Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Count's Worry

“Mr. Chigusa, do sit here for a while. Since this place rarely sees visitors, the cleaning may be lacking—but you needn’t worry about being overheard here.”

For my sake, Count Hara Mitsuaki - who corresponded to the former feudal lord - softened his countenance from its usual haughtiness and led me into a stylish arbor deep within the vast garden. The hair, neatly parted down the middle, was beginning to turn salt-and-pepper, yet still retained enough of the robust complexion and striking features that had made him renowned for his handsome looks in youth. And yet, what could have caused those strange expressions - neither quite anxiety nor anguish - that kept flickering across his otherwise refined features?

“What sort of matter is this, Count?” “You must find it strange that I’ve dragged you to such a place, but unless I did this, I couldn’t speak with any peace of mind.”

“……” “Mr. Chigusa, you do have ties to my former domain—but as a public figure—you are Tokyo’s foremost ace reporter.” “Once you hear my story—you will surely grasp this case’s core from it and sweep away all these anxieties of mine—”

“Pardon my interruption, Count—I’m merely the social section chief of the Kanto Shimpo, no ace reporter by any means. While I understand one of your live-in students met an unusual death about ten days ago, if this matter relates to such an incident, wouldn’t it be wiser to consult the police and have proper specialists investigate rather than—”

“I appreciate your advice.” “However, these anxieties and troubles of mine are matters so grave that I would not even want them reaching the ears of amateur detectives—let alone the police authorities. To put it plainly, they concern my shame.” When I saw the Count’s grave expression, I could no longer plug my ears and flee.

“In any case, I shall hear you out.” “If my efforts prove insufficient in that case, I shall have to request that you adopt some alternative method.” “That goes without saying.”

The two of them lowered their voices another notch as they faced the crude table in the arbor. A deep grove modeled after primeval forest pressed in from three sides of the arbor, while one side opened onto a gently curving lawn—but both woods and undergrowth grew so thickly that no gaps remained for anyone to creep through.

“About ten days ago, a live-in student named Okawa died in my study—of all places—which I had specially designed to be small to avoid distractions while working.” “Moreover, it was around nine in the morning. I was taking a leisurely post-meal stroll when the house suddenly grew noisy. Startled, I hurried back through this garden entrance to find that a maid who’d come to clean the study had discovered him, causing a tremendous uproar.” “As you know, my small study has one entrance facing this garden.” “I left for my stroll from there just five minutes before the commotion occurred, so even if Okawa entered from the corridor entrance on the opposite side at the very moment I stepped into the garden, he couldn’t have remained in the study for even five minutes.” “And yet—according to the physician’s diagnosis—they claimed the cause of death was carbonic acid gas poisoning!” “Could such a thing really happen?—Admittedly, I’m particular about my morning coffee and won’t have anyone else make it.” “Though it was spring, the day was somewhat chilly, so it’s true that I left the gas stove on after brewing coffee.” “But if such a thing could cause carbonic acid gas poisoning, then I—who practically live in that study—would have died ages ago.” “When the physician made that diagnosis and no one questioned it, I should have had no reason to quibble further—yet there remains something that doesn’t sit right with me.” “Mr. Chigusa, I haven’t told anyone yet, but in truth, that incident had been foretold a full week before it occurred.”

“A death notice?” “A death notice predicting the live-in student’s death?” “No—the live-in student Okawa didn’t die by accident. It appears he was mistaken for me and murdered.”

“Huh?” “The death notice was written in a coded form only I could understand—it stated harm would come to me that very day.” “Could there be some mistake here?” “No—I insist!”

“Please tell me in more detail.” “The wording of the death notice is quite simple, but there’s not a shred of doubt about its meaning—it’s seeking revenge against me. Behold—this is the death notice I received a week before Okawa died.” Taking it from the Count’s hand, when I read it in the bright afternoon sunlight, there on an exceedingly crude card, in terribly clumsy handwriting— On March 3rd of the twenty-third year, repay with death, these sixteen characters were written fluidly across two lines, accompanied by a cheap Western-style envelope bearing the Count’s name.

Anyone would notice this, but just to be thorough, when I checked the postmark, it clearly read “Tokyo Central.” Both the envelope’s writing and the card’s text inside had been penned using the post office-supplied, exceedingly crude ink. “Why didn’t you show this to the police when the live-in student died?”

“I must admit this brings me profound shame, but I simply cannot show that card to anyone.”

“Why is that?” “I’ll lay everything bare—this is how it goes—”

After hesitating for a while, the Count began speaking again with a resolute manner. “The characters ‘March 3rd, twenty-three years ago’ hold grave significance.” “To others’ eyes, they may seem meaningless—but when I look upon them, each character transforms into a briar piercing through my heart—” “I must speak of shameful things for you to understand—on that day, I cast aside a woman.” “To say I buried her would be misleading—there were circumstances that compelled me to abandon her.” “Now I do feel regret—but back then, with the recklessness of youth, I thought nothing of leaving a woman’s corpse lying there—”

“To put it simply—I, born the second son of the Count Hara family—once fled to Kobe and started a life with a woman society would never accept. She was someone I’d both loved and been loved by in turn, but whether due to her wretched circumstances or some hereditary flaw, after we settled in Kobe she fell into such severe hysterics that she became impossible to manage. Just as I’d reached absolute desperation, word came from the Tokyo Haras—my elder brother, the heir, had died, and I was summoned home at once to inherit. Worn ragged by poverty though I was, returning with that woman in tow would’ve been unthinkable before my mother and relatives at the main house. With no alternative, I abandoned that maddened creature and disappeared forever from our Kobe lodgings. That day fell precisely on March Third, twenty-three years ago. Being cautious by nature—as you well know—I’d never revealed my true station to her. Thus even that unhinged woman couldn’t track me down afterward. What became of her I’ve no idea—but regardless of her fate, my own guilt has only festered with time. Try as I might to forget that March Third from twenty-three years past, its memory clings like tar.”

“Are you suggesting that woman uncovered your true identity as Count and planned her revenge after twenty-three years?” “If I don’t assume that, what other explanation could there possibly be?”

“Could such a novel-like scenario actually occur in the real world?” “Well, that’s precisely what I want you to evaluate.” “Be that as it may, given these circumstances, it would be difficult for me to submit that card to the police and openly explain this situation.” The Count’s fears—for a daimyo aristocrat who placed extreme importance on honor—may not have been unreasonable. “And were there any other abnormalities on the live-in student’s corpse?”

“No, nothing at all.” “It’s said to be a characteristic of those who succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning—the corpse’s complexion had simply taken on an unusually beautiful hue. The fact that it was so strikingly beautiful seemed peculiar, which is why that particular detail remains vividly etched in my memory.” “Were there any murder weapons or special instruments?”

“There was nothing at all.”

“Were there any signs of someone entering from outside?”

“That too is an impossibility. I was positioned at the garden entrance, my tomboy niece Eiko and Kagami the housekeeper were conversing in the corridor, and those windows stand far too high—no one could possibly clamber in through them.”

“Then, if he was indeed murdered, it would mean he was killed either by a person as imperceptible as air within the room or through some special mechanism—wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, that’s correct.” “Before entering the room—were there any abnormalities?” “That too appears absent.” “Since he apparently entered while joking with my niece and the housekeeper in the hallway, there should have been no physical abnormalities.”

“Was there anything unusual outside?”

“There was just one thing.”

“...”

“I believe the corpse had been holding a letter in its left hand, but it disappeared during the commotion—I simply cannot fathom how.” “A letter? Was it addressed to you, Count, or was it his own?” “Since it was a cheap brown kraft paper envelope, it couldn’t have been meant for me. Perhaps my niece would know—ah, here she comes at the perfect moment.”

At that moment, the one who dashed out onto the lawn before the gazebo with a live-in student and a racket was Count Hara Mitsuaki’s niece—a beautiful woman named Eiko. She must have been around twenty years old by then—not only beautiful but also cheerful and unreserved, displaying a truly vivid tomboyishness.

“What?” “Me?”

When Uncle Count beckoned, she flew across the beautiful lawn like a young rabbit and came to a stop before the two men.

“Oh, Mr. Chigusa! When did you manage to slip in?” “No matter what happens today, I won’t let you go home—I’ll get my revenge for last time and make you squeal!”

The girl, her beautiful bare face flushed and her breath coming in quick pants as she spoke, gave the impression of a cherry blossom bursting into bloom before one’s eyes.

“What appalling manners. First, you don’t even offer a greeting, then suddenly declare you’ll ‘attack your enemy’—isn’t that a disagreeable way to speak?” The Count fixated on peculiar details.

“It’s about tennis.”

“How utterly trivial.” “Uncle, what business do you have with me?” She tilted her head cutely and struck a pose as if nuzzling her racket. In a pale sky-blue sweater and sneakers, her short-cropped soft hair absorbing the spring light like velvet, she was a vision of beauty. “It appears Miss Eiko knew in detail about the letter held by the deceased Okawa.” “Oh my—you’ve come here to discuss such matters, Mr. Chigusa? When you enter this house, you’ve made a promise not to play the journalist.”

“He’s not a journalist—today he’s acting as a detective.” “Might I ask you to explain that letter in precise detail?” “Oh, alright then—I’ll tell you.”

Suddenly putting on a serious expression, Eiko continued her account. “It was a kraft envelope, and the handwriting was unmistakably Okawa’s own.” “I only caught ‘Kanda—Town—’ before it vanished from sight—the rest escapes me now.” “Since there was a fresh stamp on it, I suppose it must’ve been a letter he’d written but never sent.” “When exactly did it disappear—and how?” “What sort of detective asks that? If I knew, it wouldn’t be missing in the first place!” “After I called the doctor and raced back to the study, the place was swarming with people—a perfect uproar—but by then, the letter had already vanished.”

“Is that all?” “Yeah.” “Then that’s enough—you may go now.”

“Oh, come on!”

When the Count indicated the lawn with his chin, Eiko seemed slightly displeased, turning her back with a sulky expression. “Detective! Detective! Once you’re done talking, come join us! I’ll work the stiffness out of you with tennis!” “That settles it—women these days are utterly impossible.”

The Count was watching her retreating back with extreme bitterness.

The Second Death Notice

“Is that all, Count?”

“No—if that were all, even I wouldn’t be particularly surprised. The world is full of quite sinister coincidences—I might have resigned myself to thinking this happened through some inexplicable error. However, that death notice was delivered to me again today.”

“Huh?” “Read this.”

What the Count had presented was the same kind of Western-style envelope as before, the same kind of crude card, written with the same kind of post office ink— "You’ve survived ten days. On March 13th, I’ll show no mercy." (From the woman of twenty-three years ago)

(From the woman of twenty-three years ago)

Though the wording had grown somewhat more verbose, it was clear that even for this anonymous avenger, killing Okawa as a substitute for the Count had been an extremely undesirable outcome. “When you say March thirteenth...” “Tomorrow.” “We can’t let this go. We must inform the police and make arrangements immediately.”

“No, no—if airing such old disgrace is what it takes, I’d rather die.” “Even without this, these days more of our circle face censure daily, scandalizing society—and what’s worse, those who reek are blind to their own stench. Though I myself once championed moral reform campaigns with vigor, now even that leaves me mortified.”

He must have been recalling his dissolute life of twenty-three years prior. The Count involuntarily lowered his handsome face and closed his eyes.

“Then how do you intend to guard against this mysterious attacker?” “For that very reason, I beseech you—trusting in the renowned journalist Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō’s capabilities—I intend to entrust everything to you.” “……”

I involuntarily bit my nails.

“I wonder if you might grant my request?” “I will do everything within my power. However, I would like you to call one assistant. His name is Hayasaka Yū—a diplomatic reporter under me. He’s an extremely loyal man who relies more on his legs than his head or pen to get stories, which has earned him the amusing nickname ‘Legs Yū.’ This man would never do something like leak the Count’s secrets.” “I ask that you ensure those matters are properly handled.”

“Then I’ll send for him immediately.”

**The Left Hand’s Enigma**

“What’s the job?”

Three hours after sending the messenger, Legs Yū entered the Count’s mansion’s reception room. He was a man who, despite his somewhat large build, wore ill-fitting Western clothes and rarely had much pocket money, but was never without a cheerful smile.

“You’re awfully late. Where were you?” “Ueno.” “I was studying pimp psychology.” “Fascinating stuff—it’s practically an art form.” “Enough nonsense—shouldn’t we greet the Count?”

“Ah, right—I’m Hayasaka Yū.” “I am Hara. I have long been indebted to Mr. Chigusa.” “I look forward to your cooperation.” “This time, I may be asking you to handle quite a troublesome matter—” “Perfectly splendid.” “The more troublesome the case, the more interesting it is—” “What nonsense are you saying?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘nonsense.’ C’mon—let’s hear it. What’s this about?” There was no need to recount what had already been explained to Legs Yū—how the Count had laid bare every development in the case without reservation. “Well then, Mr. Hayasaka—what should we do? March 13th gives us barely five or six hours left.”

Interrupting the Count’s words,

“Nah, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about. The more foolish a criminal is, the more likely they are to pull such stunts. ‘Cause if they don’t do somethin’ like that, they can’t rattle their mark.”

“Hayasaka, you’ve grown remarkably astute, haven’t you?” “Astuteness is my domain.” “Normally I’m just playing the fool here—but tell me, how old would that woman you cast aside twenty-three years ago be if she were alive today?” “She’d likely be forty-five or forty-six.” “Any chance that woman’s disguised herself as a servant or such and slipped into this mansion?”

“That is impossible.” “Does that woman have any family or relatives?” “She has none of those either.” “Lately, we have made it a rule never to hire anyone without a verified background.” “In any case, I’d like to take a look at the study.” “Please proceed.”

Guided by the Count, they went to inspect the study—a surprisingly small room that made it hard to believe this was indeed the Count’s private workspace. Yet given that neurotic individuals occasionally favor compact studies, this could only be attributed to the Count’s personal preference. The furnishings, however, were undeniably lavish, with numerous expensive trinkets scattered about—items one would never encounter outside such a household. “None of these items have gone missing, right?”

“There are no missing items.” “What about cash?” “We do not keep cash in this study.”

While pelting him with questions about every critical detail, Legs Yū’s eyes and hands were working busily. "You mentioned the student was holding the letter in his left hand when he died, yeah?"

“That’s correct. It was indeed the left.” “Wasn’t he left-handed?” “No, that isn’t so. The left-handed live-in student was Mr. Komura—the one playing tennis earlier. The deceased Okawa used to mock Komura’s left-handedness.” “Suspicious…”

"Legs Yū," with his eyes half-closed and staring fixedly into space, muttered thus.

“What’s suspicious about it, Yū?”

“Isn’t that right? You’re good at newspaper work, but you’re utterly useless at playing detective. Listen—when would someone who ain’t left-handed hold an envelope in their left hand? Use that fancy head of yours and think it through.” “When writing an envelope—or when opening one—”

“There’s one more.” “When affixing a stamp—” “That’s right, that’s right—now things are getting interesting!”

Legs Yū’s activities were remarkable. “Excuse me for asking, Count—where do you keep the postage stamps?” “In the left drawer of the desk, there should be a small stamp holder.” “Ah, please open the lacquerware inside.” “There should be twenty to thirty stamps inside.” “Since Okawa’s death, this study has not been used, but the stamps placed there beforehand should remain as they were.” “There are none, Count. The stamp holder is empty. Could you be mistaken?”

“That’s not true. I send letters every day, and I always make sure to have twenty to thirty stamps prepared.” “In fact, I distinctly remember that even on the morning Okawa died, there were plenty of stamps in the stamp holder—”

“Therefore, Your Lordship wouldn’t do something like licking stamps to affix them, would you?”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“Now things are getting truly interesting! —Count, I’d like you to smell this.” “You should have Mr. Chigusa smell it later too—catch that apricot scent? The same sharp tang as bitter almonds or almond extract.”

In the antique lacquerware stamp holder—just as Legs Yū had described—there seemed to linger a faint apricot fragrance.

“Cyanide!”

“That’s right—did you figure it out, Mr. Chigusa? The person targeting the Count—whoever they are—sneaked into his study and coated the backs of every stamp in the holder with cyanide. However, since the Count would never stoop to licking the backs of stamps—a vulgar act—he remained unharmed no matter how much time passed—but that morning, a live-in student who happened to enter the study on errands saw the desk drawer left open, revealing the stamp case inside. Overcome by base pettiness, he resolved to pilfer a single stamp—retrieving from his breast pocket a letter he had written and sealed the previous night, now ready for posting, and held it in his left hand—with his right hand, he plucked a stamp from the case in the drawer, licked its back, and affixed it to the letter—the stamp’s underside had been coated with cyanide—a potent poison—and thus he perished in an instant.” For humans with blood in their veins, there exists no poison as terrifying as cyanide. A certain forensic pathologist once remarked that licking cyanide was akin to dousing a seething boiler with water. “Life ceases in an instant,” he said.

What a display of Legs Yū’s brilliance! Both I and the Count were left dumbfounded, listening intently to this splendid hypothesis that made us feel as though we had witnessed the scene firsthand. “Now, when a human ingests cyanide orally, the hemoglobin—the blood pigment flowing through their body—loses its oxygen or carbon dioxide, binds with the cyanide, and instantly becomes cyanmethemoglobin.” “Moreover, this transformation occurs with truly lightning-like speed—cyanide poisoning victims develop that strikingly rosy complexion precisely because of this.” “However, the blood of carbon monoxide poisoning victims also loses oxygen or carbon dioxide and combines with carbon monoxide and hemoglobin, resulting in a strikingly rosy complexion.” “It’s no wonder they mistook cyanide poisoning for carbon monoxide—but had someone realized sooner and conducted a chemical analysis on the corpse, everything would’ve come to light. You’ve already cremated the body, I presume?”

Seeing the Count nod silently, Legs Yū let out a long sigh. “I suppose there’s no helping it—the student died in the Count’s place.” “The stamp on the letter in the student’s hand still has cyanide residue.” “The culprit must’ve snatched the letter from the corpse amidst the confusion and skillfully hidden it somewhere.” “If the Count has no habit of licking stamps, there’d be no need to leave cyanide-laced ones in the case. Someone must’ve immediately removed all stamps from the drawer and disposed of them discreetly—burning or discarding them.” “That’s only natural.”

“Then, it would seem there is someone within this household targeting my life.”

“I’m afraid there’s no other conclusion we can draw.”

The three of them exchanged glances under the lamplight of the cramped study.

“From this point onward, I must request that all family members—naturally—as well as every servant, indeed everyone residing in this house be assembled.” Yū made this proposal to the Count.

Identity Verification

“You addressed me as Mr. Hayasaka. I oversee the management of the Count’s household—my name is Hasebe Yūzaburō.” The old-fashioned man—who had just removed his topknot and sword—bowed with utmost formality before summoning each family member and servant into the study one by one. The steward himself bore no conceivable connection to cyanide, rendering this line of inquiry entirely moot. “Ah, this is His Lordship’s niece, addressed as Miss Eiko.” “Her age—”

“Ugh, Hasebe! You shouldn’t go mentioning a lady’s age!” Aloof Eiko, wearing a blazing red silk blouse with her face boldly exposed, wore a smile that seemed to pity the old man’s anachronism. “Mr. Chigusa, what kind of foolishness are you up to?” “How utterly ridiculous.” “Who on earth is this person? How rude to stare at people like that!” “Oh really? Your friend here?” “A bit dim-witted, but there’s something adorably boyish about you. What was your name again? Hayasaka Yū-san? Oh—‘Legs Yū,’ you say? Ha ha ha ha!” “Nimble-legged, oh right! Are you a sprinter? A middle-distance man? Any records?” “What? Not a track star? A news hound?” “Well, I never—”

Having said her piece, Eiko briskly exited. “This is Ms. Kagami Teruko, who serves as the housekeeper of this household.” “Her birthplace is Hokkaido, her age—ah! I was told it’s rude to mention that.” The woman who had barely raised her head was dressed in drab Western clothing despite her youth—or perhaps it would be more accurate to call her a girl—in any case, a quiet and refined figure whose loneliness clung to her like moonflower vines at dusk.

She too, pierced by Legs Yū’s brazen gaze, fled back like a frightened bird. “That sweet-faced girl,” “When she lost her parents and was left wandering the streets, someone introduced her, and we took her in. As you can see, she’s earnest and loyal—now entrusted with managing the entire household.”

Old Man Hasebe said this in a proud tone as if speaking of his own daughter.

“Next.” “The gardener Sadakō and his wife—they’ve built a cottage in the garden and live there.”

A gardener couple in their early forties—there was nothing particularly noteworthy to mention about them. Next came two live-in students, five maids, a chauffeur, and an assistant—among them were some eccentric individuals, but even these were nothing worth mentioning.

The last to appear was a frail-looking young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three, dressed in a cobalt-colored suit and bell-bottom trousers—an outfit likely to give elders heartburn.

“Young Master, this is Lord Keitarō.”

Even so, steward Hasebe offered an especially polite bow and withdrew.

“Well, pardon me.” “What’re you?” “So you’re the detective, huh?” “What, a reporter?” “Oh? Really? Got anything juicy then? Papers these days are dull as ditchwater—”

As he was about to launch into an explanation,

“Enough. Leave.” His father the Count dismissed him.

The Second Victim

The next day. Unable to bear the Count’s anxiety and torment any longer, both I and “Legs Yū” ultimately stayed overnight at the Count’s residence. Fortunately, there were no urgent tasks at the newspaper, and if circumstances favored us, this case might grow into something significant. Having secured the editor-in-chief’s consent, I resolved to devote myself entirely to this investigation for the time being.

March 13th thus came to a lively close. Keitarō, referred to as the Count’s heir, was in fact an adopted son. The Count, having no biological children of his own, seemed intent on uniting him with his niece Eiko; yet for some reason, the two were utterly incompatible. However, as playmates, both were truly splendid individuals. For matters belonging to outdoor games, Eiko was knowledgeable in all things; for those falling under indoor games, Keitarō would partner with anyone for anything.

Until evening, nothing occurred. The Count remained with us throughout, spending most of the day in the downstairs grand parlor. “The bath awaits you, my lord.” The maid arrived around four o’clock and first offered the bath to me and “Legs Yū,” but when we firmly declined, “Then I shall excuse myself.”

The Count gracefully rose and made his way to the bathhouse. Those left behind were just me, “Legs Yū,” and Eiko. As we became engrossed in conversation, suddenly—truly suddenly—an unearthly scream came from the direction of the bathhouse. When we dashed over in surprise, the bathroom directly behind the kitchen was already a scene of human chaos. “Quick, call the doctor! Get the professor!” “He’s gone!” “First of all, let’s get him outside!” There was a terrible commotion.

I and “Legs Yū” exchanged a sharp glance. Despite having kept watch all day to no avail, we thought the Count might have been struck down through that brief lapse in vigilance—but when we pushed through the crowd to see inside, it wasn’t the Count who had collapsed in the bathhouse after all; rather, it was his adopted son Keitarō, who wore his frail constitution like some perverse badge of honor.

“What has happened? What is this? Keitarō—”

The Count, who had come down from the large study on the second floor, abruptly paled at the scene before him. “Ah… It’s happened.” What heartrending words those were. He abruptly rushed over and gathered up Keitarō’s drenched form as though shielding it from view.

Before long, the doctor arrived. The diagnosis concluded it was heart failure—a young man’s life disposed of with such plain, unremarkable terms. Yet this explanation brought no peace to the Count, “Legs Yū,” or me.

A Murder of Genius “Hey, could you get up?” “What is it?” "Legs Yū" stood by my bedside with a grave expression.

“I spent all last night thinking and made a major discovery. I want to run an experiment before anyone’s up—come with me.” “Alright.”

I bolted upright. Having observed this man’s uncanny mental acuity through his deft handling of yesterday’s events, I couldn’t stay frozen for an instant when faced with his grim expression. “We’re goin’ to the bathhouse.” “Legs Yū” hauled me briskly toward the scene of last night’s calamity. “So, Mr. Chigusa—you know what electrocution does to a corpse, yeah?” “Things like electrical markings or dendritic patterns, I’ve heard. Never seen ’em myself, but I’ve read the books.”

He was the sort of man who dragged people out of bed at dawn to ask bizarre questions, but when you saw that earnest face of his, you couldn’t even get angry—it compelled you to respond with equal seriousness. “Exactly.” “Following the pathways of blood vessels and nerves, high-voltage electricity courses through the body, causing mottling resembling inverted tree branches to appear on the skin.” “There’s nothing as straightforward as death by electrocution.” “But—what do you think happens if someone dies from low-voltage electricity?” “Hmm, I don’t know.”

“I didn’t understand that either, so I spent the whole night thinking about it and finally figured it out at dawn this morning.” “Listen—the amount of electricity required to kill a person varies somewhat depending on their constitution, but first and foremost, it absolutely must be at least five hundred volts.” “Ordinary 100-volt electricity for lighting or heating can’t kill a person.” “Horses are said to die from around fifty volts of electricity, but this is different.” “Now then—could there be a scenario where low-voltage electricity for lighting or heating kills a person? I considered various possibilities, but realized there was indeed one certain method.” “It’s this—listen up, don’t be shocked—you apply electricity to someone in the bath!” “Whether you’re on tatami mats, standing barefoot on the ground, wearing geta, or in shoes with nails—anyone would know that how the human body experiences electricity differs in each case.” “Put simply, that’s because the path of the electrical current differs.” “When you submerge your entire body in water, the contact becomes complete and electricity flows freely—there’s no better conductor than this.” “In that case, human blood vessels and nerves act as fuses, and the heart becomes an electric light.” “Look here—this is it.”

When I looked where "Legs Yū" pointed, there was a nickel-plated faucet above the bath where Keitarō had died last night, and in the wall behind that faucet was a hole just large enough to pass a fire iron through.

“What’s this?”

“The back of this leads straight to the kitchen. All you need is fire tongs to transfer electricity from the heater to the faucet. Make the bathwater slightly hotter than usual, and anyone bathing will instinctively reach for the faucet without being told. Even 100 volts could kill someone with a weak heart if transmitted through their hand while fully submerged. The Count’s overweight and worries about his weak heart, while that poor substitute—the young master—had a heart even more fragile than his. Apply electricity while they’re in the bath, and they wouldn’t last a moment. With a truly healthy heart, he’d never have died from mere 100 volts.”

“Ah! Really? Is that even possible?” “Whether it’s possible or not, yesterday was March 30th.” “At that time, the Count was supposed to take his bath.” “When he was summoned by a maid and came to check, he found the young master had already gone in ahead of him. So he just headed to his second-floor study instead, and the poor adopted son got zapped as his substitute.” “To think there was someone who could devise something so truly terrifying!”

I could hardly speak—there wasn’t the slightest flaw in "Legs Yū’s" deductions. The hole in the wall behind the faucet; beyond it lay the kitchen’s electric heater and a long pair of fire tongs.

“This is bad—we need to contact the police immediately!” “No use.” “The doctor diagnosed it as heart failure, the Count absolutely won’t make that death notice public, and making a fuss won’t accomplish anything. A corpse killed by low-voltage electricity—even if they perform an autopsy, they wouldn’t be able to tell. We’ll keep watching a bit longer. This time, no matter what happens, we won’t let it slip by.”

Suddenly, the rustle of clothing.

When the shoji door was flung open, two or three maids were just rising, stifling half-formed yawns.

The Final Death Notice

That afternoon.

A strange letter arrived addressed to me and "Legs Yū." On the usual card, in crudely scrawled handwriting: If you value your lives, withdraw.

That’s all it says.

The postmark was from a post office right nearby—clearly a threat—but for some reason, "Legs Yū" declared that he would obediently withdraw from the mansion as per that mysterious enemy’s command.

The one most shocked was the Count, but he couldn’t very well press him to stay now—and even if he had tried, “Legs Yū” showed no sign of listening. Under the promise that they would rush over immediately should any significant change occur, the two men left the Count’s mansion for the time being. “You should consult the police.”

At the time of our parting, I earnestly advised the Count, but this haughty nobleman absolutely refused to listen.

“On that matter alone, I cannot comply with your advice. “If I make another request, please come at once.” An unmistakable look of anguish flickered across the Count’s face.

Even more unsettled than the Count were his niece Eiko and the housekeeper Teruko. However, even the earnest pleas of these two beautiful women proved insufficient to sway “Legs Yū’s” resolve.

Seven or eight days then passed uneventfully, though not without underlying anxiety. I occasionally visited the Count’s household to inquire about subsequent developments, but after Keitarō’s death—whether because the mysterious villain had eased their attacks or not—there was no further news for some time.

On the ninth night, a frantic call came from the Count’s household. Without explaining the matter, they urgently told us both to come with all haste.

It seemed they had been eagerly awaiting us. Urging “Legs Yū” on, we arrived by taxi at the Count’s mansion just before midnight.

The Count, who had come out to greet them at the entrance, immediately guided the two men to the large second-floor parlor. Before they could even settle into their seats— “It has finally come—the third death notice.”

Even he turned pale. “What? Really?”

“Please look at this.” What passed from the Count’s hand was the familiar card bearing the same crude handwriting: March 23rd is the end. This time I won’t let you escape. The ominous, stretched-and-twisted characters had been scrawled with desperate menace and curse.

“We’ve already lost two victims. This time, it might finally be me.” Even Count Hara Mitsuaki—once called a political monster—now uttered such timid words as he cast his gaze into the surrounding darkness. “Isn’t it finally time to enlist the police’s help?”

“No, that won’t do.” The Count’s resolve remained unshaken. “In that case, let’s at least have the two of us keep watch tomorrow.” “I earnestly request that we proceed as such—there is no other way.” “Count—I have a slight idea. Would you permit it?” “Legs Yū” said with a resolute air. “Please, by all means—I have no intention of opposing your opinion.” “In that case, if you grant me full command for tomorrow, can I have your assurance that every single action—every move you make—will follow my words to the letter?”

“That’s nothing at all.” “I must have your family and servants swear to obey my every command without question tomorrow.” “A simple matter indeed.”

Thus was formed the strange agreement.

The Murderer’s True Identity

“The tyranny of ‘Legs Yū’ began simultaneously with the dawn of March 23rd.” He proved a master of unbridled tyranny—the servants went without saying, but even Eiko and Teruko had grown thoroughly enraged at this new master’s delusional autocracy by breakfast time. “The opponent is an extremely dangerous individual—they can’t be beaten through ordinary means.” This constituted “Legs Yū’s” strategy: he herded the Count along with every family member and servant into the grand downstairs salon, sealing not merely all four gates but also the main entrance, service door, and each and every window without exception.

The people gathered in the salon numbered fifteen in total—these were all the inhabitants of this house. All meals were managed with bread and canned goods, and the maids were not even allowed into the kitchen. Needless to say, thorough body searches had been conducted on all fifteen individuals to confirm they carried no weapons or chemicals, and—crude as it may sound—not even a single person was permitted to visit the bathroom alone, such was the severity of the precautions. “Young master, why on earth are you doing such a thing?”

The spirited Eiko was the first to confront “Legs Yū.” “To prepare against an unseen enemy.” “Where is such a person?” “The live-in student Okawa and Keitarō-san were killed by that enemy. Miss, please bear with it just for today.” “No way! Locking me up in this prison-like place—if I don’t get outside for a day, I’ll fall ill!”

With this girl being as stubborn as she was, I couldn’t help but smile. “Mr. Chigusa, you laughed just now, didn’t you? Do remember that.” “You’re in on this too, aren’t you?” “Come on,” “Ms. Teruko, why don’t we have them let just the two of us out?”

This time, she attempted to recruit the housekeeper Kagami Teruko. Even so, through one way or another, the day drew to a close, and an unusual dinner table was brought out. As for the food, there was only bread, sausages, canned provisions, sweets, and fruit arranged on a decorative plate.

The servants still remained solemn, but Eiko’s temper was on the verge of exploding.

At that moment— “Will doing such things be of any use?” Suddenly, from the strange dinner gathering, a jeering voice arose. It was a young woman’s beautiful accent—but not Eiko’s. “Would your so-called unseen enemy really be cowed into retreating by such measures?” What a peculiar turn of phrase. With a shudder, I looked toward the source of the voice—there, holding a fruit plate and attempting to distribute post-meal fruit to those at the table, horrifying words were emerging from the mouth of Kagami Teruko, the housekeeper.

When the girl in dark Western attire—her hair tied back in a single bundle—lifted her somber eyes, her beautiful face, with its straight nose and tightly set lips, radiated an unnatural charm that seemed poised to unsettle everyone present.

“What?” “What are you saying?”

The Count rose to his feet in astonishment. The shock of seeing the monster’s true form for the first time turned his face as blue as indigo. “You…”

The Count pointed at the housekeeper’s face and said only this. The finger thrust straight out trembled violently, and the words that followed became hoarse within his throat. "What? What? What are you doing?" The live-in students, drivers, gardeners, and other robust men, seeing their master in peril, rose to their feet. When the moment came, they tried to pounce upon this delicate woman like hunting dogs—

“Making a fuss won’t do you any good—everyone stay quiet.” “In my hand lies the world’s most powerful bomb—toss this, and you’ll all be blown to bits instantly.” “Keep silent and listen.” Though perhaps not truly startled, even these men who’d rushed forward instinctively locked eyes and held their breath. “Count—look closely at my face now.” “Do you see no likeness to the woman you cast aside twenty-three years ago?” “After you discarded my mother, she lived like a cur for ten years.” “Then she bore me—a fatherless child—and in her rare lucid moments would beg for vengeance: ‘The mark is the Count’s second son.’” “I never learned his name—only that he returned to Tokyo and took over the family estate the year before your birth.” “‘Find that man and rend him limb from limb—make him know a woman’s hatred!’ My mother died like some mangy stray muttering those words.” “A kind soul took me in, gave me proper schooling, then I labored long years assisting in a scientist’s lab—but once I learned Count Hara was my mother’s foe, I came here under false pretenses two years back.”

No one in the gathering dared speak anymore; the housekeeper’s maddened voice reverberated terrifyingly through every corner of the salon.

“The scientist who was my teacher taught me all sorts of things.” “I will test each one on your life.” “Cyanide and electricity—you survived twice by killing substitutes, but today I won’t let you escape no matter what.” “Now, Count—are you ready?” “In my veins swirls this inherited bad blood that curses the world and curses people.” “Mercy or restraint aren’t for the likes of me.” “Anyone who wants to die with the Count—gather here!”

Her pale, gloomy face flushed slightly; her lips quivered like a half-crushed venomous insect, the flesh of her beautiful cheeks grotesquely drawn taut, and her eyes cast a hollow, blazing light like the pupils of a demonic statue. The eerie mismatch of a beauty transformed into a demon was such that no one could face her directly.

The astonishment of the fifteen people in the salon was beyond description.

This woman, who had seemed the most harmless—a lonely, beautiful figure—was nothing more than the mask of a terrifying murderer the world had ever known. Who was Ashi no Yū?

“Whoa!” Amidst this terrifying upheaval, the torrent of people darting blindly in all directions kept up their futile struggle, churning through the salon like a human whirlpool.

“You won’t escape. That idiot young master must have locked every door. Now—let’s throw down the trump card here, shall we?”

In front of the woman hurling abuse stood “Ashi no Yū,” blankly rooted to the spot. Amidst this chaos, only this man betrayed not a flicker of alarm—what could it mean that he stared at Teruko’s ghastly visage with that persistent smirk? “Hey woman—go on, throw that trump card of yours,” he jeered. “Perfect timing—I could use one after dinner. I’ll peel it and show you how it’s done.”

“What?” “Don’t hold back—go on and throw it.” “I don’t need to throw it. With just this one thing here, I should be able to easily kill about twenty of you lot.”

Teruko reached out to the apple in the decorative dish and gasped in surprise. “Ah!” “There’s no way—hey woman—your final trump card was a papier-mâché apple made like a museum specimen, rigged with an elaborate bomb inside, then hidden among the real apples on that dish, wasn’t it? If that’s the case, then I took it ages ago and hid it in a safe place. Inside are nothing but real apples—no need to hold back. Go on—give it a good throw! Look here, woman—the Count certainly did wrong in his youth, and abandoning your mother is an unforgivable sin no matter how you look at it. But you—there’s no need to keep obsessively taking lives. After killing two people, it’s about time you came to your senses.”

The gathering fell silent, listening intently to "Ashi no Yū's" words. Perhaps, having felt relief upon hearing the bomb had been hidden, they were now too disheartened to move. “Ashi no Yū” continued speaking,

“Such lawless revenge cannot be allowed.” “You must atone for your lawless revenge’s sacrifices.” “The police should already be coming.” “There—you can hear those footsteps entering through the gate too, can’t you? Pitiful as it is, we can’t let a murderer like you roam free in this world—there!”

When the door was opened from behind, what came rushing in was not a police officer, but "Ashi no Yū" standing there. It was another "Ashi no Yū"—his exact double.

“Ah, my apologies for being late. The police’ll be right behind me.”

The previous "Ashi no Yū" appeared somewhat older, but from their clothing to their demeanor and tone of voice, they resembled each other so closely that one could easily be mistaken for the other when seen side by side. "What are you? Who are you?"

Before the eyes of the woman quivering with surprise, fear, and intense fury, “Don’t you understand?” “I’m Hanabusa Ichirō from the Metropolitan Police Department.”

“Ah!” It wasn’t just Teruko who was shocked—the entire gathering stood gaping, their mouths frozen open at the famous detective’s unforeseen appearance. “Damn you! If it’s come to this, I won’t grovel at your feet!” Before Hanabusa Ichirō’s “Ashi no Yū” could lunge forward, her hand flashed to her lips—the sharp tang of bitter almonds flooded the air. “She still had cyanide?!”

Before he could finish speaking, the murderer Kagami Teruko's body collapsed onto the floor like a rotten tree.

When I—Chigusa Jūjirō—first heard the Count’s account, I had realized this case would be no simple matter. But since the Count adamantly refused to entrust it to the police, I sent a letter to the hideout of my acquaintance, the renowned detective Hanabusa Ichirō, and had him infiltrate Count Hara’s mansion disguised as “Ashi no Yū.” I had repeatedly apologized to the Count for this arbitrary measure of mine, but once he understood the gravity of such a major incident, he could only express gratitude for what I had done.

Later, when I asked Detective Hanabusa how he had uncovered the killer’s identity, “It’s nothing. “Since it was certain the culprit was inside the house, I investigated that woman with the most unclear background. “When I traced acquaintances through the introducer and found out that woman had once worked as an assistant to a famous scientist, I knew I had her. “The cyanide trick and the use of low-voltage electricity aren’t things your average person would notice. “Then, when I briefly left the Count’s mansion, I hurried to Kobe to dig into things. “That woman had inherited her mother’s madness and was a terrifying monomaniac, but at first glance, she seemed no different from a sane person. “But the Count’s no saint either—let him find some way to atone for his sins.”

He was saying such things.

Not long after that, we held a secret appreciation gathering—me, the two 'Ashi no Yū,' and Eiko. The absurdity and amusement of that occasion cannot be conveyed here.