Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Nomura Kodō

I

“Oh, everyone’s here! How wonder~ful.”

A magnificent middle-aged woman appeared in the club dining room with the peacock-like composure of a seasoned performer. Muraoka Ryuko—now a famed beautician living a garish, flighty existence of thoroughly dubious repute, yet rumored to have once been a diplomat’s wife—sported Egyptian-style eyebrows caked with trade cosmetics and lips stained violent with rouge, her thick makeup somehow defying age to leave a provocatively defiant impression.

“Well now, Mrs. Muraoka—still bursting with vitality as ever, I see.”

“Oh, Mr. Usami—it’s been ages! What strange wind blows you here? Lately I’ve been dreaming of that bald pate of yours until I can scarcely bear it!”

“What a greeting. Must you always open with such barbs?”

Indeed, here was this slightly balding, unidentifiable man—one Usami Rokurō, who called himself a literary man but whose name had never graced any magazine or newspaper.
Eyebrows, eyes, nose, and mouth all carried an air of languid ease—a man whose youthful spirit belied his gleaming bald head, his entire demeanor somehow slack and drawn-out. To a seasoned veteran like Muraoka Ryuko, he might have made just the right target for teasing.

“When those two get together, it’s nothing but squabbling. What a handful they are.”

This was company employee Shima Ikutarō—a man of about thirty-two or thirty-three, impeccably modern in appearance and never missing a beat.

“We just don’t click, Ryūko—there’s a pressing matter at hand. Couldn’t you lend me a sliver of that wisdom?”

“Oh, my wisdom—if this were solvable by wits or wealth, I’d gladly say so… but tonight I’ve left even wisdom’s crumbs locked in my dresser at home. Why not settle for money instead?”

“Oh, so you’re feeling generous! Then you’ll treat us to something, won’t you?”

Movie actress Yoshino Ayako wore blue glasses beneath her wig, her shoulders clad in a garish lined kimono reminiscent of a young woman’s long-sleeved robe, over which a splendid haori coat kept threatening to slip away.

“Hey, how about this? It’s a theater leaflet I just got at the entrance. If it’s for this show, I’ll treat everyone here!”

“What’s this? Just an ad for the National Theater? The admission’s fifty sen per person, isn’t it? Having you treat us to something this cheap is more of a nuisance.”

This was the rich kid, Nakajima Sukemaru,

“You’d better decline when Mrs. Muraoka offers to treat you! Last time we made a bet over a baseball game—‘I’ll get whatever you like most if you win,’ she said—and when I won, she brought salted beans! When I complained, she goes, ‘But these are my favorite!’ What an exasperating old woman—”

This was the young engineer Matsui Kikusaburō,

“What do you mean by ‘old woman’? That’s disrespectful to Mrs. Muraoka! And first of all, I’m not bald like Mr. Usami!”

“Bwahahaha! Hahaha!”

A thunderous explosion of laughter erupted.

In the basement of Miyako Bank—partitioned into three sections: a club, a dining room, and a bar—the group that had settled into the dining room consisted of twelve or thirteen long-standing regulars: men and women whose social standings remained unknown but who knew each other’s faces and names intimately.

“Jokes aside—what’s this about needing wisdom? I don’t deal in scraps, but if it’s a grand scheme you’re after, I’ve got plenty to spare. I could be *quite* useful, you know.”

“Mrs. Muraoka’s grand schemes—when they actually materialize, they’re even more fearsome—”

“Who’s there? Sniping from the shadows?”

“Me.”

“What—Mr. Chrome-Dome Usami? Keep up that nonsense and no amount of groveling will make me acknowledge you ever again!”

“Wah—hahaha!”

Once more came thunderous laughter.

“Good grief, what an impossible old crone! Just the other day—who was it that grabbed my lapel and declared: ‘Even a third-rate writer should at least share his address! If not, show your face daily in Miyako Bank’s basement!’?”

“Damn you—spouting such drivel, you insufferable fossil! *You’re* the one who stormed into my home and hounded me before everyone: ‘Mrs. Muraoka—planning to play widow forever? Or hunting for husband number two?’ Badgering me endlessly! And then dared add: ‘Should remarriage tempt you… I’ve thoughts to share—’”

“Bwahaha! Hahaha! This is rich!”

“I’ve taken quite a liking to this! Bwahahaha!”

What a commotion it was.

“Actually, Ms. Muraoka…”

After waiting for a lull in the commotion, the actress Yoshino Ayako began to speak.

“You know Ōtani Chihiro, who’s been making headlines lately… don’t you, Ms. Muraoka?”

“Uh, uh… That terrifying thief with all those underlings who’s been attacking major banks one after another?”

“Opinions have split into two factions—those certain Ōtani Chihiro will be captured, and others insisting he’ll never be caught.”
“Mr. Shima represents the ‘won’t be caught’ camp, and Mr. Usami represents the ‘will be caught’ camp.”
“According to Mr. Shima… this villainous thief Ōtani Chihiro has to have over a hundred subordinates he utilizes like his own limbs. Even to attack a single bank, he apparently spends two or three months preparing—won’t lift a finger until every detail’s foolproof. There’s just no catching someone like that… or so he claims.”
“Then Mr. Usami says… ‘No matter how formidable they say Ōtani Chihiro is, he’s still just a thief. Doesn’t the proverb say, “Heaven’s net may be wide, but it lets nothing through”? When the time comes, he’ll surely be caught…’ or so he says.”
“And then he also says… ‘The Metropolitan Police Department has Hanabusa Ichirō. Hanabusa Ichirō will stake his life on capturing Ōtani Chihiro without fail…’ or so he claims.”
“Everyone here has sided with Mr. Shima, leaving Mr. Usami all alone. Which side do you intend to support?”

“How intriguing. Which faction do you belong to anyway, Ms. Yoshino? Once I hear that, I’ll settle my own position.”

“Oh, how sly! Though I can’t make heads or tails of it all… I don’t believe I could ever side with thieves who cold-bloodedly murder people and steal money.”

“Naturally thieves are wicked by nature—but putting morality aside, *when it comes to whether he’ll be caught or not*, I agree with you, Mr. Shima. The Metropolitan Police may have their vaunted ‘famous detective’ Hanabusa Ichirō… but these days he’s let everything go slack. Completely worthless now, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Shima?”

“Hanabusa Ichirō? Someone like him is already obsolete! A detective who’s just an old-fashioned constable dressed up in a suit—Ōtani Chihiro, who applies cutting-edge knowledge, has no reason to get caught.”

Shima Ikutarō turned toward the beautician with a knowing smile, as if his point had been perfectly validated.

“Oh, Mr. Shima, you’re quite the articulate one! Let’s shake hands on that point.”

“Very well.”

Facing each other, the hands extended from both sides met perfectly right in the middle of the dining table.

II

“Blaming Hanabusa Ichirō is unreasonable—they say he was bedridden with illness until just recently, and besides—”

Usami Rokurō glided his hand over his serene face and began to argue in Hanabusa Ichirō’s defense when—

“There’s no room for excuses! Hasn’t Ōtani Chihiro sent challenge after challenge to Hanabusa Ichirō? What kind of ‘famous detective’ exists who can’t lift a finger when a thief slaps a gauntlet across his face?”

Shima Ikutarō, his handsome face radiant, vehemently lashed out at his opponent.

"Nonsense—that’s impossible. Hanabusa Ichirō also has his preparations."

"Preparations? How many years do you think that would take? Since last summer alone, three banks have been attacked, five lives lost—and if we include the printing shop owner who was clearly murdered by Ōtani Chihiro just four or five days ago, that makes exactly six victims. With this many casualties, Hanabusa Ichirō’s preparations should be more than sufficient."

“The opponent’s said to have fifty or a hundred men—one or two could be caught right away, but to net all fifty or a hundred without letting even a whale or a minnow slip through, you’d need an enormous net. Hanabusa Ichirō’s setting up that very net right now.”

“A net for whales that dive—or one that scoops up minnows? Either way, a fish like Ōtani Chihiro will never take the bait.”

“Nonsense! The wicked fish called Ōtani Chihiro will bite Hanabusa Ichirō’s hook—he’s already nibbling at the line!”

“Don’t talk rot!”

“What’s absurd?”

“What?”

Their eyes locked firmly—

“Bwahahaha!”

Usami Rokurō involuntarily broke into laughter.

“Only two think he’ll get caught—Mr. Usami and Ms. Yoshino. The other eleven swear Hanabusa Ichirō won’t lay a finger on Ōtani Chihiro. So—how about we make a little wager?”

Nakajima Sukemaru interjected.

“How about we bet with full performance tickets for the National Theater? Admission: fifty sen in gold. This should be perfectly safe!”

The actress Yoshino Ayako had been looking at the leaflets everyone had received at the dining room entrance earlier when she abruptly flipped one over,

“Oh my—there’s something strange written here! What could it be—”

“Isn’t that a star passing over there…”

“These blue glasses trouble me…”

“Oh how dreadful! This is that old ‘Ginza song’ everyone used to sing—they’ve gone and printed it right here on the leaflet’s back!”

“Well now, Yoshino—isn’t this practically singing about you?”

“My, how bold—though I *am* wearing blue glasses…”

“Hey—did I make you mad?”

“Bwahahaha!”

A thunderous laugh swirled through the dining room along with cigarette smoke.

“Ms. Yoshino—what on earth was that you read?”

“Oh.
“Ms. Muraoka, you also received one at the entrance earlier and brought it in, didn’t you? It’s the back of the National Theater leaflet.”

“The back of the National Theater leaflet?
“There’s nothing written here at all—just red lines squiggling chaotically over a green background pattern.”

“Let me see— Oh! Ms. Muraoka’s has the exact same text printed too! The beginning goes— ‘Fools who parade through Ginza, down a road wide as an obi—’”

“Let me see—allow me to take a look at Ms. Yoshino’s.”

The two beauties exchanged their respective leaflets and read them, but the result was exactly the same.
To Yoshino Ayako’s eyes, the Ginza song was clearly legible, yet to Muraoka Ryuko’s eyes, there remained only a complex background pattern of interwoven green and red—an arabesque-like design—that she could perceive.

“How strange.”

“Absolutely.”

Witnessing the two women’s astonishment, two or three gentlemen retrieved leaflets they’d stuffed into pockets—smoothing creases, picking up fallen ones to brush off dust—and each peered intently at them. But the theater leaflets’ backs bore only that same inexplicable arabesque pattern; to everyone’s eyes, no Ginza song was visible.

Another curious thing was that despite this minor incident occurring, Shima Ikutarō, Nakajima Sukemaru, and Matsui Kikusaburō didn’t even glance at those questionable leaflets.

Usami Rokurō had been silently watching it for a while, but soon began smirking repeatedly while

“You’re all fools—can’t you figure out such a simple trick?”

He said such things.

“Do you understand the reason for this?”
“Well, aren’t you clever! There’s a reason you’ve lost so much hair.”

“If you keep talking about my hair, I might just start mentioning Mrs. Muraoka’s wrinkles.”

“What did you say? You say there are wrinkles on my face? Even so, I’m still twenty-seven!”

“Ho there—if ‘wrinkles’ offends you, let’s say ‘creases.’ Still too much? How about ‘skin folds’?”

“My, what a nasty tongue you have—you’d better remember this.”

“You’re bickering again—really, what impossible people! More importantly, do tell me why this song on the back of the leaflet is only legible to me.”

Yoshino Ayako flips over the problematic leaflet and thrusts it in front of Usami Rokurō.

“There’s no way even I could read it—though Mr. Shima and the others seem to have already noticed this trick. It’s extremely simple.”

“What kind of trick is it?”

“Now, don’t rush—with this many people present, the fact that no one except Ms. Yoshino Ayako can read the ‘Ginza song’ on these leaflets’ backs doesn’t mean her eyesight is exceptional. It means her eyes differ from others’. Once we determine how Ms. Yoshino’s eyes differ from ours, it becomes child’s play.”

“Ms. Yoshino’s eyes and our eyes—the fact that only Ms. Yoshino wears blue glasses.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Muraoka. People with bald heads are wise, you know.”
“On the back of this leaflet, over a blue arabesque-like background pattern, the lyrics of the Ginza song are printed in thin red characters.”
“When viewed with normal eyes—that is, under ordinary white light—the blue background pattern and red characters overlap and blend together, making them utterly illegible. But when viewed through blue glasses, the lines of the blue background pattern are absorbed by the glasses’ blue tint, leaving only the red background pattern and the characters written within it clearly visible.”
“Instead of wearing blue glasses to look, you can view it under the light of a blue bulb—in other words, when blue light is shone on it, the blue background pattern disappears, leaving only the red pattern and the characters written to blend into that pattern to emerge.”
“This kind of thing—even an elementary school student knows it. It’s ridiculous!”

“My, Mr. Usami is far wiser than he looks! Let’s see—Ms. Yoshino, let me borrow your glasses for a moment— Oh! This is fascinating—‘Isn’t that a star passing by? Those blue glasses catch my eye’— How strange that it’s so clearly legible!”

The beautiful beautician became engrossed in reading the back of the leaflet.

“Mr. Usami, I’d completely misjudged you—I simply couldn’t imagine such first-rate wisdom residing in that bald head of yours. Do forgive me.”

“What nonsense—that red and blue are complementary colors, where one intensifies while canceling the other—even an elementary school pupil knows that.”

“My goodness—when did Mr. Shima, Mr. Nakajima, and Mr. Matsui all vanish? What’s happened?”

Yoshino Ayako knit her shapely brows and swept her gaze around the room.

“Ah—”

Usami Rokurō’s angular face—his eyebrows, eyes, nose, and mouth all tensely drawn—fixed his piercing gaze upon the heavy curtain leading to the next room.

At 11 PM, at the Miyako Bank upstairs, the night watchman seemed to begin his final rounds; the faint sound of a heavy door closing echoed all the way here.

Three

One was the Criminal Affairs Division Chief’s office at the Metropolitan Police Department; what occurred thirty minutes later was the other.

“How did things proceed, Detective Hanabusa?”

“I’ve grasped the general outline, but find myself stuck just one breath away from the solution.”

“You’ve ascertained Ōtani Chihiro’s true identity, then?”

“My deductions aren’t mistaken—but this remains conjecture alone, without a single shred of evidence.”

“Hmm.”

One was Criminal Affairs Division Chief Tomita; the other was none other than the famous detective Hanabusa Ichirō, disguised as Usami Rokurō.
When the elaborate wig of the bald teakettle was removed, jet-black hair emerged from beneath, and his face now radiated with youth, sharpness, and purity—bearing not the slightest resemblance to Usami Rokurō.

“Just as I saw through Ōtani Chihiro’s disguise, they have seen through mine.”
“This very evening, I had a fierce debate with a man I’m certain was Ōtani Chihiro over whether Hanabusa Ichirō could capture him or not.”

“Hmm, that’s amusing.”

“No, Chief—it’s hardly amusing. Since Hanabusa Ichirō joined the Metropolitan Police, he’s never been mocked by criminals to this extent. In any case, Ōtani Chihiro is a fiend of unparalleled menace.”

“We must arrest him by any means necessary. In three months, he’s attacked three banks and killed six people—the public is in an uproar, attacking us authorities as we speak.”
“No matter what it takes, if we don’t arrest Ōtani Chihiro within the next few days and bring him before the law, I’ll have to cut my belly open.”
“It’s baffling how he commits such elaborate crimes without leaving a trace—and equally baffling that he signs ‘Ōtani Chihiro’ at the scene. My shortsightedness led me to believe such villains only existed in motion pictures.”

“Chief—if you phrase it that way, I’ve no means to salvage my dignity—please, allow me another week—no, at least three more days—”

“Oh—isn’t that the phone, Hanabusa?”

Hanabusa Ichirō picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

“Yes, yes—this is Hanabusa speaking. Correct. And you are?”
She didn’t give her name—curious.
“Your business being?”
“Come to Nihonbashi tonight—Ōtani Chihiro might be planning something major.” A pause. “How did you know that? … You won’t say that either.”
“You expect me to mobilize forces based on such vague information? What?”
“—You’ll come. If you know about the blue glasses device— What?”
“Once more—the blue glasses— Hello? What does that mean? Hello? Hello? Ah—disconnected.”

Hanabusa Ichirō hung up the receiver with a clatter and pondered for a while.

“Detective Hanabusa, who was that call just now?”

“I don’t know—I can’t think of anyone, but… No—that can’t be possible.”
“It’s exactly as you heard—other than knowing it was a young woman, I’ve got nothing.”
“Even if it’s a trap, we’ll check it out regardless.”
“I’ll have them coordinate via motorcycle, but request about fifty officers—half uniformed, half plainclothes. Then I’ll conduct reconnaissance alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s no other way but to enter the tiger’s den.”

Upon Hanabusa Ichirō’s resolutely standing face was etched the color of a resolve that would not refuse even death.

Four

“This should do.”

In a certain backstreet of Nihonbashi, Hanabusa Ichirō parked his car and remained inside for a while, crossing his arms and focusing intently.

The flow of people had nearly ceased, with only the distant rumble of the last train lingering faintly. A sudden night wind arose, whipping up swirling dust through the streets until facing outside the car seemed nearly impossible.

"What time is it?"

When he called out from inside the car with its lights deliberately turned off,

“It must be past 1 o’clock now.”

The driver responded in a disinterested voice.

“Hmm?”

Hanabusa Ichirō involuntarily let out a sound and tilted his head.

(If that earlier phone call was a ruse to lure me in, they would have clearly specified a time and place.
Whether to harm or toy with me, there’s no rationale for luring someone out without specifying a location or time. Considering this, that call must have been from someone who detected Ōtani Chihiro’s misdeeds and secretly informed me. Since they knew about the blue glasses, it had to be someone present in that dining room tonight—but the only women there were Muraoka Ryuko, the beautician, and Yoshino Ayako, the actress.
But the voice on the phone was definitely not one of these two women—)

When he thought this far, Hanabusa Ichirō’s mind became utterly confused, and he had no idea what to do next.

(Wait, wait—when I saw the blue and red text trick on the back of that theater leaflet, why didn’t Shima Ikutarō and his underlings show any surprise? Could those bastards have known about the device that only works with those blue glasses? Or—what play is the National Theater even putting on now?)

Ah—this is bad! The National Theater’s under renovation—it’s been closed since last month! Which means that leaflet must be at least two or three months old. Handing out a two- or three-month-old leaflet outside a restaurant in this freezing cold—what’s the point? Ah—this is bad! I got so carried away solving the blue-and-red mechanism on the back that I’d forgotten something far more important!

What was the purpose of handing out those leaflets to everyone entering the basement restaurant?

(That leaflet is suspicious—)

When Hanabusa Ichirō thought this far, he frantically searched for his concealed item.

“There it is!”

True to form, he hadn’t discarded it—the leaflet remained right there in his coat pocket.

“Blue glasses—”

To read the text on the back of this leaflet, that was absolutely necessary—but such a thing wouldn’t be found in the car or anywhere in the town at this late hour. However, what suddenly caught his attention was the train signalman standing at the foot of Nihonbashi Bridge.

Hanabusa Ichirō promptly leapt from the car and rushed over.
“Excuse me—could I borrow that signal lamp for a moment?”

“That’s a problem—the last train should be arriving soon.”

The signalman looked troubled, but Hanabusa Ichirō pressed again,

“No—I’m not asking you to go out of your way at all.”

When he shone the blue light of the signal lamp on the back of the leaflet he had hurriedly unfolded earlier, the blue background pattern vanished,

……Those who keep going to Ginza, Ginza are fools……

Only the Ginza song could be read clearly; there was nothing else unusual about it.

“Hmm?”

Hanabusa Ichirō pressed the leaflet against the signal lamp and gazed at it repeatedly for some time.

“Ah! The train’s here already. Step back!”

As he was pushed aside and staggered, a flash of insight struck Hanabusa Ichirō’s mind.

(Ah! That’s it! That’s it! With blue glasses, you can only read the red background patterns and red-printed text—but what if you used red glasses instead? Could there be other text hidden within what seemed like fine blue background patterns?)

With this thought, Hanabusa Ichirō urgently pressed the back of the leaflet against the red window of the signalman’s lamp.

Instantly, both the red background patterns and the Ginza song vanished—and within the blue patterns, some other text...?
It could be read as clearly as if held in one’s hand.

“Wait—that light! Just a moment—”

“The train’s here already. Back up, back up!”

The signalman gruffly snatched the signal lamp and swung it toward the train charging through the night streets like a wild beast, far from Hanabusa Ichirō.

“Red light, red light!”

Looking around, a bright red electric light on the eaves of the pharmacy across the street cast a blood-crimson glow upon the night streets like a large ruby.

Hanabusa Ichirō dashed under it and exposed the back of the leaflet to the deep crimson light, whereupon the red patterns and characters vanished, and in their place,

“Tonight at 1:15 AM, planned attack on Miyako Bank in Nihonbashi. Rear entrance: Matsui and fifteen members. Front entrance: Ōtani’s group of eight. Detonate vault and withdraw to headquarters…”

All these characters were vividly and distinctly legible.
When blue light was applied, the blue text would be absorbed, leaving only the red characters of the "Ginza song" visible. When exposed to red light, the red "Ginza song" would vanish, and within the blue karakusa arabesque pattern, the terrifying coordination phrases of the criminal gang would vividly and distinctly appear.

“Ah! This is it! This is it!”

Hanabusa Ichirō, buzzing with excitement, leapt into the car once more.
“Stop the car in the alley before Miyako Bank. You call headquarters immediately—urgent!”
The car kicked up a cloud of dust as it raced through the night streets.

V

At that very moment, inside the vault of Miyako Bank, such a thing was happening.

“Alright, that’s enough. Everyone back up, back up!”

At the leader’s voice, five or six sinister men leapt back several yards and directed their flashlight beams toward the vault.
In the fortified chamber built of concrete, a beautiful woman was bound to the largest vault, her eyes blazing with resentment as she stared unflinchingly into the darkness.

“Woman, you’re beyond saving now. If you hadn’t meddled, we wouldn’t be bothering with the likes of you. Your misfortune was learning Ōtani Chihiro’s true identity.”
“That vault is rigged to explode with nitroglycerin.”
“All I need to do is light the fuse—your body will be blown to bits along with the vault door, you understand?”

The semi-naked woman’s flesh—coiled in rough rope—frozen against the cold vault, trembled like gelatin. But on her face, there was not a trace of submission. She stared fixedly at the leader’s masked face, and from her crimson lips spilled fiery words.

“Who do you think I am? You don’t know, do you? If I’m going to die anyway, there’s something I’ll make sure you hear before then—why I pursued you, how I saw through Shima Ikutarō being Ōtani Chihiro… I’ll tell you all of it!”

The woman’s voice, enveloped in the cold night air, resounded terrifyingly. Who could this woman—who did not fear death—possibly be? Ōtani Chihiro removed his mask and directed the beam of his flashlight at her thickly painted face while demanding:

“You’re Muraoka Ryuko the beautician, aren’t you? So what?”

“What about my other name?”

“Why the hell would I know that?”

“I’ll tell you—I am Hideko, wife of diplomat Oyanagi Murao, who killed himself three years ago after important confidential documents were stolen from him! Didn’t you notice that ‘Muraoka Ryuko’ is just an anagram of my late husband’s name rearranged? You may not know me, but I know you well. You impersonated Oyanagi’s closest friend, stole the confidential documents he safeguarded, and sold them to the opposing party for a hefty sum, didn’t you? My husband, with his strong sense of responsibility, worried himself sick over it and took his own life—you must have heard whispers of this. No matter how vile a villain you are, surely even you’ve occasionally remembered it and suffered sleepless nights. I worked as a beautician to scrape by, determined to settle this grudge somehow—forcing myself into this life of insincere makeup, scouring every restaurant and café you frequented, searching for you for over three years. Knowing full well people would point at me as the very model of a flirtatious widow, I wept inside while keeping up this foolish charade.”

From the eyes of the woman burning with resentment welled copious tears that could not be wiped away.

“Finding you was no easy task, but God granted me clever insight. Though I don’t know why, I’d heard from my deceased husband that you sometimes wear red glasses.”

“I relied on that clue to search through cafés and entertainment districts—from place to place—for three years. Then, by chance, I learned three months ago that you owned red glasses. Blue glasses are common, but red ones are rare. Soon after, I found irrefutable proof that you were none other than Ōtani Chihiro.”

The woman’s words of resentment seemed as though they would go on endlessly.
Ōtani Chihiro’s handsome face contorted as if lightning had struck it,
“Alright, give her last rites—we can’t let this woman live another moment.”

“Hah!”

A man stepped forward; still wearing his black mask, he bowed to the leader and moved to ignite the explosives planted on the vault.

“Wait!”

“What’s this? Afraid to die now, after all?”

“No, no—I don’t fear death! If I can join my husband’s side like this, it’s my greatest wish. Though the world saw this body and heart of mine as filthy as gutter sludge, I’ll return them pure as jade to my deceased husband. I want nothing more than to die this instant. But there’s just one thing I want to say before I go—about an hour ago, I had my loyal sister—who’d been shadowing me to help—call Detective Hanabusa at the Metropolitan Police Department.”

“Wha— Wha—”

“By now, this bank must’ve been completely surrounded by police.”

“Don’t lie, woman!”

“Hohoho! If it’s a lie, then let it be a lie. Just open that window and look outside.”
“Well then, why don’t you hurry up and light the fuse on those precious explosives? What’s all this dawdling for?”

Oyanagi Hideko, resolved to die, closed her tragic eyes and leaned her naked body against the black iron vault door—colder than ice.

“What a foolish woman spouting nonsense! Are those your only last words? We’ve no time to dawdle—once ready, finish her off! Now!”

At that very moment, the leader’s hand rose in signal.

Before the explosives could ignite their fuses, the vault doors swung open from three directions, and in the flood of light, dozens of pistols aligned their muzzles.

“Ōtani Chihiro, you’re under arrest!”

Before they could even process the shock—a swarm of officers came crashing in,

“What the—”

Deafening gunfire. In the vault room choked with smoke, bullets clashed as criminals and police desperately grappled. After moments of struggle, over fifty officers lined up more than ten felons strung together like beads under illumination bright as daylight.

In their midst was Ōtani Chihiro—the criminal leader known as Shima Ikutarō—his well-tailored suit torn to shreds and splotched with fresh blood here and there, thrashing about among the police squad. But when he saw the face of Hanabusa Ichirō—the famously brilliant detective who bore no resemblance to the writer Usami Rokurō—he resignedly closed his eyes.

“Hey, Shima.”

Hanabusa Ichirō—his voice still that of Usami Rokurō—strode brusquely forward and placed his hand on the shoulder of Ōtani Chihiro, who was bound with his hands behind his back, while...

“It seems I’ve won this game.”

He declared without reservation and peered obliquely at his opponent’s face.

“For now, huh?”

Ōtani Chihiro, determined not to concede defeat, retorted with practiced nonchalance.

“Hanabusa Ichirō has indeed caught Ōtani Chihiro. I expect you’ll be treating me to box seats at the National Theater now.”

“It was easy—but even Ōtani Chihiro let his guard down a bit. If only I hadn’t been careless…”

Ōtani Chihiro involuntarily clenched his teeth.
Leaving that bitter expression behind, from behind Hanabusa Ichirō, who was about to walk away,

“Wait, Hanabusa!”

“What?”

“There’s a bit more to discuss.”

Ōtani Chihiro called out.

“You don’t have any lingering attachments now, do you?”

“No—I’m not asking for help. What I want to know is how you uncovered tonight’s attack plotted by someone of Ōtani Chihiro’s caliber.”

“That woman probably told me.”

In the vault room he pointed to lay a lone beauty—bound to an iron door, unaware of the shame of being stared at by hundreds of eyes under light bright as noon, likely overcome by shock and joy at this utterly unexpected rescue, collapsed like a large white peony in full bloom that had burst its petals.

“Really?”

“Absolutely true—though that was just a hint. The rest I learned by reading the back of that theater leaflet under red light.”

“You noticed that much?”

“Don’t take me lightly.”

“Then I have nothing more to say.”

“No more trump cards left—Ōtani Chihiro? Then I’ll say this: you overreached. Even villains have their code, and thieves their path—but you were too merciless. Too cruel.”
“You can mock Hanabusa Ichirō all you like—but how long do you think this world will endure your scorn for heaven and trampling of human morality?”
“When your own safety was at risk, you even killed the printer who’d produced your coded leaflets—thinking that would erase the evidence was a fatal miscalculation.”
“Look! The mechanism on the back of these theater leaflets—printed by that murdered printer under your orders—has become the trap that led you to your doom, hasn’t it?”

Hanabusa Ichirō’s words were scathing to the extreme.
Ōtani Chihiro, who had remained silent until now, finally raised his face.

“Thank you, Detective Hanabusa. Now that I’ve grasped your reasoning, it’s already too late.”
“By the way—as a final request—let me do one good deed. That woman tied to the vault... Even a detective of your caliber likely didn’t notice. I’d written her off as some degenerate lunatic, but tonight I learned she’s a paragon of chastity rare in this world.”
“Leaving her half-naked in this cold would be cruel. For a promiscuous widow, this punishment might fit—but knowing she’s virtuous, I can’t bear seeing what I’ve done. Hurry and untie her. Warm her up. Consider this my... small atonement. For stealing her husband three years back.”

Even someone of Ōtani Chihiro’s caliber lifted his face etched with anguish, his gaze shifting between Hanabusa Ichirō’s countenance and the beauty bound before the vault.

“Well said.”

Hanabusa Ichirō rushed over, lifted up the half-naked beauty, swiftly cut away the ropes, removed her clothes, and dressed her in a kimono.

“Ugh…”

With barely a breath, the beautiful chaste woman opened her eyes in a dreamlike state and surveyed this bizarre spectacle amidst the flooding light.