Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Count’s Distress “Mr. Chigusa, do sit here awhile. Since this spot rarely sees visitors, the cleaning leaves much to be desired—but rest assured, no one could possibly overhear us in these surroundings.” For my benefit, former Count Kaihara Mitsuaki—once equivalent to a feudal lord—had softened his habitually imperious countenance and ushered me into a stylish gazebo nestled deep within his sprawling garden. The hair parted neatly down the center showed traces of salt-and-pepper graying, yet retained enough of the striking handsomeness that had made him renowned in his youth—that vigorous complexion still commanding admiration.

And yet, what could be causing those strange expressions—neither quite anxiety nor anguish—to flit across his refined face, twisting it so? “What is this about, Count?” “You must find it strange that I’ve brought you to such a place, but I simply couldn’t speak freely unless we did this.” …… “Mr. Chigusa, while you do have ties to me through our former feudal domain, as a public figure you are Tokyo’s foremost ace journalist.” “Once you’ve heard my account, you’ll undoubtedly grasp the core of the Kit incident from it and dispel this anxiety of mine—”

“With all due respect, Count—I’m merely the social affairs editor at the Kanto Shinpo. By no means am I any sort of ace journalist. About ten days ago, there was that incident with the live-in student at your estate meeting an unnatural end. But if this matter concerns such an event, I believe it would be more appropriate for you to inform the police and have proper specialists investigate—”

“Thank you for your advice.” “However, these anxieties and torments of mine concern matters so grave that I do not even wish them to reach the ears of amateur detectives, let alone the police authorities—in short, it is my shame.”

Seeing the Count’s grave expression, I could no longer plug my ears and flee. “In any case, I’ll hear you out—then, if it proves beyond my capabilities, I’ll have to ask you to seek another approach.” “That goes without saying.” The two of them lowered their voices even further at the crude table in the gazebo. A deep grove modeled after a primeval forest pressed in from three sides of the gazebo, while one side opened onto a gentle curve of lawn—yet the woods and thicket were so dense that there was no space for anyone to sneak through.

Death of the Live-in Student “About ten days ago, a live-in student named Ōkawa at my residence was found dead inside my study—which I had specially made small to my preference so as not to be distracted while working—of all places.” “It was around nine in the morning. I was taking a leisurely post-meal stroll when the house suddenly became noisy. Startled, I hurried back through the garden entrance only to find that the maid who had come to clean the study had discovered it, causing a tremendous uproar.” “As you know, my small study has a single entrance facing this garden.” “I left from there for my walk just five minutes before the commotion broke out, so even if Ōkawa entered from the corridor entrance on the opposite side at the same moment I stepped into the garden, he couldn’t have been inside the study for even five minutes.” “But then what do you know? According to the doctor’s diagnosis, they say the cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning.” “Could such a thing even be possible?—Admittedly, I’m particular about my morning coffee and insist on brewing it myself.” “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 carbon monoxide poisoning, then I—who practically live in that study—would have died long ago.” “The doctors diagnosed it that way, and since no one doubts it, I suppose there’s no need for me to argue any further—but there’s something about it that just doesn’t sit right with me.” “Mr. Chigusa, I haven’t told anyone else yet, but the truth is, that incident had been foretold over a week prior.”

“A forewarning?” “A forewarning that the live-in student would die?” “No—Ōkawa the live-in student didn’t die by accident. It seems he was mistaken for me and killed.”

“What?!” “The warning was written in a coded form only I could comprehend, stating that harm would come to me on that day.”

“Could there be some mistake?” “No, absolutely not!”

“Please tell me in more detail.” “The wording of the warning is extremely simple, but there’s not a shred of doubt it means to exact revenge on me.” “Look here—this is the warning I received a week before Ōkawa died.”

Taking it from the Count’s hand and reading it in the bright afternoon sunlight, I saw that on an extremely crude card, in very clumsy handwriting,

On March 3rd of its twenty-third year—atone with death, ...the sixteen characters were written across two lines in a flowing manner; there was also a cheap Western-style envelope separately inscribed with “Count” as its addressee. It was something anyone would notice; yet just to be thorough when he checked—the postmark clearly read Tokyo Central—and both characters on both envelope and enclosed card had been written using extremely crude ink provided at post offices. “Why didn’t you show this to police when that live-in student died?”

“When you say that, I am truly ashamed—but that card simply cannot be shown to anyone.” “What do you mean by that?” “I’ll lay it all bare—this is how it goes—” After hesitating for a moment, the Count began to speak again with a resolute air. “The characters ‘March 3rd, twenty-three years ago’ hold grave significance.” “To others, these characters may appear meaningless, but when I look at them, each one feels like a thorn piercing through my heart—”

"Unless I lay bare my shame you'll never comprehend—but on that day I disposed of a woman. To say 'disposed' risks misunderstanding—there were extenuating reasons why I cast her aside. Now I do feel remorse, but back then, with youth's reckless fire, I thought nothing of leaving a woman's body lying there—"

“To put it simply—I, born as the second son of the Kaihara Count family—once fled to Kobe with an impermissible woman and established a household there.” “For a time, she was a woman I both loved and was loved by in return, but whether due to her wretched circumstances or hereditary causes, after moving to Kobe she fell into severe hysteria and became entirely beyond control.” “Just as I had reached utter desperation, word came from the Kaihara family in Tokyo—my heir-presumptive elder brother had died, and they commanded me to return at once to assume succession.” “Worn down by destitution as I was, I longed to fly back immediately—but returning with the woman I was then cohabiting with would make it impossible to face my relatives and mother at the main Tokyo estate.” “Having no alternative, I abandoned that woman who had become akin to a mad creature and erased all traces of myself from our temporary Kobe lodgings.” “That day fell precisely on March Third twenty-three years ago.” “As you are aware by now, being of cautious disposition by nature, I had never disclosed my true station to the woman.” “Consequently—she who was already unhinged—it appears she could not even attempt pursuit.” “I know not what became of her thereafter—but regardless of whose failing it was, my own self-reproach has only intensified with each passing year. Thus though I strove to forget that day—March Third twenty-three years past—forget it I could not.”

“Are you suggesting that woman uncovered your true status as Count and plotted revenge after twenty-three years?” “If I don’t consider that possibility, what other explanation remains?” “Could something so fantastical—like straight from a novel—truly occur in our actual world?” “That’s exactly why I require your appraisal of it. However you view these circumstances, submitting that card to the police while explaining this situation openly would prove... exceedingly difficult for me.”

The Count’s fears might not have been unreasonable for a daimyo aristocrat who placed extreme importance on honor.

“And were there any other abnormalities with the live-in student’s corpse?” “No—nothing at all,” replied the Count. “They say it’s characteristic of carbon monoxide poisoning victims—the corpse’s complexion had simply become remarkably beautiful. I remember that point clearly because it was so strange for a corpse to have such healthy coloration.” “Were there any murder weapons or special tools?” “Nothing at all.” “Any signs of someone entering from outside?”

“That too is an impossibility. I was stationed at the garden entrance, my tomboyish niece Eiko and that housekeeper Kagami were conversing in the hallway, and given how high the windows are—there’s simply no way anyone could leap up to enter through them.” “Then if he was killed, it would mean he was murdered inside the room by either an invisible, air-like human or some special mechanism.”

“Well, that’s correct.” “Before entering the room—was there anything unusual?” “There didn’t seem to be anything of that sort either.” “Since he apparently went in while joking with my niece and the housekeeper in the hallway, there couldn’t have been anything abnormal about his physical condition.” “Was there anything unusual outside?” “There was just one thing.” “…” “I believe the corpse had been holding a single letter in its left hand, but it vanished during the commotion—I simply can’t comprehend how.”

“A letter? Was it addressed to the Count or his own correspondence?” “Given it was a cheap brown kraft envelope, I doubt it was meant for me. Perhaps my niece knows—ah, here she comes at the perfect moment!”

At this moment, rushing out to the lawn before the gazebo with the live-in student while clutching a tennis racket was Count Kaihara’s niece—a beautiful woman named Eiko. She must have been around twenty years old, but beyond her beauty, she was cheerful and unreserved, displaying a strikingly spirited demeanor.

“What?” “Me?”

When her uncle the Count beckoned, she flew across the beautiful lawn like a little rabbit and came to a stop before the two. “Oh, Mr. Chigusa! When did you slip in? No matter what happens today, I won’t let you go home—I’ll get my revenge from last time and make you squeal!” With her beautiful face flushed and her words tumbling out between panting breaths, she gave the impression of a cherry blossom blooming suddenly before their eyes. “What appalling manners,” said the Count. “First you neglect to greet anyone properly, then immediately speak of defeating enemies—isn’t that a thoroughly disagreeable turn of phrase?”

The Count fixated on trivialities. “It’s about tennis.” “What nonsense.”

“Uncle, what did you need?” She tilted her head adorably and struck a pose as if about to press her cheek against the racket. Her pale sky-blue sweater, sneakers, and soft closely cropped hair that drank in the spring light like velvet were nothing short of beautiful. “Ms. Eiko seems to have known in detail about the letter the deceased Ōkawa had in his hand.” “Oh, you’re still on about that? Mr. Chigusa, when you enter this house, you’re under an agreement not to act like a journalist.”

“I’m not here as a journalist today—I’m a detective. Could you please explain that letter in detail?”

“Oh, well then I’ll tell you.”

Suddenly adopting a serious expression, Eiko continued. “It was a kraft envelope, and the characters were definitely written by Ōkawa himself.” “I only saw ‘Kanda—[something]-chō—’ on it, but I don’t remember the rest.” “Since there seemed to be new stamps affixed, it must have been a letter that Ōkawa had written but hadn’t yet sent.” “When and how did it disappear?”

“Well, what a strange detective! If I knew that, I wouldn’t have lost it. After I called the doctor and rushed back to the study again, by then a large number of people had already come in and seemed to be making a huge commotion, but I’m certain the letter was already gone by that time.” “Is that all?” “Yeah.” “Then that’s sufficient—you may go over there.” “Well!”

When the Count indicated the lawn with his chin, Eiko seemed slightly displeased, and with a sullen face, she turned her back.

“Detective, Detective! When you’re done talking, come join us—I’ll work off your stiffness with tennis!”

“That’s it—women these days are truly beyond remedy.” The Count watched her retreating back with acrid bitterness.

The Second Warning

“Is that all, Count?”

“No, if it were just this matter alone, even I wouldn’t be particularly surprised. “Given how the world teems with strange coincidences, I might have resigned myself to accepting that such a thing could occur through some error.” “However—that very threat letter was delivered to me again today.” “What?!” “Kindly read this.” What the Count had produced was the same kind of Western-style envelope as before, containing the same kind of cheap card inscribed with the same kind of post office ink—

You have survived ten days; on March 13th, there will be no mercy. (From the woman of twenty-three years past) Though the wording had grown more elaborate, it was clear that even for this anonymous avenger, killing Ōkawa as the Count's stand-in had been deeply against their intentions.

“When you say March 13—”

“Tomorrow.” “This cannot be ignored. We must inform the police and make arrangements immediately.” “No—if it comes to exposing such ancient disgrace, I would sooner die. “Even without this, these days there are so many among our circle being criticized one way or another, stirring up public scandal—and what’s more, though I myself have loudly championed moral reform campaigns and such, now that it comes to this, even that feels bitterly hypocritical.”

He must have been reminiscing about 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 prevent this mysterious attacker?”

“For that reason, I beseech you and, trusting in the capabilities of the renowned journalist Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō, I intended to entrust it all to you.”

“…………”

I involuntarily bit my nails. “What say you—would you not grant my request?” “I will do everything within my power. But I would like to ask you to call one assistant. His name is Hayasaka Isamu—a foreign correspondent under me. He’s an extremely loyal man who relies more on legwork than brains or pen to get his scoops, which has earned him the cheerful nickname ‘Legs Isamu.’ This man would never do something like leaking the Count’s secrets.”

“I must ask that you properly attend to those matters.”

“Then I will dispatch a messenger immediately.”

The Left Hand's Enigma

“What’s this about?”

Three hours after the messenger had been dispatched, "Legs Isamu" entered the reception room of the Count’s residence. He was a man of somewhat large build who wore ill-fitting Western clothes and rarely had much pocket money to his name, but who was never without a cheerful smile.

“You’re awfully late—where have you been?” “Ueno.” “Studying pimps’ psychology.” “It’s fascinating, I tell ya—that’s practically an art form, you know.” “Enough of this nonsense—shouldn’t we go greet the Count instead?” “Ah, right! I’m Hayasaka Isamu.” “I am Kaihara, and I have long been kindly acquainted with Mr. Chigusa here.” “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” “This time, I may have to ask you to handle another unexpectedly troublesome matter—” “Perfectly fine.” “The more troublesome the case, the better—”

“What foolish things are you saying?” “There’s no such thing as a ‘foolish thing.’ C’mon, let’s hear it—what’s this about?”

What had been told to “Legs Isamu” need not be repeated here. The Count had also explained the progress of the case without concealment,

“Well, what should we do, Mr. Hayasaka? If it’s March 13th, there are only five or six hours left.” As if to cut off the Count’s words,

“Nah, there’s no need for you to worry.” “The more stupid the criminal, the more likely they are to do such things.” “Because if they don’t do something like that, they can’t intimidate their target.” “Hayasaka, you’ve become quite the clever one, haven’t you?” “Cleverness is my territory.” “Normally, I just play the fool to keep it smoldering—but putting that aside, how old would that woman you abandoned twenty-three years ago be now if she were alive?”

“Would she be around forty-five or forty-six?” “Is there any chance that woman has disguised herself as a servant or something and infiltrated this mansion?”

“That is impossible.” “Does that woman have any family or relatives?” “She has none of those either.” “We’ve made it a rule never to hire anyone without thoroughly vetting their background these days.” “In any case, I’d like to examine the study first.” “Please do.”

Guided by the Count， they went to see his study． Indeed， it was a small room—so much so that one might be surprised this was his study． However， since neurotic individuals occasionally prefer compact studies， this too could only be attributed to his personal taste． Yet its furnishings were quite lavish， with numerous expensive trinkets placed about that one would not see outside such a household． “None of these items have gone missing， I presume？”

“Nothing has gone missing.” “What about cash?” “I do not keep cash in this study.” While pressing these critical points, Legs Isamu’s eyes and hands moved busily. “You mentioned the student was found dead holding the letter in his left hand, correct?” “Yes.” “It was indeed the left.” “Was he not left-handed?” “Not at all—that’s not the case.” “The left-handed live-in student was a man named Komura, who had been playing tennis earlier. The deceased Ōkawa would regularly mock Komura’s left-handedness.”

“Something’s fishy...”

“Legs Isamu,” with eyes half-closed and fixed on nothing in particular, muttered thus. “What’s so fishy, Isamu?”

“Isn’t that right? You’re good at making newspapers, but playing detective is completely beyond you. Listen—if someone isn’t left-handed, when would they hold an envelope in their left hand? Use that good head of yours and think about it.” “When writing the envelope—or when opening it—” “There’s one more.”

“When affixing a stamp—”

“That’s it, that’s it! Now things are getting interesting!”

The activities of "Legs Isamu" were remarkable. “Excuse me, Count—where do you keep the postage stamps?” “In the left drawer of the desk, there should be a small stamp case.” “Ah, please open the lacquered case and check inside.” “There should be twenty to thirty stamps inside.” “This study hasn’t been used since Ōkawa’s death, but the stamps placed there beforehand should still remain as they were.”

“There are none, Count. The stamp case is empty—could you be mistaken?” “That’s impossible. I send letters daily and always keep twenty to thirty stamps prepared.” “In fact, I distinctly remember there being plenty of stamps in the stamp case even on the morning of Ōkawa’s death—” “So, Count—you don’t engage in such vulgar practices as licking and affixing stamps yourself?” “I do not engage in such practices.” “Now things are finally getting interesting! —Count, take a whiff of this.” “You should have Mr. Chigusa smell it later too—doesn’t it carry an apricot scent? That sour tang, like bitter almonds or amygdalin solution.”

Within the antique lacquered stamp case—just as Legs Isamu had said—I thought there seemed to linger a faint aroma of apricot.

“Cyanide!” “That’s right—have you figured it out yet? The person targeting the Count—though we don’t know who—nonetheless sneaked into his study and coated the backs of all stamps in the case with cyanide.” “However, since the Count would never engage in such vulgarity as licking stamps, he remained unharmed—but that morning, a live-in student who happened to enter the study saw the open desk drawer and stamp case inside. Driven by base pettiness, he decided to pilfer a stamp—pulling out a letter he’d written and sealed the night before from his pocket, he held it in his left hand—with his right hand, he took a stamp from the case, licked its back, and affixed it to the letter—since cyanide had been applied to the stamp’s reverse, he must have died in the blink of an eye.” “For humans with blood coursing through their veins, there exists no poison more dreadful than cyanide.” “A forensic pathologist once said licking cyanide is like pouring water into a boiling boiler.” “Life ceases in an instant,” he said.

What a clever mind Legs Isamu had! Both I and the Count were left dumbfounded, listening intently to his brilliant hypothesis—as if we had witnessed the scene ourselves. “Now, when a human ingests cyanide,” he continued, “the hemoglobin flowing throughout their body loses its oxygen or carbon dioxide, combines with the cyanide, and instantly becomes cyanmethemoglobin.” “Moreover, this transformation occurs with truly instantaneous, lightning-like speed—the reason cyanide poisoning victims develop such vividly rosy complexions.” “However, the blood of carbon monoxide poisoning victims also loses oxygen or carbon dioxide and combines with carbon monoxide and hemoglobin, which is why their complexions become vividly rosy.” “It’s no wonder cyanide poisoning was mistaken for carbon monoxide poisoning—but had they realized it a bit sooner and conducted a chemical examination of the body, everything would’ve been clear. I suppose the body was cremated, though.”

Seeing the Count nod silently, Legs Isamu let out a long sigh. “There’s no helping it—the live-in student died in the Count’s place.” “The stamp on the letter in the student’s hand still had cyanide residue.” “The culprit must’ve snatched the letter from the corpse amid the commotion and hid it somewhere with skill.” “If the Count has no habit of licking stamps, there’d be no need to leave cyanide-coated ones in the case—they’d have immediately removed all stamps from the drawer and disposed of them through some inconspicuous method, burning or discarding them.” “This was only natural.”

“Then, it would mean that someone within this house is targeting my life.” “I’m afraid there’s no other conclusion we can draw.”

The three of them exchanged glances under the lamp in the narrow study. “Henceforth, I must request a lineup of all family members without exception, every servant, and indeed everyone residing in this household.” Isamu made this proposal to the Count.

Lineup “You must be Mr. Hayasaka. I am Hasebe Yūsaburō, entrusted with overseeing the Count’s household.” The old-fashioned steward—who had only recently relinquished his topknot and sword-bearing privileges—bowed with meticulous formality before ushering each family member and servant into the study one by one. As he himself bore no conceivable connection to cyanide matters, his involvement lay entirely beyond suspicion. “This,” he announced with ceremonial gravity, “is Lady Eiko—His Lordship’s niece.” “Her age being—”

“Ugh, Hasebe! You shouldn’t ask a lady’s age!” Aloof Eiko, wearing a blazing red silk blouse, wore a smile tinged with pity for the old man’s anachronism on her unapologetically open face. “Mr. Chigusa, what foolish thing are you doing?” “How utterly ridiculous.” “And who might this be? How rude to stare at people like that.” “Oh? Your friend?” “A bit dim, but there’s something boyishly charming about you—what was your name again? Mr. Asao Isamu? Huh? ‘Legs Isamu’? Ha ha ha ha!” “Since you’re ‘Legs,’ are you a sprinter? Middle-distance runner? What’s your record?” “Not a track star? Just a news hound?” “Well—”

Having said her piece, Eiko briskly left.

“This is Ms. Kagami Teruko, the housekeeper of this household.” “She hails from Hokkaido, and her age is—Ah, but as they say, it would be improper to mention that.” The woman who had barely lifted her head appeared young yet wore drab Western clothing—no, perhaps “girl” would be more apt—in any case, a quiet and refined figure whose loneliness clung to her like the fragile petals of an evening glory.

This one too, pinned by Legs Isamu’s brazen gaze, fled back like a frightened little bird. “That one is a sweet-faced girl.” “Having lost both parents and been left wandering the streets, she was taken in through an introduction from someone. As you can see, she is earnest and loyal, so now she has been entrusted with managing all household affairs.”

Old Man Hasebe said this in a proud tone, as if she were his own daughter. “Next.” “The gardener Teikō and his wife reside in a house built within the garden.” A gardener couple in their forties—there was nothing particularly noteworthy about them. Next came two live-in students, five maids, a driver, and an assistant—among them were some unusual individuals, but even these were nothing worth noting. The last to emerge was a delicate-looking young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three, wearing a cobalt suit with bell-bottom trousers—a getup likely to give elderly people indigestion just from looking at it.

“Young Master, this is Lord Keitarō.”

Even so, Hasebe Yūsaburō, the steward, made an especially polite bow and withdrew.

“Oh, pardon me.” “So who’re you?” “A detective, huh?” “What? A newspaper reporter?” “Oh, I see. Got anything interesting? Newspapers these days are so dull...”

As he began to speak up—

“That’s enough. Leave.” The Count, his father, ended up chasing him away.

The Second Victim

The next day. Unable to bear the Count’s anxiety and torment any longer, both I and “Legs Isamu” ended up lodging at the Count’s residence. Fortunately, there was no urgent work at the newspaper company, and since this case might turn into a major story if handled well, having obtained the editor-in-chief’s approval, we were able to devote ourselves entirely to this investigation for the time being.

March 13th came to an end in this bustling manner.

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, these two’s personalities clashed entirely. However, as playmates, they were both truly splendid individuals. As for outdoor games, Eiko knew everything about them, and as for indoor games, Keitarō would always be the one to play along.

Until evening, at least, nothing occurred. The Count remained with us from start to finish, spending most of the day in the grand parlor downstairs. “The bath is ready for you, my lord.” The maid arrived around four o’clock and offered the bath to me and “Legs Isamu,” but when we firmly declined, “Then I shall take my leave.”

The Count rose with aristocratic ease and made his way to the bathroom. Left behind were myself, “Legs Isamu,” and Eiko. We had barely become absorbed in conversation when—abruptly, shockingly—an unearthly shriek tore through the air from the bathroom’s direction. We gasped and sprinted toward the sound, only to find the bathroom situated directly behind the kitchen already swarming with people.

“Hurry, call the doctor! Get the doctor!” “It’s too late!” “At any rate, let’s get him outside!” There was a tremendous uproar underway. I and “Legs Isamu” gasped and exchanged glances. Despite having kept watch the entire day to no avail, we thought the Count might have been struck down due to our slightest lapse in vigilance—but upon pushing through the crowd to see inside, it was not the Count who had collapsed in the bath, but rather his adopted son Keitarō, who wore his frail health like a badge of pride.

“What’s happened? What?” “Keitarō has—”

The Count, who descended from the large study on the second floor, turned pale at the sight of the commotion here. "Ah—it's happened."

What a heartrending utterance this was. He suddenly rushed over and lifted up Keitarō’s wet body as if to hide it. Before long, the doctor arrived. The diagnosis concluded it was heart paralysis—with nothing out of the ordinary—yet such simple words had disposed of a single young man’s life; but neither the Count’s heart nor Hayasaka’s nor mine could find peace with this conclusion.

Genius-Grade Murder

“Hey, could you wake up for a sec?”

“What?” “Legs Isamu” stood by my bedside with a grave expression. “I spent all last night thinking and discovered something major.” “I want to conduct an experiment before anyone else wakes up. Come with me for a moment.”

“Okay.” I sprang up with a start. Having observed this man’s extraordinary mental agility through yesterday’s efficiency, I couldn’t remain still for even a moment upon seeing his unusual complexion. “We’re going to the bathroom.” “Legs Isamu” vigorously pulled me along and guided me to the site of last night’s tragedy. “So, Mr. Chigusa, you know what happens to a human body that dies from electrocution, right?”

“They say things like electrical marks and dendritic patterns appear.” “I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve read about them in academic texts.”

He was the kind of man who woke people up at dawn to ask bizarre questions, but when you saw that earnest face of his, you couldn’t even get angry—you just ended up greeting him properly. “That’s correct. When high-voltage electricity flows through the body along the paths of blood vessels and nerves, mottled patterns resembling inverted tree branches appear on the body. There’s nothing as straightforward as death by electrocution. But—what do you think happens if someone dies from low-voltage electricity?” “I don’t know.”

“Since I didn’t understand either, I spent all night thinking and finally figured it out at dawn.” “Listen—the lethal voltage varies slightly by constitution, but it absolutely must be over five hundred volts.” “Ordinary hundred-volt current for lights or heaters can’t kill a person.” “They say horses die from around fifty volts, but that’s irrelevant.” “Now—could low-voltage current kill a human? I considered every angle and found one sure method.” “Don’t flinch—you electrify someone in their bath.” “Anyone knows electricity affects you differently on tatami, bare earth, geta, or nailed shoes.” “Simply put—the current’s path changes.” “Submerge your whole body in water, and you’ve got perfect contact—no better conductor exists.” “Then your blood vessels become fuses and your heart a lightbulb—that’s all.” “Look—here’s proof!”

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

“What on earth is this?” “The back side here leads straight to the kitchen.” “All you need is to conduct electricity from the electric heater to the faucet using a fire iron.” “If you leave the water slightly hotter, even without being asked, the person in the bath will reach for the faucet.” “Even 100-volt electricity, if transmitted from the hand of someone submerged in the bath, can certainly kill a person with a weak heart.” "The Count is as overweight as you saw and worries about his weak heart, and the young master who became his substitute was a youth with an even more glass-like fragile heart." “If it’s applied while they’re in the bath, there’s no way they could withstand it.” “If the heart had been truly strong, he wouldn’t have died from 100 volts of electricity.”

“Ah! Is that true? Can such a thing really be done?”

“Whether it’s possible or not—in any case, yesterday was March 30th.” “And at that time, the Count was supposed to be taking a bath.” “When he was called by the maid and came to check, he found the young master had already gone ahead and entered [the bath], so he proceeded directly to his second-floor study—and tragically, his adopted son was electrocuted in his place.” “What a truly terrible thing for someone to have conceived.” I could hardly utter a word; there wasn’t the slightest flaw in “Legs Isamu’s” reasoning. The hole behind the faucet; beyond it lay the kitchen’s electric heater; a long fire iron.

“This is serious—we must contact the police immediately!” “No good. The doctor diagnosed it as heart paralysis, and the Count will never reveal that warning no matter what. Making a fuss won’t accomplish anything—a corpse killed by low-voltage electricity can’t be identified even through an autopsy. Let’s keep watching a bit longer. Whatever happens next, I won’t let it slip away this time.”

A sudden rustling of clothes.

When someone slid open the shoji screen as if leaping at it, two or three maids were just getting up, stifling half-awake yawns.

Final Warning

That afternoon.

A mysterious letter addressed to me and "Legs Isamu" arrived. On that familiar card, in shockingly crude handwriting, If you value your lives, withdraw.

This was all that was written. The postmark was from the very local post office—clearly a threat—but for some reason, “Legs Isamu” declared he would obediently withdraw from this mansion as per the mysterious enemy’s command. The one most surprised was the Count, but he couldn’t very well press him to stay any further—and even if he had tried, “Legs Isamu” showed no signs of listening. Under the promise that they would rush back immediately should any significant changes occur, the two men left the Count’s residence for the time being.

“You should consult the police.” When parting, I earnestly advised the Count, but this arrogant nobleman absolutely refused to listen. “That particular advice of yours—I cannot comply.” “Once again, I implore you—if I make a request, come immediately.” An unconcealable look of anguish flickered across the Count’s face. Even more anxious than the Count were his niece Eiko and the housekeeper Teruko. However, even the earnest pleas of these two beautiful women were insufficient to sway “Legs Isamu’s” resolve.

The next seven or eight days passed uneventfully amid the anxiety. I occasionally visited the Count’s household to inquire about subsequent developments, but after Keitarō’s death—whether the mysterious villain had let up on their attacks or not—there was no word at all for some time.

On the evening of the ninth day, a hurried phone call came through from the Count’s household. Without stating the reason, they simply told us to come immediately, both of us in a great hurry.

They had apparently been eagerly awaiting our arrival. Urging "Legs Isamu" onward, we pulled up to the Count’s residence in a flat-rate taxi as the hour drew close to midnight. The Count, who had come out to greet us at the entrance, promptly guided us to the large drawing room on the second floor, before we could even settle into our seats— “It has finally come—the third warning.” Even he had turned pale. “What? Is that true?” “Please look at this.” What was handed from the Count’s hand was the usual card with the usual crude handwriting,

March 23rd will be the end. This time I won't let you escape. The sinister characters, stretched taut as if hanged, thrashed across the page with every ounce of threat and curse they could wield.

“We’ve already had two victims.” “This time, it might finally be me.” Even Count Kaihara Mitsuaki, once dubbed a monster of the political world, uttered such faint-hearted words and cast his utterly terrified eyes into the surrounding darkness.

“Isn’t it finally time to enlist the police’s help?” “No, I cannot allow that.” The Count’s resolve remained unshaken. “In that case, let’s at least stay vigilant for all of tomorrow—just the two of us.” “I must ask that we proceed with that plan—there is no other way.” “Count—I have a slight idea. Would you permit it?”

“Legs Isamu” said with a resolute demeanor.

“Please—by all means—I have no intention whatsoever of opposing your opinion.” “Then would you grant me full command for tomorrow’s entirety? Every gesture, every step—all must follow my instructions without exception.” “That’s trifling enough.” “I must also request that your family and servants swear absolute obedience to my orders for this single day tomorrow.” “Easily done.”

Thus was the strange agreement formed.

The True Identity of the Murderer

The tyranny of “Legs Isamu” began simultaneously with the dawn of March 23rd. Indeed, he was a master of utmost tyranny—not only the servants but also Eiko and Teruko had already become thoroughly enraged by this new master “Legs Isamu” and his madman-like autocracy by breakfast time. “The opponent is an extremely dangerous individual; we cannot prevail against them easily.” This was “Legs Isamu’s” opinion, and he gathered the Count, all family members, and servants in the grand salon downstairs, then had every gate—without exception—the front entrance, the back door, and every single window tightly shut.

The people gathered in the salon totaled fifteen—these were all who lived in this house. All meals were managed with bread and canned goods, and the maids were not even permitted to go to the kitchen. Needless to say, thorough body searches had been conducted on all fifteen individuals to confirm they carried no weapons or chemicals—and, to put it bluntly, such was the severity of the precautions that not even a single person was allowed to visit the bathroom alone. “Why on earth are you doing such a thing, young master?”

The spirited Eiko was the first to confront "Legs Isamu."

“It’s to prepare for an unseen enemy.” “Where is this supposed enemy?” “Ōkawa, the live-in student, and Keitarō were killed by that enemy.” “Miss, please endure it just for today.” “No! Locking me up in a prison like this—if I don’t get outside for a day, I’ll fall ill!”

With this girl—indeed, even if she might act contrarily—I found myself feeling amused. "You laughed, Mr. Chigusa—you know? Remember that." "You're in on this too, aren't you?" "Well..."

“Ms. Teruko, why don’t we have them let just the two of us out?”

This time, she attempted to draw in the housekeeper, Kagami Teruko.

Even so, somehow or other, the day came to an end, and a peculiar dinner table was brought out. As for food, there was only bread, sausage, canned goods, sweets, and a decorative plate of fruit. The servants remained solemn, but Eiko’s temper was already on the verge of exploding.

At this moment— "Do you really think doing this will be of any use?" Suddenly, from that peculiar dinner gathering, a mocking voice arose. It carried a young woman's beautiful accent—but it wasn't Eiko's. "Do you really think your precious unseen enemy would cower and retreat over something like this?"

What a peculiar turn of phrase. With a shudder, someone turned toward the source of the voice to find Kagami Teruko—the housekeeper holding a fruit platter, about to distribute dessert to those at the table—uttering terrifying words from her lips. A girl with her hair tied in a single bundle, dressed in dark Western-style clothing, raised her gloomy eyes—and there, her beautiful face, with its straight nose and tightly set lips, radiated an abnormal charm that seemed poised to bewilder everyone present.

“What? “How dare you say such a thing?”

The Count stood up aghast. The shock of someone 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 uttered only this. The finger thrust straight out trembled violently, and the words that followed died away into a hoarse rasp in his throat. “What’s this? What’s this? What are you doing?” The live-in students, chauffeur, gardeners, and other burly men, seeing their master in peril, stood up. When the moment came, they tried to pounce like hunting dogs upon this delicate woman—but “This won’t end well if you make a scene. Everyone, stay quiet.” “In my hand is the most powerful bomb in the world. If I throw this, you’ll all be blown to smithereens in an instant.” “Be quiet and listen to my instructions.”

It may not have been out of surprise, but even the men who surged forward inadvertently exchanged glances and held their breath. “Count—now—look well at my face.” “Do you see no resemblance to the woman you cast aside twenty-three years ago?” “After you abandoned my mother, she lived like a dog for ten years.” “Then she bore me—a child of unknown father—and in her fleeting moments of clarity would beg: ‘Avenge me against the Count’s second son.’” “I never learned his name—only that he returned to Tokyo the year before your birth to inherit the family title.” “‘Find that man and rend him limb from limb! Make him know a woman’s wrath!’ Even as she screamed this, my mother died like a stray cur.” “A kind soul took me in, gave me an education. I served long years as an assistant in a scientist’s laboratory—but when I discovered my mother’s enemy was Count Kaihara, I buried my past and infiltrated this house two years ago.”

No one in the gathering could speak anymore; the housekeeper’s madness-tinged voice echoed terrifyingly through every corner of the salon. “The scientist who was my teacher taught me various things.” “I will test them one by one upon your life.” “Cyanide and electricity—twice now substitutes have been killed and you survived, but today I won’t let you escape no matter what happens.” “Well then, Count—are you prepared?” “In my veins swirls the inherited cursed blood that damns the world and all in it.” “Mercy and restraint are not the ways of one such as I.” “All you wretches who want to die with the Count can gather together right here!”

Her pale, gloomy face flushed slightly; her lips trembled like a half-crushed venomous insect; the flesh of her beautiful cheeks twisted grotesquely; her eyes glared with hollow light like the pupils of a demonic statue. The eerie visage of a beautiful woman transformed into a demon was something no one could bring themselves to face directly. The shock of the fifteen people in the salon was beyond words. This woman, who had seemed the most harmless—a lonely, beautiful lady—was nothing more than a mask for a murderer of terrifying proportions.

Who was this "Legs" Isamu?

“Gah!” Amidst this terrifying turmoil, a stream of people scrambling to and fro swirled through the salon, persisting in their futile efforts. They could not escape. That foolish young master must have locked all the doors. “Well then—I’ll play my trump card here. Shall we?”

In front of the woman hurling abuse stood “Legs” Isamu, blankly rooted to the spot. Amidst this commotion, this man alone showed not a hint of surprise—gazing at Teruko’s fearsome face with a persistent smirk—what could this mean? “Hey now, woman—go ahead and throw that trump card of yours.” “Perfect timing—I was just craving one after the meal. I’ll peel it and eat it right in front of you.” “What?” “No need to hold back. Go ahead and throw it.” “I don’t need to throw it. This single thing should easily kill about twenty of you all.”

As Teruko reached for the apple on the decorative plate, she suddenly startled. “Ah!” “Surely not, woman—your final trump card was a meticulously crafted bomb hidden inside a papier-mâché apple made as a museum specimen, concealed among the real apples on that plate.” “In that case, I took it ages ago and hid it away in a safe place.” “Inside are nothing but real apples. There’s no need to hold back.” “Go ahead and throw it with gusto.” “Listen here, woman—the Count certainly did wrong in his youth, and abandoning your mother was an unforgivable sin no matter how you look at it.” “But you—you don’t need to be so persistent in taking lives. After killing two people, it’s about time you came to your senses.”

The gathering fell silent and listened intently to “Legs” Isamu’s words. Upon the relief of hearing that the bomb had been hidden, they may have become so disappointed that they couldn’t move. “Legs” Isamu continued speaking,

“Such lawless revenge cannot be permitted.” “You must atone for the sacrifices made to your lawless revenge.” “The police should be here any moment now.” “There—you can hear those footsteps coming through the gate too, can’t you? It’s a pity, but a murderer like you cannot be allowed to roam free in this world—there!”

When the door behind them was opened, what came rushing in was not a police officer, but "Legs" Isamu standing there. It was another "Legs" Isamu—his exact double.

“Ah, sorry I’m late.” “The police should be right behind.”

The former “Legs” Isamu appeared somewhat older, but from his clothing to his demeanor to his speech, they were so alike that even when placed side by side, one could easily be mistaken for the other. “What are you? Who are you?” Before the eyes of the woman trembling with shock, fear, and violent fury, “Don’t you get it? I’m Hanabusa Ichirō from the Metropolitan Police Department.” “Ah!” It wasn’t just Teruko who was shocked; at the appearance of the utterly unexpected famous detective, the entire gathering was left gaping in astonishment.

“How infuriating! As if I’d ever accept help from you!”

Before Hanabusa Ichirō’s “Legs” Isamu could leap forward, the woman’s hand darted to her mouth, and the scent of almonds wafted through the air. “Ah! You still had potassium cyanide?!” Before he could even finish speaking, the murderer Kagami Teruko’s body collapsed onto the floor like a rotten tree.

When I first heard the Count’s story—I, Chigusa Jūjirō—knew this case would be no simple matter. However, since the Count adamantly refused to entrust it to the police, I sent a letter to my acquaintance, the renowned detective Hanabusa Ichirō, at his hideout and had him infiltrate Count Kaihara’s residence disguised as “Legs” Isamu. I repeatedly apologized to the Count for my arbitrary decision, but once he understood the gravity of this incident, he could only express gratitude for what I had done.

Later, when I asked Detective Hanabusa how he had uncovered the murderer’s identity, “It was nothing complicated.” “Since the culprit was undoubtedly within the household, I investigated that woman with the most questionable background.” “When I followed connections from her reference and discovered she’d once worked as an assistant to a renowned scientist, I knew I had my answer.” “The cyanide trick and low-voltage electricity application aren’t things an ordinary person would devise.” “Then when I temporarily left the Count’s residence, I hurried to Kobe to verify everything.” “That woman had inherited her mother’s madness—a terrifying monomaniac—yet outwardly she seemed perfectly sane.” “Still, the Count isn’t innocent either. You ought to make him atone properly.”

He was saying such things.

Not long after that, along with the two 'Legs' Isamu and Eiko, I secretly held a thank-you gathering. The sheer absurdity and amusement of that moment cannot be properly conveyed here.