguises. "When you read Western detective novels," the man with prominent cheekbones and an eccentric air said. He was munching noisily on something. “Disguises may be all the rage, but they’re quite challenging for us Japanese, you see.”

“Quite so, quite so.” The old man answered energetically. “Back in the day, since we wore topknots, you could somewhat change your appearance by becoming a samurai or a townsman, you see.” “I myself, during the Battle of Ueno when I fled, took on the guise of a townsman in Senju—oh, I had quite a dangerous time of it, I tell you.”

“Well, well, the Battle of Ueno—that’s an old story, isn’t it?” The man with prominent cheekbones showed surprise. He kept reaching into the small tin on his lap and crunching away. When I looked, it contained peanuts. Not only around his feet, but peanut shells were scattered all the way up to my knees. “Care for one?” He abruptly thrust the tin toward the old man. “No, that won’t do. I can’t chew them, can’t chew them at all.” The old man waved his hand dismissively. “Oh really? I’m quite fond of these myself—they contain vitamins, you know.” He picked one up and popped it into his mouth.

When I abruptly looked at the old man’s profile, I cried out inwardly, "Ah!" I had read in a detective novel that even when parents and siblings share no resemblance when viewed head-on, their profiles often bear common features. Ever since, whenever I saw what appeared to be mother-daughter pairs or siblings in trains, I would compare their profiles and marvel at how true this was. But now I made a great discovery. It was that disguises are easily seen through when viewed from the side.

The outline of the white-haired old man's profile before me was astonishingly youthful and vigorous. He was certainly not an old man; he was in disguise. When I looked with that thought in mind, though it was skillfully crafted to resemble natural hair, it did look like a wig. I thought to alert the detective and glanced his way, only to find him still pressing his head against the backboard—but with narrowed eyes, he was peering at the old man. He noticed it too!

The train was running along Suruga Bay. Outside the window was darkness, but something resembling the sea could be discerned. A cool breeze soothingly caressed my skin, sticky with sweat.

It was midnight.

Before long, the train gradually began to slow down. The train clattered and swayed from side to side, then glided smoothly into a dimly lit platform.

It was Shizuoka.

The passengers began stirring again. Platform vendors barked hoarsely as they busily scurried about. The two men before me stopped talking. The man with prominent cheekbones gripped the peanut tin in one fist, bracing it against his hip as he leaned halfway out the window. The white-haired old man had closed his eyes and was drifting in and out of sleep.

“Is this Shizuoka?”

The detective—having finally awoken, or at least pretending to have—lit a Shikishima cigarette and asked.

“Yes, it is.” I answered while firmly pressing my left elbow against my jacket pocket.

“It’s quite stuffy in here.” “Yes.” “Why don’t you take off your jacket?” “It’s perfectly safe.” He said with a meaningful smile.

“Yes.”

I also smiled and answered.

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

The train quietly began to move.

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

“Oh no—I completely missed buying the sea bream rice.” With that, he glanced at the old man next to him, but finding him 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 you—care for one?”

I was taken aback. With a faint smile, “No, thank you,” I said with an evasive reply and left it at that. “How far are you going?” He immediately withdrew the peanut tin and, placing it on his lap, began talking. He seemed quite talkative.

“To Osaka.” “You’re remarkably well-mannered for someone so young.” His remarks showed no coherence whatsoever. “You’re keeping that jacket on quite persistently.”

I started. What could he be thinking to ask such a question?

“Yes.” I gave an ambiguous reply. “You’re in engineering, aren’t you?” His questions remained as abrupt as ever. “Yes, that’s right.” “What’s your department?” “Mechanical Engineering.” “Mechanical Engineering? How’s Mr. Toyama doing these days?”

The name Toyama referred to the associate professor of the Mechanical Engineering Department and a world-renowned scholar. "He’s still devoted to his research. Do you know him?" "Oh, nothing—I wouldn’t say I know him." So saying, he thrust his hand into the peanut tin on his lap. "Do you dislike peanuts?" "No, that’s not exactly the case." "They’re cheap and tasty, aren’t they? I hear they contain vitamins."

“Bad for the stomach, I tell you.” The old man who had been awake and grinning since earlier interjected. “What isn’t poison?” With that, he turned toward the old man. The conversation involving me that had begun over peanuts concluded over peanuts.

The train was charging through the darkness. When I looked around the carriage, most passengers had already fallen 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 2:00 AM. My eyes only grew keener. “Japan’s been seeing quite an uptick in outlandish crimes lately,” the White-haired Old Man said. Here we go again with crime talk! “Quite so—we’ve stopped lagging behind the West now, haven’t we?” “Who gives a fig if we trail the West in such matters?” “Transportation networks have advanced—Japan can’t stay behind alone.” “Besides, there’s too many people here.” “That’s the very root of crime.” “So you’re advocating murder now?” “That’s not what I meant.”

"But this here's a two-for-one deal when it comes to thinning folks out, ain't it?"

I was startled that an old man would speak so violently. The private detective sitting next to me also opened his eyes wide and stared at the old man’s face.

“That’s brutal,” said the cheekbone-marked man. “Well now—one must ensure they keep multiplying.” “I’m against that,” “It’d weaken th’country.”

“Even if the country grows stronger, it’s no good if people can’t eat.” Having said this, the cheekbone-marked man suddenly began eating peanuts again, as if remembering something. The train roared across the Tenryū River Iron Bridge with a thunderous clamor. Eventually, it slowed down and entered Hamamatsu Station.

Some passengers drowsily opened their eyes. There were also people leaning out the window trying to read the station's name. For some reason, the detective abruptly stood up and made his way toward the exit. Just as he reached it, the old man rose again and shuffled toward the exit while hunched over. The two men did not return. Even when the departure signal sounded, they remained absent. Soon the train began moving. I was unbearably anxious.

The sole remaining man with prominent cheekbones had his head pressed against the window, snoring loudly. I was at a complete loss. I clutched my coat tightly as if to suppress my anxiety. As the train jolted with a clatter, the man in front woke up and glanced around restlessly. "They still haven’t come back." He muttered as if to himself. I swiftly seized the opportunity.

“Is that elderly gentleman an acquaintance of yours?” “Something like a friend yet not quite.” “Still that mocking old codger.” “Well...a friend of sorts.” “Though strictly speaking—we’ve only been friends from last night till now.”

“Then you weren’t acquainted before?” “No.”

“Is that elderly gentleman truly old?”

“Well, I suppose he is.” “It does seem rather strange...” I gathered my courage and spoke out. “Strange, you say?” “Yes, it’s strange.”

“Hmm, you’re quite something.” He stared fixedly at my face. “What’s with the man sitting next to you?” “He’s with me.”

“That’s odd too.”

“Huh?!” “He’s in disguise.”

“Th-that can’t be true.” 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 had been assigned to guard me—so in a sense, this was our first meeting, and he might have some reason to be in disguise. “He’s in disguise. Can’t you tell?” “—” I didn’t know what to say.

“He isn’t an old acquaintance of yours, is he?”

“Yes.” I answered in a small voice. I found myself pinned under his blazing gaze. “Hmph—psychological effect,” he said. “You claimed the man beside me isn’t elderly because you doubt him. Yet you can’t see through your own companion’s disguise because you believe in him.” He leaned forward, fingers drumming the empty peanut tin. “Belief and suspicion affect outcomes less than you’d think. Crimes succeed when trusted,” a peanut shell cracked between his fingers, “and fail when doubted—that’s all there is to it.”

As he said this, his fingertips busily searched through the familiar can, but unfortunately the peanuts had dwindled so much that he could hardly pick any out. He finally tilted the can sideways and peered into it. Then, while staring intently at my silent form,

“Aren’t you carrying something important?” he said. I was so startled I nearly leapt into the air. Instinctively, I clamped my hand over my pocket. “Aha, you do have it. “In your left pocket, perhaps? The money?” I turned pale.

Who on earth was this dark-skinned man with protruding cheekbones and sharp eyes? Why hadn't the detective returned yet? The train had cleared Lake Hamana. It was three o'clock in the morning. "Hmph. Carrying money makes you quite vulnerable," he said. "Your adversary isn't someone to underestimate. You've been clutching that coat desperately since earlier—it might already have been swapped out, you know."

The man of unknown origin 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 my nerves or not, the texture felt somehow different. I was consumed with anxiety. I turned sideways and carefully took it out to check, but finding it unchanged, I sighed in relief and returned it to my pocket. “You found it, but you can’t trust just the outer wrapping. They’re experts at sly substitutions.”

I began to feel anxious again. I couldn't bear it anymore—I had to check inside. I started to put my hand into my pocket once, but suddenly realizing—damn it!—I thought. He was waiting for me to open the paper bundle right before his eyes. He had his accomplices lure my detective away somewhere and was trying to make me anxious enough to check the money bundle, I thought. And then they must be planning to seize that opening to steal it. As if I'd fall for that trick! While sweat streamed from my forehead, I thrust my right hand into my inner pocket and gripped the paper bundle tightly. But an indescribable anxiety came over me. Had it been switched out? No, that couldn't be. But what had become of that suspicious old man? Where was the detective?

Even if I checked the money here—though they were asleep—this was an express train packed with passengers and speeding along. This wasn’t like snatching something from a child’s hand on the street. I’ll check it. That would be more reassuring.

I turned to the side, swiftly pulled out the package from my pocket, and broke the seal. When I hastily opened it, a stack of bills emerged from within. At the very top lay a familiar new 100-yen bill, prominently displayed. I let out a sigh of relief while simultaneously being struck by the absurdity of it all. Yet unease lingered. The stack of bills somehow felt off. I shuffled through the bundle. Ah! I’d been tricked—except for the topmost note and the very bottom one, the entire stack was nothing but cleverly disguised wastepaper.

I was thrown into disarray. My hands were unconsciously rustling through the bundle of counterfeit bills. Ah，I'd been had. Where had I been switched? "I've been had." I muttered weakly.

“Huh? You’ve been had?”

The man with sunken cheeks who had given me those infuriating hints half-rose from his seat and exclaimed in a low voice. At that motion, the tin of peanuts on his knees clattered to the floor. A few passengers looked at me in surprise.

The train was coming to a stop again. It was three thirty in the morning.

From when the train stopped at Toyohashi Station until it started moving again, I didn't know what to do. Should I report it to the station attendant? That would be pointless. Should I try consulting the man in front? No, no—I couldn't afford to be reckless. I felt tears welling up.

The reproachful, disappointed face of my friend who was supposed to meet me at Osaka Station floated up before my eyes.

When I looked at the man in front, he had his eyes closed and appeared to be engrossed in silent meditation. Ah, what on earth had happened to my detective? With frustration and vexation, I wanted to mercilessly beat down my pitiable self in every way imaginable.

At that moment, the old man unexpectedly returned. No sooner had the old man taken his seat than the detective appeared. I felt a wave of relief, as though I’d been saved.

No sooner had the detective approached than I stood up and whispered all that had happened to him in a low voice. His complexion rapidly paled, and his eyes began to blaze fiercely. He stood up straight abruptly and stared fixedly at the old man in front. For the first time, I found this detective dependable.

The detective wordlessly tapped the old man on the shoulder. He then briskly started walking toward the door. The old man also wordlessly stood up slowly and laboriously and followed after him. What was wrong with the man in front? Despite all that had happened, he lay sprawled on his back, loudly snoring as if completely oblivious to everything. It appeared someone had kicked it over with their foot, as the peanut tin lay overturned at my feet. I vacantly stared at the two desolate empty seats next to him and next to me.

Our meticulously executed plan had succeeded more brilliantly than ever before—yet it had been completely ruined by my carelessness! But when had I been pickpocketed? After placing the money in my pocket, I had returned to my boarding house, visited the detective’s office, and come to the station—there had been ample time throughout these steps. Yet during all that while, I had kept pressing down on my jacket from above with caution upon caution. Where had I been pickpocketed? No matter how I racked my brain, I couldn’t figure it out.

How should I ever apologize to my friend? How utterly disappointed he would be. Would the detective even manage to get it back? It must be nearly impossible.

My head was swirling with disjointed thoughts.

Night had given way before I knew it, and refreshing morning air came rushing through windows veiled in mist. Passengers began stirring.

At 5:00 AM, when the train stopped at Nagoya Station, the passengers scrambled out of the carriages—some rushing to the washrooms, others swarming around the lunchbox vendors. I lacked the energy to do anything, huddled in a corner of my seat, staring fixedly as the man with prominent cheekbones in front heaved himself up, stuck his head out the window, and spoke with a passing station attendant.

Even as the train crossed the Nōbi Plain, detoured around the base of Mount Ibuki, and entered the Ōmi Plain, neither the detective nor the old man showed any sign of appearing. The man in front was sleeping soundly without a care. I clutched my throbbing head and began dozing off. From extreme tension to shock, from shock to disappointment, from disappointment to lethargy—I hovered between dream and reality, haunted by nightmares and fleeting dreams of recovering the money, as we raced past the shores of Lake Biwa.

Ōtsu, Kyoto—I only knew them dimly. From around when we passed Kyoto, I gradually regained my energy. When the Hattan Mountains came into clear view beyond the beautiful green fields of Yamashiro Plain and the subsequent Settsu Plain, the number of houses scattered across the fields gradually increased.

As **the train** crossed **the long iron bridge spanning** **the Shin-Yodo River**, **the hectic backstreets** **of** **the city**—**stained** **with** **soot** **and** **oil**—**began** **to** **unfold**.

At 8:30 AM, the train glided soundlessly into Osaka Station.

Neither the detective nor the old man ever showed themselves. 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 men in suits and over a dozen white-uniformed police officers came rushing beneath the window. When he barked an order, the officers instantly split into two squads and ran left and right. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw two more white-uniformed policemen stationed by the ticket gate. Though utterly bewildered, I stepped off the train in dejection. I'd taken barely three steps when something tapped my shoulder. Whirling around, I found Friend A grinning at me.

“Good morning. You’ve had quite the ordeal.” “—” I remained silent and looked at my friend’s face. Tears welled up. “What’s the matter with you?” My friend asked in surprise. “Please forgive me—the money was stolen…” I began, when from ahead, that man with the sunken cheeks came walking toward me surrounded by two or three people and called out. “You—you don’t need to despair. “We already know who the culprit is—so they’ll be coming this way with two of them. Which of them do you think it is?”

When I looked in the direction he pointed, the detective and the old man were walking toward us side by side, surrounded by a large number of police officers. I had no idea what was going on. My friend couldn't possibly understand. He stood there with a perplexed look.

The group came right beside them. “Please make sure he doesn’t escape!” The detective shouted. “Do you think I’d run away? You’ve been under the mistaken impression that I took the money and kept insisting we split it—what’s all this about?” The white-haired old man said. “Professor, what would you have us do?” The man who appeared to be the police inspector at the head of the group bowed respectfully and asked Dr. Sakata. “I was called by the local police to lend my expertise to this blackmail case, but fortunately, on the train here, I managed to find the culprit—or perhaps an accomplice—so I sent a telegram from Nagoya.” “So one of these two is the culprit—”

The people all looked at the two men at once.

“I surmise it’s this one.”

He pointed at the private detective. The detective thrashed about but was quickly subdued by a crowd of police officers. “Now, as for this one—” Once the detective had been dealt with, Dr.Sakata turned to face the old man and began to speak, but the old man promptly cut him off.

“I am KIMURA Kiyoshi, the private detective.”

He promptly removed his wig and beard. I looked at his face in surprise, but the man was completely different from the KIMURA Kiyoshi I had seen. He had an intelligent-looking, brisk face, but—

“Yeah, that’s right.” Dr.Sakata nodded with satisfaction. “And I believe you are the renowned criminologist Dr.Sakata.” “Indeed I am. But there’s something I’d like you to explain,” Dr.Sakata said. “Understood. The truth is, I was commissioned by the victim in this case—Mr.A—to investigate the blackmail incident concerning his son who was traveling in Osaka. I advised Mr.A—to at least have the demanded amount relayed to his son’s friend and brought to Osaka. And I myself intended to follow afterward. Therefore, to reduce suspicion, I deliberately disguised myself as a white-haired old man. However, I ended up seated next to Dr.Sakata by chance and was thoroughly interrogated with various questions, which left me quite at a loss. Had I remained silent, it might have been manageable—but being interrogated like that? No disguise, however masterful, could avoid revealing its flaws.”

"This may be a digression, but while on the train, I unexpectedly discovered that the gentleman here had a peculiar companion," I strictly monitored his actions." At one point during the journey, he left his seat and seemed to want to communicate with his accomplices, but since I did not leave his side, he was unable to carry it out." "When the two of us returned to our seats, the money bundle had already been switched." He thought that was my doing." He had not thought I was a detective but had convinced himself that I, like him, was peeking at the money bundle." Thereupon, he invited me outside the train and proposed a discussion to split the money." According to what he explained at that time, anticipating that the Osaka blackmail would succeed, he had gone up to Tokyo to watch Mr. A and thus skillfully learned about the case that Mr. A had entrusted to me." "And since the fact that the blackmail letter was fake became evident from his own lack of memory of having sent it, the criminals sent another blackmail letter to the courier present here." Then, when that person came to my office for consultation, they tailed them, and upon finding me absent and returning empty-handed, they deceived them by falsely claiming to be me and sending a subordinate as protection, then skillfully disguised themselves as KIMURA’s subordinate and boarded the same train." “Believing that I had stolen the money, he fully confessed to me and pressed for an equal split.”"

“Ah, so that’s how it was.” Dr. Sakata nodded with admiration. “Then Professor—what made you determine he was the culprit?” KIMURA asked. “Through trivial details, you see. “After conversing with you extensively and concluding you were upstanding, I naturally assumed you must be a detective. “But this man here—he only did it once—advised the young man here to remove his coat. “Though I only mentioned the money being in the coat because I reasoned that with two disguised individuals following him, there must be something worth investigating—I subtly hinted at the truth without being direct—at that time I believed this man was after the money in the student’s coat.” Dr. Sakata spoke without a trace of pride, then continued after a brief pause.

“There’s one more thing puzzling me—I gave that suggestion about the money being switched as part of studying psychological reactions, but I’m astonished it coincidentally aligned with reality. Who stole the money, I wonder?” “Well, I’m afraid I can’t quite say myself, but—” KIMURA answered calmly. “This is merely conjecture, but I believe the money was likely counterfeit from the moment it came into this person’s possession.”

“Wh—what?”

I leapt up.

With this, the Express Thirteen Hours Case came to its conclusion.

I may be reprimanded for adding a superfluous detail, but I must state that the money was indeed counterfeit from the moment I received it, just as Detective Kimura had surmised. The cunning Mr. A had been deceived by our plan yet still harbored some doubts; while consulting Detective Kimura on one hand, he presented me with a bundle of papers sandwiching a single genuine 100-yen bill at both the top and bottom. Why would I doubt it? I had accepted it trembling as the first large sum of money I had ever held in my life.

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

Mr. Kimura vehemently condemned Mr. A’s counterfeit bills.

“That’s unacceptable. Depending on the circumstances, that could constitute a crime.” “No such thing, I tell ya.” Mr. A answered while tapping his glossy forehead. “Since I was threatened into handin’ it over, I don’t mind if it’s counterfeit.” “But...” Kimura pressed. “In that case, well, since they caught the blackmailer it’s fine—but if that hadn’t happened, your son would’ve been confined, you see. (What a useful lie!)” Kimura hadn’t told Mr. A the truth. “What if you had taken counterfeit bills there? Wouldn’t both your son and the person who went to deliver be in mortal danger?”

“There’s no need to go on like that, I tell ya. They’re desperate too, I tell ya—since they’re panickin’, they’ll take it even if it’s counterfeit, thinkin’ it’s real.”

“What if it hadn’t gone that way?”

“What’s there to say—it’s all settled now, ain’t it?”

“That’s unacceptable—it’s a humanitarian issue! You made someone completely ignorant carry counterfeit bills and sent them plunging into what amounts to a tiger’s den—” “If that’s how it stands, I’ll apologize proper-like.”

“Apologizing isn’t enough—you must take proper action.” “What d’ya mean by ‘proper action,’ I tell ya?” “Please issue five thousand yen to me as remuneration and five thousand yen to this person, totaling ten thousand yen.” “Wh-what? That’s absurd, I tell ya!”

I still cannot forget the look of shock on Mr. A――’s face at that moment. His face had looked like that of a monkey who burned its paw reaching for chestnuts in the fire.

“If you don’t pay up, I’m prepared to take action.” Kimura wouldn’t back down.

In the end, while half-crying, Mr. A―― wrote a 10,000-yen check.

To my surprise, Mr. Kimura immediately handed over the check to Mr. A's son, "When getting money out of your father, you should be a bit more slick about it," he said with a grin.