Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Death of the Pop Singer

Midnight—as the hands of the electric clock silently pointed to the first hour of the new day, Chigusa Jūjirō, Chief of the Social Affairs Department, bundled his final manuscript and dropped it with a thud onto the desk of an assistant in the editorial department.

“There we go—all wrapped up.” Chigusa weighed his options—the steaming oden at Guard against the lukewarm bed waiting at his Nakano apartment—but couldn’t settle on either. Twelve straight hours of work had left his mind and body frayed like threadbare cloth. At this point, even if someone tried to blow up the whole damn planet, he’d just think *Screw it—not writing another word!* and call it a night. “Mr. Chigusa—phone for you!”

The attendant’s voice and the telephone’s ringing shattered Chigusa Jūjirō’s indolent reverie.

“Where—” “It’s Mr. Hayasaka’s voice—asking if the department chief is here.” “Isamu’s probably drinking in Ginza again—just tell him I’ve already gone home.” “That won’t work—they can hear your voice over there, Mr. Chigusa!”

The attendant covered the mouthpiece with his palm and made a sour face. "What a pain—he’s shaking me down for expense money again." Chigusa Jūjirō pulled the desk phone’s cord—though this was strictly forbidden by the supplies department—and picked up the receiver while keeping his feet propped up on the desk. "Chief—something terrible has—"

The voice of Hayasaka Isamu—the most formidable among foreign correspondents—came through in broken fragments. "What's with the panic, Isamu? Nothing 'terrible' happens to journalists—unless you bump into loan sharks on the street." "It's not that trivial—Nagashima Wakana's been murdered!" "What? "That pop singer Wakana?!" Chigusa Jūjirō jammed the pipe he'd been gnawing into the paste jar, swung his legs off the desk, and seized the telephone receiver with ferocious intensity. All his earlier curses at the news vanished like smoke as a journalist's instinct—white-hot and primal—ignited within him, incinerating fatigue and apathy alike.

“She was shot dead with a pistol at her own home—the crime was committed just an hour ago.” “Where are you right now?” “I’m at Wakana’s house—see, I casually swung by the Metropolitan Police Department, noticed the investigation squad sneaking out, so I tailed them in a taxi, and here we are at Wakana’s place in Daikanyama. Cops were guarding the front, wouldn’t let anyone through, so I sweet-talked a maid into letting me in through the bathhouse. When I saw Wakana sprawled on her back in front of the grand piano, that Chinese carpet soaked with her blood—hell, it gave me a shock. Woman was beautiful—made the whole thing even more gruesome.”

“You’re an idiot—don’t tell me you were just staring blankly at the corpse—what are the people from other papers doing?” “They’re scrambling at the entrance. Luckily, I’m the only one who managed to slip inside.” “Alright! Don’t leave that phone—lay it out in order. I’m waiting to send the city edition to print.”

Chigusa Jūjirō glanced back toward the editorial department, signaling a deadline extension with his hand as he pulled a sheet of rough manuscript paper closer and licked his pencil. “Nagashima Wakana had planned her second overseas tour and held a farewell tea party at her home tonight. Guests started gathering around seven, made a huge ruckus, and most left by around ten-thirty. Those who remained were Fujii Kaoru—the famous accompanist known as ‘Ami’—and his wife Toriko—a socialite who rose from being a tour guide, as you know, a beauty rivaling Wakana herself, aged twenty-five or twenty-six—and Okazaki Keinosuke, a music fan who’d grown close to Wakana at a rapid pace lately.”

“Hmm—wait, Isamu, I’ll have them prepare photos of those three and Wakana—looks like the investigation and layout teams are getting ready to leave—Hey! Attendant! Is no one here? Damn it—past midnight and they all vanish in unison—Hey! Go to the investigation department and bring me photos of Nagashima Wakana, Fujii Kaoru and his wife Toriko, and Okazaki Keinosuke—there should be plenty of Wakana’s photos; pick ones where she’s smiling if possible. Then call the plate-making department—tell them we’ve got urgent work and have two or three people stay behind—Alright, Isamu, good—keep going with the manuscript.”

Chigusa transcended both time and fatigue, working with superhuman efficiency. “Okazaki was apparently mixing cocktails in the next room, and Fujii was apparently sitting at the piano with Wakana, playing a jazz duet or something—since people heard both the duet and Wakana’s singing, that part’s not a lie.”

“Go on.” “The piano’s highest note, the sound of the pillar clock striking eleven, and the silenced pistol’s report all coincided, apparently. Fujii, who was playing piano beside Wakana, apparently kept playing alone for three or four more measures without realizing she’d been shot—only noticing when she toppled backward.”

“Hmm, and then—” Chigusa Jūjirō’s pencil moved at a terrifying speed. The reason Hayasaka Isamu’s phone call could be transcribed into text so swiftly lay in his long-honed expertise—a feat no master stylist could ever replicate. “Upon examination, the pistol bullet had pierced through from below the left scapula on her back straight through the center of her heart—at which point Okazaki from the next room, Toriko from the hallway, and the maids and disciples all came rushing in.”

“The murder weapon?” “It was lying about six feet behind the piano, between the entrance door and the corpse.” “On the Chinese carpet—”

“Hmm.”

“Fortunately, Okazaki Keinosuke—though an amateur—writes detective novels too, so he didn’t let anyone touch the corpse or pistol and immediately called the local police station.” “Didn’t they call a doctor?” “They called one afterward, but with her heart shot clean through, there was no saving her.”

“The police were called first, and the doctor afterward, right? Exactly.” Chigusa Jūjirō abruptly noticed this contradiction.

“There’s no mistake—” “What about their questioning?” “I can’t say it out loud—let’s write it up when we get back.” “No, don’t go back—keep at it till dawn.” “I have to hand over the phone to the officers—alright, I’m counting on you. I’ll push as hard as I can. Then, if you send someone to Wakana’s estranged husband—Dr. Nagashima Chōtarō, the acoustics scholar—you might get some unusual story out of him—Toriko’s being questioned right now.”

Hayasaka Isamu’s voice came in fragments, terribly flustered—likely because officers behind him were pressing him to relinquish the phone. “Isamu! Hey, Hayasaka! Don’t hang up! Hey, Isamu!”

But no matter how much he clamored, the line remained dead; even when he tried calling back, all he got was a continuous busy tone.

“Damn it! — Three more minutes and I could’ve filled three columns for the morning edition’s early run...” Chigusa Jūjirō slammed the receiver down with a clatter just as Orito Tomokichi—the editor-in-chief who’d still been prowling around Ginza—drifted into the editorial department to inspect the final layout of the city edition.

“Ah, Mr. Orito! You’re just in time—Nagashima Wakana has been killed.” “What?! That sultry recording artist who sings those honeyed pop songs?”

“I’ve managed to write up what Hayasaka phoned in, but this alone makes the morning edition sparse. Send one more person to the Metropolitan Police Department, one to the local station, and dispatch two each from the photo team and reporters to the Daikanyama scene. For the music world—we’ll handle Mr. Amano, the veteran, and the record company’s literary department head by phone.” “Thank you, that should suffice for now. By the way, Nagashima Wakana is supposed to have a husband—Dr. Nagashima—”

“They split up two years back, didn’t they? You think that sugar-and-vinegar dame could’ve stayed put playing scholar’s wife?” “Separated, not divorced—that’s how it should be. We need someone on it—your boys already swamped, Chigusa?” “Isamu had the same itch—I’ll handle it myself.”

“You?”

Chigusa had already forgotten his position as Social Affairs Department Chief and was taking his overcoat and hat. He was in the mental state of a hound that had chased its quarry to exhaustion.

The Giant Soundwave Murder Machine

Dr. Nagashima Chōtarō, the physicist, and his estranged wife Wakana seemed to belong to entirely different species inhabiting separate worlds. Wakana was bewitchingly beautiful—this phrase describes her cosmetic effect, not an assessment of her natural features—and in contrast to her listless demeanor, Dr. Nagashima Chōtarō was an indescribably uncouth gentleman of antiquated refinement. After five years of cohabitation, the two—finding their diverging worldviews and lifestyles too incompatible to reconcile—had been living separately for about two years. The proposal had undoubtedly come from Wakana’s side, but according to what appeared in the newspapers, they had agreed to attempt a trial separation to preserve their respective academic and artistic pursuits, with a promise to decide in two or three years between divorce, cohabitation, permanent separation, or reconciliation.

Dr. Nagashima Chōtarō had holed himself up in his laboratory atop a small hill about two blocks away and hadn’t shown his face since. Using only a single old servant, it was said that he wouldn’t show his face to anyone until he emerged from there with a world-startling invention. But at the very least, Nagashima Chōtarō himself had declared this with absolute confidence. Compared to Dr. Nagashima’s reclusive life, Wakana’s lifestyle grew increasingly flashy and frivolous—the annual income of several hundred thousand yen from her record company was more than enough to allow a woman living alone to trample over both common sense and propriety in her luxurious abandon.

Fujii Kaoru, who played the piano accompaniment, was—despite the presence of the famous Ms. Toriko—Wakana’s paramour, her collaborator in work (though not artistic—in any case—), a rather handsome man, and one who gave a distinctly immoral impression. Okazaki Keinosuke was that friend—a somewhat buffoonish man—but unexpectedly possessed a shrewd soul. Before anyone knew it, he had mastered the art of amusing Wakana and was gradually encroaching upon Fujii Kaoru’s position.

When it came to the inner workings of such society, Chigusa Jūjirō—who knew them better than anyone—arrived at the gate of Dr. Nagashima’s residence in Daikanyama, contemplating various factors while nursing the impatient urge to slap the taxi’s backside that had brought him there.

In the shade of the trees, near what appeared to be the laboratory, a bright red light glowed crimson, and there seemed to be signs of people moving about. It must have been past one o'clock already.

Chigusa Jūjirō pressed the doorbell two, three times, feeling a slight excitement born of peculiar anticipation.

The front door did not open.

“Who is it?”

Someone called out from an odd location. When he turned around, the kitchen window opened, revealing a woman in her sixties poking out a timid-looking face. "I'm from the Kanto Shinpo. I was hoping to have a brief word with the professor..."

Chigusa straightened up. “It’s past one o’clock already—could you please make it tomorrow? The professor may have already retired for the night.” “No, he’s still awake—look, the lights are on over there, and… isn’t there some strange noise coming from there? Something terrible has happened, so please tell him I need to see him even briefly.” “—” The old servant hesitated. By the gate light, she seemed to judge that there was nothing suspicious about Chigusa’s appearance, but— It was far too late by any measure.

“Have the police arrived?” “No.” While shaking her salt-and-pepper head, the old servant nevertheless seemed frightened by the gravity of the incident when told about it. “What’s this, old woman—a guest at this hour? Rather late, isn’t it?” “A newspaper reporter?” “Then I’ll meet him.”

Dr. Nagashima instructed the old servant to open the front door. “Dr., I apologize for the late hour, but something serious has occurred.” Chigusa presented his business card, but Dr. Nagashima merely glanced at it without accepting it. It was the indifference characteristic of a scholar. “Enter.” He was led to a laboratory protruding toward the rear—its floor space measuring about three ken square. In the center hung a bright decorative lamp, with several standing lamps lit above it, illuminating the room so intensely that no object within cast a shadow. An enormous machine of unfathomable nature occupied most of the room’s area, its presence dominating.

“――――” Chigusa Jūjirō felt something he couldn’t quite define—not quite terror, not quite unease. The room’s air vibrated with a faint phosphorescence like that inside a radio vacuum tube, stirring in Chigusa an unfamiliar brew of anxiety and agitation. Across the tea table, even Dr. Nagashima—the master of this domain—had undergone a metamorphosis. In the chill of midnight, clad only in a white knit shirt, his goateed face blackened like a mummy’s and those unfathomably deep eyes fixed unblinkingly forward, he stared at Chigusa Jūjirō with the intensity of a hypnotist.

“And this machine… Doctor?”

Compelled by the sheer unusualness of the scene, Chigusa Jūjirō ended up asking such an idle question. "It’s a remarkable machine derived from acoustics." "What does it do?" "You know the theremin, don’t you? It’s even been to Japan. An electric instrument that superimposes two high-frequency vibration currents to produce any desired sound. Applying this principle, twenty to thirty types of electrical vibration instruments have been invented worldwide over the past decade—the Theremin, Dynaphone, Martouno, Radiofonet, Ondiom... all variations on the same theme."

“Um, Doctor…” Chigusa tried to stop this lecture, but there was no interrupting Dr. Nagashima’s eloquence—delivered with scholarly fervor and a madness-tinged tone. On Dr. Nagashima’s gaunt, darkened face burned an excitement that bordered on the pathological, and he continued his torrent of words without regard for time or audience.

“What I’ve invented is a machine that substitutes for an entire grand orchestra! With just a simple operation, you can hear Beethoven’s Grand Symphony or Bach’s Great Mass—anything at all! The overtone manipulation is delicate, so making it sing exactly like a human remains challenging, but since it can perform instrumental music freely, there’s no reason it shouldn’t eventually handle songs and speech too! To think machines can’t mechanically reproduce human singing or speech is outdated superstition—why, phonograph record grooves and talkie film already achieve flawless mechanical recordings of voices and songs!”

“……” “The era when mechanisms dominate the music world will surely arrive! Machines that perform better than live players and sing better than humans will be invented any day now—this very machine is but one example! Pitiful though it may be for singers—especially pop stars pandering to vulgar audiences—they’ll soon be out of bread! And I—Nagashima Chōtarō—will strip every last one of those wretches of their livelihoods! Hah hah! Hah hah!”

The hollow laughter reverberated through the four walls of the laboratory—empty save for the enormous machine—sending a chill down Chigusa Jūjirō’s spine. Driven by vengeance against Wakana—the pop singer who had betrayed him—Dr. Nagashima had likely devoted himself to inventing this outlandish machine.

“Doctor—never mind that! Something terrible has—” “Ah, right! There’s something tremendous—with this machine, you can kill people! People—” “Huh?!” “You must be shocked—the discovery of murderous rays is the greatest goal scientists worldwide are pursuing now, but rays that kill people aren’t so easily discovered. Before that, I discovered murderous sound waves.” “——” “Admittedly, I hadn’t yet tested them—but they transmit acoustic waves at frequencies undetectable to human ears in specific directions. Do you find this difficult to grasp?” “If even light transmitted through ether vibrations can be directed using mirrors, then there’s no logical reason why sound—transmitted through air vibrations—couldn’t be focused to some degree!”

“――――” “In 1909, Barsons created something called the Ouzetophone.” “This acoustical device uses compressed air and metal valves to selectively harmonize specific instrument tones—enhancing their timbre and amplifying their acoustical power.” “By applying electromagnetic principles to this system, I can take soundwaves transmitted from great distances—far beyond human hearing range—and make them act with devastating amplified force. If the target has a weak heart, it induces cardiac arrest; if fragile nerves, madness.”

“Doctor… can such a thing really be done?” “It can be done—it certainly can be done. Last night and tonight as well, I conducted tests transmitting these sound waves from evening until midnight, but—” Dr. Nagashima raised his face and gazed out through the single open window into the pitch-black night sky. There, just two blocks away, pop singer Wakana—who had abandoned this dedicated scholar—was supposed to be leading a life of extreme debauchery. “Doctor—your wife—Wakana has been killed.”

“What?” “I came to inform you of that.” Chigusa Jūjirō finally said what needed to be said. “Is that true? Around what time?” Dr. Nagashima abruptly stood up, placed his hands on the window frame, and stared fixedly into the distance toward Wakana’s house. “About two hours ago—exactly eleven o’clock.” “That was the time—I started testing this machine at ten o’clock. Eleven was exactly when I had it operating at full capacity. Then I gradually weakened it.”

“Doctor.” “Behold—the woman who defied me has finally been killed! Stripped of her life before I could strip her of her career—!” Dr. Nagashima placed a hand on Chigusa Jūjirō’s shoulder and appeared to try to laugh heartily. But that laughter lodged in his throat, transforming into a strange sound—something between a sob and a choke.

The enormous machine still continued its small yet powerful growl.

Dr. Nagashima’s Confession “Isamu, you’ve done well. The managing editor’s thrilled—I hear the president himself called to heap praise on us. Other papers could only manage twenty or thirty lines, but our paper covered over half a page!” “In return, I went through heck! Putting up with barely any sleep was one thing—when I left that house rival reporters ambushed me! It’s a miracle I wasn’t beaten to a pulp.” Chigusa Jūjirō and Hayasaka Isamu were already gathered at the Kanto Shinpo newsroom by nine o’clock the next morning.

“Well, quit your complaining—the special bonus should cover it. This time—and I mean this time—you’ll finally be able to pay off that three-year installment at the tailor.” “Who in their right mind would divert a special bonus to pay installments? Installments stay installments even three years overdue.” “What a piece of work. Now—the materials?”

“Please—let me write a page for today’s evening edition.” “Bold move there.” “I’ll get one more special prize and build a house.” “You idiot.” “I’m getting kicked out of my apartment.” “By the way, has Toriko confessed?”

Chigusa Jūjirō finally steered the conversation back to the main line. “She denies everything—well, she admits she was standing in the corridor, but claims it was because she was concerned about her husband and Wakana playing a duet together, and insists she never intended to kill anyone.” “Whose pistol is it?” “It’s Wakana’s possession. Recently, as her income had increased, she was being harassed by local gentlemen and gangsters, so she went through considerable trouble to obtain a permit and apparently purchased it this autumn.” “To be precise, since she was kidnapped and severely extorted last summer in Kamakura, it seems the authorities granted her a carry permit for that reason. Being a popular singer’s no walk in the park.”

“Where was it kept?”

“On top of the triangular cupboard in the corner of the room—apparently it was kept in an ornate ivory box. That location was known to the maid, Fujii, and Okazaki.” “Can you reach the pistol by stretching your arm out from the entrance?”

“It’s not impossible to reach, but it’d be a bit difficult.” “When Fujii noticed, was the entrance door open or closed?” “That’s unclear—apparently he was too flustered to notice.”

“What about fingerprints?” “The pistol only has Wakana’s smudged fingerprints. If gloves were worn or it was gripped with a cloth while pulling the trigger, no fingerprints should remain. Since Fujii was playing piano together with Wakana, he likely wouldn’t have had time for such tampering—but Toriko’s an intellectual who reads detective novels. She’d probably think of that.” “Regarding the angle—the direction the bullet came from?” “It came from the direction of the triangular cupboard—on that point, Toriko is cleared. If someone had opened the door from the corridor and fired, the bullet should’ve gone slightly more to the right. But it came sharply from the left—meaning diagonally from Fujii Kaoru, who was playing piano alongside her.”

“It came from Fujii Kaoru’s direction.”

“Fujii’s beyond suspicion. It’s practically impossible to shoot someone while playing a duet, and you can’t prepare gloves or handkerchiefs and still manage to play piano.” “—” “Another thing—after the pistol shot, clock chime, and piano’s loudest note sounded together, Fujii kept playing enthusiastically through three or four measures.” Their conversation paused; he was thinking about how to effectively structure the evening edition’s article.

“By the way, there’s something interesting, Isamu.”

Now it was Chigusa’s turn.

“What is it?”

“Dr. Nagashima turned himself in this morning.” “Huh.” “The one who killed Wakana is undoubtedly this Nagashima Chōtarō—or so he insists.” “Has he gone mad?”

“Even though Wakana was shot and killed with a pistol, Dr. Nagashima insists he killed her using sound waves.”

“Sound waves?” “It’s sound waves—the doctor made a major discovery in acoustics and built this incredible machine that’ll supposedly put all musicians out of work. And that same machine can also transmit murderous sound waves over long distances. Wakana’s house was originally the doctor’s property, and that room’s windows had resonance devices installed. If the pistol in the triangular cupboard fired, it’s because a specific acoustic signal sent from the doctor’s lab was amplified and intensified by special equipment in the room. The doctor claims that Wakana—being high-strung—must’ve snapped and shot herself in a fit of madness. Crazy, right?”

“Is he out of his mind?” “The Metropolitan Police Department conducted a psychiatric evaluation—while he does exhibit a certain scholarly obstinacy, they say there are no significant abnormalities.” “So, did they detain him or something?” “Nonsense! There’s no way Dr. Nagashima—who never left his lab from ten o’clock until one last night—could’ve killed Wakana! His alibi was proven by that machine wailing away like an old hag. Sure, he resented her, but you can’t make someone a suspect over just that.”

“But it’d make for great newspaper material.”

“I’m considering whether to run this in the paper or not—he had resented Wakana for so long that he might have suddenly snapped and confessed to something he had no recollection of doing. If that’s the case, it’s pitiable.” “Did Dr. Nagashima truly never leave the laboratory last night?”

“That’s beyond doubt—compared to sound wave murder being impossible, Dr. Nagashima escaping from his laboratory was even more so.” When considering factors like the brightness inside the laboratory, the height of the windows, and machinery that required constant operation—escaping that room was utterly impossible.

“Once we finish the evening edition, let’s go investigate again.” “Let’s do that.”

The two of them set to work on the extensive manuscript.

Okazaki and Toriko’s Claims

At Wakana’s house in Daikanyama, distant relatives and acquaintances from the music world came in shifts. However, having never been close to her in life and with the term “suspicious death” stuck in their minds, they all withdrew as if by prior agreement. In the end, Fujii Kaoru, Okazaki Keinosuke, and two or three people from the record company had to handle every detail of the arrangements. Chigusa Jūjirō and Hayasaka Isamu moved about ineffectually among the crowd of newspaper reporters—sometimes appearing to help, sometimes getting in the way—all while scouring for “seeds” with hawklike intensity.

“Mr. Hayasaka—a word with you.”

After the overnight siege, Okazaki Keinosuke—now thoroughly familiarized—gently taps Hayasaka Isamu on the shoulder. Following along, they went up to a small second-floor room—a neglected six-mat space that felt like it had been left behind—

“I can’t tell this to the police, but… I believe that pistol could’ve been fired even while playing the piano. What do you think?” “A pianist can make their right and left hands do entirely different things, you know.” “——”

The meaning of Okazaki Keinosuke’s words was clear. Hayasaka Isamu instinctively raised his face, his gaze involuntarily following those upturned eyes without intent to accuse. “Wouldn’t it be easy for him to entrust the duet entirely to his left hand, take out a pre-prepared pistol still wrapped in a handkerchief with his right hand, and fire from an angle behind whoever was seated beside him? You could even time it freely—exactly when the clock struck eleven or synchronized with the piano’s loudest note—” “Firing from that close would leave burn marks on the corpse.”

“I think you could separate it by about three shaku [approximately one meter].” “Even a kimono would’ve been scorched, given how her Western dress was so thin it barely covered her skin.” Hayasaka Isamu laid bare his antipathy along with his protest.

“But if he wrapped the muzzle loosely with a handkerchief and fired, I think that could mitigate it—if there was time to hide that handkerchief—” “He wouldn’t have had a handkerchief with burn marks—as you saw, the police arrived immediately and searched both the room and body—” “In any case, please remember there was someone who grew terribly upset recently because Wakana became close to me—I have no scheme beyond wanting to avenge her.”

“——”

Hayasaka Isamu bit his nails. He couldn’t fathom why he had told him—a newspaper reporter—instead of the police. Just then, Toriko—whose suspicions had been cleared and who had been sent home—had come with her husband Fujii Kaoru to help merely for appearances, but upon encountering her acquaintance Chigusa Jūjirō, “Hey, could I have a word with you, Mr. Chigusa?”

“What is it, Ms. Toriko?”

Chigusa stood in the backyard, having been led there. In the shadow of the hedge and building, there was no chance of being overheard by anyone. “Mr. Chigusa, it’s so galling—to even be suspected like this...” Toriko was streaming tears. A woman in her mid-twenties with a voluptuous physique from which fury and allure seemed to radiate out all at once—Chigusa, pressed into a narrow corner of the structure, felt an almost suffocating pressure. “I certainly resented Wakana, but I wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill such a low-class woman and hang myself with the noose.”

“——” Whether Wakana was vulgar or Toriko refined, even Chigusa couldn’t discern—in any case, both women were equally coquettish. Though one moved in international circles while the other was merely a songstress, their brand of allure and public appeal showed little meaningful difference. “I told the police but they wouldn’t listen—I tell you, Mr. Okazaki’s the one who killed Wakana.”

“Such a thing…” “Mr. Chigusa, you think so too, don’t you? But Mr. Okazaki—who claimed he’d been mixing cocktails in the next room—wasn’t holding anything when he rushed over during the commotion! And in that next room? There were liquor bottles alright, but their caps hadn’t even been opened—let alone any cocktails made!”

“But you couldn’t fire a pistol from the next room.” “The direction is completely opposite to the wound.” Chigusa Jūjirō stated. “That’s why I say you’re naive—the pistol was fired from the window next to the triangular shelf. Aren’t that shelf and window practically touching each other?” “Then the criminal reached in from outside—” “Exactly! You’re as sharp as ever, Mr. Chigusa! He must’ve reached in from outside the window, taken the pistol from the ivory box, and fired from there!”

“Are you saying you saw that, Toriko?” “It’s as good as having seen it.”

Toriko became slightly flustered, but with eyes desperately trying to construct evidence in her mind, she pressed closer to Chigusa. "That’s an interesting idea, but there are two things that make it impossible."

“——” “The first point is that for Mr. Okazaki to go from the next room to the window’s exterior, he would have to pass through either the corridor where you’re standing, Ms. Toriko, or the kitchen where the maids are.” “He could even jump down from the window, couldn’t he?”

“If someone were to jump down from the window, circle around the garden to kill someone, then return through the same window, they’d inevitably be late rushing to the commotion—yet everyone arrived together. The maids and you yourself, Ms. Toriko, testified to that.” “——” “Moreover, since the window is quite high, it would be difficult for the short-statured Mr. Okazaki to both retrieve the pistol from the triangular shelf and take aim.” “What if he used a stepping stool?” “The exterior of the Western-style mansion is kept so impeccably clean.” “There isn’t a single thing around there that could serve as a stepping stool.”

Chigusa had gathered enough material in just about an hour to dismantle Toriko’s suspicions.

“Well, are you planning to defend Mr. Okazaki?”

“That’s not the case.” “It’s so frustrating—through the gap in the door, I caught a glimpse of something white by the window!” That was probably Toriko’s real feelings. “Is that true?” Chigusa Jūjirō suddenly became earnest.

“It’s absolutely true—I pride myself on having sharp eyes.”

Toriko, who had peeked at her husband and Wakana’s piano duet, might have truly seen something of that nature. “Alright—let’s rethink this. If we can just find a stepping stool—a stone or a log—it’s ours.” “——”

“Was the window really open?”

said Chigusa Jūjirō. “Ms. Wakana was sensitive to heat—she always opens the window during piano or singing practice.” Chigusa Jūjirō’s expression gradually grew serious. Having heard from Hayasaka Isamu earlier, he needed to start over and reconsider whether Okazaki’s claims were true or Toriko’s were.

Starting Over

“Isamu, we’re starting over. Give me a hand.”

As if reluctant to let the dusk-tinged sunset fade, Chigusa Jūjirō invited Hayasaka Isamu out from the newspaper reporters’ waiting room. “That’s fine, but—Fujii Kaoru was taken away.”

Hayasaka Isamu stared blankly. “Is that true?” “Okazaki Keinosuke made the accusation—if he says exactly what he told me, the police will have to investigate at least once.”

“What a hopeless bastard.”

“They say Wakana’s affections were shifting from Fujii to Okazaki, but that seems to be Okazaki’s own fabrication. Fujii’s a handsome man with piano accompaniment as his weapon, while Okazaki—let’s face it—is third-rate at best, and a patron without money to boot.” “Shh! He’s coming.” “Knock on wood.” They greeted the guarding officers and were allowed to enter the room where the crime had occurred. That their permission came with the strict condition of not touching anything went without saying.

“I still think there’s something fishy about this spot.” “If you set up a stepping stool—no, a rope ladder would be more practical—anyway, if you rigged something like that and leaned out your upper half, you could grab the pistol from the triangular cabinet and take aim easily.” “If they removed that ladder and leapt into the corridor in an instant, it wouldn’t be impossible to enter this room from behind Toriko—and given that the piano kept playing for three or four measures after the pistol fired, Fujii’s timing to lift Wakana would line up.”

“So…”

Hayasaka Isamu also grasped that Chigusa Jūjirō’s suspicions were now squarely directed at Okazaki Keinosuke.

“Hey, Mr. Chigusa.”

The one who peeked from behind was Toriko. Seeing her husband Fujii Kaoru being taken away earlier must have been unbearable for her.

“Ms. Toriko, if things go well, we might be able to save Mr. Fujii—please find opera glasses if there are any.” “Eh?” Toriko went out, but before long, she returned with a luxurious pair of ivory opera glasses adorned with gold handles—apparently Wakana’s cherished possession. “The question is whether this window is visible from Dr. Nagashima’s laboratory—if the doctor had stuck his head out at that time… Well, it’s a one-in-a-million chance, but his head should’ve been visible—the criminal’s head, that is. Shall we go take a look, Isamu?”

“Where to?” “To Dr. Nagashima’s laboratory—even after his wife’s death, the doctor hasn’t set foot here. In his heart lies an unhealable rage and sorrow. It’s only right we go offer him comfort.” Chigusa Jūjirō and Hayasaka Isamu headed toward Dr. Nagashima’s laboratory, located a couple of blocks away atop a slightly elevated hill. It was an unseasonably warm Indian summer day.

The Face Reflected in the Piano’s Mirrored Lid “He is currently engaged in research and not receiving any visitors.” Pushing back against the old housekeeper’s words, “The culprit who murdered your wife has been apprehended. Please inform him I’ve come to deliver this news.”

Chigusa’s stratagem succeeded brilliantly, and before long, the two were ushered into the previous night’s laboratory. Though it was still daytime with no bright electric lights lit, beside a gigantic machine vibrating ominously, Dr. Nagashima’s face—deep in thought as he sat before a small desk—remained profoundly still. “So you’ve come again?” He was likely around forty-five or forty-six at most, but worn down by bone-wearying labor and research, he appeared no younger than fifty. On his face, quietly raised thus, an indescribably lonely sorrow lingered like snow clouds reflected in winter water.

“Dr. Nagashima, Fujii Kaoru has been taken into custody.” “I see.”

What an indifferent voice that was. "Aren't you going to visit the house over there, Doctor?"

"I don't want to go—I am a researcher. I don't want to be bothered by such things." "Not even to your wife's funeral?" "――――" Wakana—who had abandoned him two years prior to drift from man to man in wanton abandon—could her mere death truly extinguish all fury and resentment from the heart of this trampled husband? Dr. Nagashima silently lowered his eyebrows. "From here, you can see the windows of that house quite clearly." Chigusa shifted the topic.

“A damn nuisance how clearly it was visible.” “Kindly permit me to observe for a moment.”

“――――” Chigusa pressed the opera glasses to his eyes and peered intently out the window. “That night, around eleven o’clock—if you had leaned out from here—you should have seen something.”

“———” “This laboratory has only one entrance, doesn’t it?”

“That’s right.” “What about the front door key?”

“The old housekeeper has it.” “In that case, if one wanted to go out at night, there’d be no way except jumping from this window, would there?” “The window’s high—and I’m no athlete.”

Dr. Nagashima suddenly uttered these words as if compelled, then let out an involuntary, hollow laugh—a rasping sound that seemed to escape him against his will. A desolate voice, empty as a cavern. “But there are hook marks from a rope ladder on this window frame, Doctor.”

“――――” “Two claw marks spaced about eight inches apart—these are unmistakably from a rope ladder—and there were identical marks on the window by the triangular cupboard in the house over there.”

“What?!”

It wasn’t only the doctor who was shocked—even Hayasaka Isamu stood aghast, nearly leaping toward the window frame. “What do you mean by that—did I hear ‘Chigusakun,’ *you*?”

“It’s nothing. The marks on the window frame could also be made with a knife. Isn’t this the perfect means to frame someone?”

“――――” “If they don’t find the rope ladder, this won’t count as evidence—but” “――――” “Even if they find gloves stained with cream-colored paint, that would make for conclusive evidence.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dr. Nagashima stammered.

“Moreover, this machine—as we’ve been observing since earlier—changes its sounds automatically without any adjustments. If the housekeeper didn’t know the machine’s tones shift at regular intervals, she’d naturally assume you were here operating it, Doctor. Since no one else knows about this device, it creates a perfect alibi for you.”

“――――” “Keeping the lights blazing bright actually works against you—no one would suspect someone slipping out from such a brightly lit room’s window. All you had to do was lower a single curtain, and you could do anything through that window—” “Do you mean to say that I killed Wakana?”

Dr. Nagashima was standing. His large eyes snapped open, and his face twisted into a ghastly, drawn expression.

“Preposterous—however, I can state this much with certainty. Fujii—who was playing a piano duet with Mrs. Nagashima—saw the criminal’s face reflected in the black-lacquered mirror panel on the piano’s front. He saw him fire a pistol from the window and then withdraw. But Fujii—having done something unforgivable to the owner of that face—couldn’t bring himself to tell the police or anyone else. Though as a precaution, he secretly confided it to me alone.”

“――――”

A terrifying silence—bearing it, the enormous machine roared as if to shake the very air.

“If *he* were to be suspected and left with no way to clear himself—when push comes to shove—he’d have no choice but to name before the police who that face reflected in the piano’s mirror panel—the one who fired the pistol—belonged to—”

“――――”

“That Fujii was bound and taken away as the prime suspect. By now, he may have already revealed the real culprit’s name.” “Enough—I get it. I’ll go to the police now and tell them everything I saw from this window last night—who made these hook-like marks on this window frame, who climbed that house over there around eleven o’clock—I’ve been watching that window through a precision telescope this whole time—”

“Doctor.” “I’ll go change and come back—wait here for a bit.”

Dr. Nagashima quietly—truly quietly—left the laboratory. “Well I don’t get it—who’s the killer? Dr. Nagashima? Okazaki? Or—”

As if to drown out Hayasaka Isamu’s words,

“Ah! Dr. Nagashima sent the maid outside—it’s dangerous!” “It’s dangerous!”

“What are you doing?” “We’re getting out.” Chigusa pulled Hayasaka Isamu’s hand and leapt out the window, tumbling as they went.

At the same time,

A strange hum reverberated through their entire bodies. When they turned back, the laboratory was flooded with a blinding white light—the floor, the paneling, the table, the chairs, even that grotesque machine—all burning fiercely like wooden trinkets.

“Ah!” Chigusa Jūjirō and Hayasaka Isamu recoiled five or six ken back. In the flames stood Dr. Nagashima like an enraged statue—his entire body charred and blistered—glaring fiercely toward them.

The Sorrow of Journalists

Chigusa Jūjirō took three days off from the newspaper after that.

“What’s wrong? I was thinking of visiting you, but—”

Hayasaka Isamu tapped his shoulder—this foreign correspondent and Social Affairs Department chief, though differing as a man of action and a man of intellect, had been partners for a very long time. “I’ve grown sick of being a newspaper journalist.” “What’s gotten into you?” “The laboratory incident.” “I can’t make sense of any of it. From what I hear, the authorities seem to have concluded the Doctor killed Wakana—they’ve released Fujii Kaoru, but—” “It must be the Doctor—I had that feeling from the start.” “The whole ‘murder by sound waves’ nonsense was just camouflage—a way to throw everyone off track. Confessing like that was downright clever. Anyone would think the Doctor had gone a bit mad, but he’d prepared an ironclad alibi, and when everything falls into place so perfectly, it only fuels a killer’s confidence.”

Chigusa Jūjirō proceeded to explain.

“But there was so much evidence against the Doctor, wasn’t there?”

said Hayasaka Isamu,

“It’s all lies—the window frame at Wakana’s murder scene was old and weathered, so you couldn’t see any hook marks from a rope ladder there. But using a stepping stool would’ve left traces, so I figured it had to be a rope ladder. When I went to check the Doctor’s laboratory window—sure enough, there were clear marks. His window frame was freshly painted.” “——” “You must’ve been surprised.” “I would be—but what about the face reflected in the piano’s mirror panel?”

“That’s also a lie. With an upright piano, someone’s head at the rear window would reflect in the mirror panel for whoever’s playing—but a grand piano wouldn’t show it. And the music stand was stacked full of jazz scores.” “What a cruel thing to say.”

Hayasaka Isamu was utterly appalled. “That’s why I said I’d quit being a newspaper journalist—once we found out Dr. Nagashima was the culprit, I wanted to squeeze a confession out of him at any cost and splash it across a newspaper special. He might not have had any will to live left, but there’s no doubt I hastened his death. And while the murderous sound waves were a lie, that machine substituting for a grand orchestra must’ve been something remarkable. Burning it to ashes was a damn shame.”

“——” “Looking back now, worse than the Doctor were Wakana and the hoodlums surrounding her.” “——”

When he saw Chigusa Jūjirō’s dejected face, Hayasaka Isamu found himself drawn into deep thought. “Why don’t we both wash our hands of this here and now, Isamu?”

“——”

While they were discussing such matters, in the boardroom, executives were deliberating how to commend Chigusa Jūjirō and Hayasaka Isamu.

“Mr. Chigusa, Mr. Hayasaka—please come to the boardroom.” The attendant was calling. “I’ll submit my resignation letter later—for now, I’m quitting verbally.” “Certainly.” The two men exchanged glances and nodded bleakly.