Pathway to Japanese Literature

"Isamu! There's a phone call for you."

As Chigusa Jūjirō, the social affairs editor, barked out,

“Oh! Coming now—must be another city tipster.”

“No—this one specifically asked for Mr. Hayasaka Isamu by name.”

“Bit late for a monthly installment tailor to call, isn’t it?”

While tossing out idle comments, Hayasaka Isamu—having left the stove’s warmth—perched on the arm of his department chief’s swivel chair with the casual impropriety unique to newspaper editorial rooms, reeling in the receiver from Chigusa Jūjirō’s hand.

“Hayasaka speaking. What’s this about? What?”
“What?”
“Novelist Oguri Keizaburō committed suicide? When?”
“Tonight? You certain?”
“Who’re you? What’s your angle?”
“That’s irrelevant—! No, damn it, it matters! What?”
“Calling this a prime scoop and telling me to run with it? Appreciate the tip, but I can’t use anonymous sources— Wait! Don’t hang up! Don’t you— Damn! Cut me off!”

The face of Ashi no Isamu, who had hurled down the receiver, was shining with the tension of a hound that had found its prey.

“Isamu! You’re saying Oguri Keizaburō committed suicide?”
“You’re certain about that?”

As if stricken by acute news fever, Chigusa Jūjirō thrust his face forward.

“Exactly as you heard—every bit of it. I tried getting more out of them, but they went and slammed the phone down.”

“Strange—that sounded like a public phone line.”

“You think?”

“Plus, it was a child’s voice—isn’t that strange?”

“What’s strange about it, Boss?”

The distinction between a Social Affairs Editor and a staff reporter wasn’t enough to impose a hierarchy between friends. Chigusa Jūjirō and Ashi no Isamu were on such familiar terms that they addressed each other using "ore" and "omae." This, too, was part of the newspaper's unique atmosphere.

“Isn’t that right? Oguri Keizaburō is a famously wealthy man who should properly have a telephone. That someone—whoever they are—would report this suicide to a newspaper via a public phone in the dead of night is strange, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.”

“And another thing—as you know, Oguri and I have been friends since university. We consider ourselves quite close.”
“If anything were to happen to Oguri, wouldn’t it be proper to inform me?”

“That may be so, but anyway—this is a major scoop! How about putting it right at the top of the city edition’s front section?”

Ashi no Isamu was beside himself with anxiety.

"I get that, but something doesn’t sit right with me. Sorry about this, Isamu—make that call."

“Where to?”

“To Oguri’s place. In the meantime, I’ll draft the headline and send it to the printing plant.”

“I see—that matter.”

Isamu immediately got on the phone.

The unique late-night tension of the newspaper’s editorial department dominated the surroundings—the ringing of phones, the scratch of pencils across coarse manuscript paper, the murmured exchanges of proofreaders—all these sounds against the backdrop of the printing plant’s growing clamor coalesced into an uncanny rhythm.

“Hello? Hello? You’re Mr. Oguri’s residence, correct? This is Kantō Shinpō calling—has something happened to your master? We don’t need details yet—it’s deadline time—just confirm it for now, and we’ll ask again properly later, alright?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing’s wrong? He’s just resting in the detached study?”
“R-Really? Is that true?”

“Isamu! Give me that phone! Don’t hang up! —Ah, hello? It’s me.”
“Do you understand?”
“This is Chigusa Jūjirō from Kantō Shinpō—we just received a call claiming Oguri committed suicide. You’re Etō-san, the butler?”
“Strange—you did escort him to the detached room this evening, but he said he had work to do?”
“Is the light on? Still lit... If he died, you’d naturally be first to know. Odd... But this seems too elaborate for a midnight prank.”
“Could you check Mr. Oguri’s room? We’ll keep the line open while we wait.”

Chigusa Jūjirō’s face clouded with terrible suspicions passing like storm fronts. As he stared at the manuscript bearing only the headline “Novelist Oguri Keizaburō Commits Suicide” and at the foreman demanding final copy from the printing plant, he computed how long it would take elderly Etō to walk from his entrance-side room to the detached study and back.

“Isamu, this might be an actual case. Pain in the neck, but could you dash over there to verify?”

“All right.”

Ashi no Isamu was not listening to the subsequent instructions. Listening to Chigusa Jūjirō’s words with half an ear, still clutching his overcoat, he dashed into the hallway—

He was a man so known as "Ashi no Isamu"—for gathering leads through his physical hustle—that dashing out like a gale at any hour, be it midnight or dawn whenever duty called defined his very nature. Having just turned twenty-seven and graduated from a certain university three years prior, even if you said he gathered leads through his physical hustle, he bore no resemblance to investigative reporters of old. Ashi no Isamu arrived at Oguri Keizaburō’s house in the outskirts of Shibuya thirty minutes later.

Inside the house—despite the late hour—there was great commotion—

When he presented his business card with "I’m the reporter from Kantō Shinpō who called earlier—", old man Etō came out and immediately showed him into the parlor.

To put it succinctly, the master of the house, Oguri Keizaburō, was indeed dead in his detached study.

“How did the newspaper find out before we did?”

No matter how swift the press may be, it was unthinkable that a newspaper could have discovered their master’s death in a sealed detached study before the household staff became aware.

“The call came from a public telephone in a child’s voice.”
“Even so, this is strange. Please show me the detached study—the police haven’t arrived yet, have you notified them?”

“Well, just ten minutes ago the family physician came and administered various treatments, but he said our master had already passed over an hour prior—nothing could be done. I’ve just now telephoned the police, but given the distance... it should take another five or ten minutes before officers arrive.”

The familiar old butler Etō, even in his disarray after making such statements, guided Ashi no Isamu to the detached study.

The late Oguri Keizaburō had been by all accounts a man of unconventional habits; it was said he had recently separated from his wife Namiko and grown close to Tachibana Hideko—a renowned beauty and former actress turned writer.

Within the rather spacious house resided old butler Etō and his wife, student lodger Sumiki, and two maids—but as the master had been a man who constantly lived elsewhere, these servants found themselves with little substantial work, each earning their wages while engaged in side occupations.

Oguri Keizaburō himself, when at home, was usually in his detached study, and during times of writing or contemplation, it had been established that no one could enter even a single step without ringing the summoning bell.
The bedroom was on the second floor of the main house, but he seemed to have taken such a liking to this new extravagant detached study that during busy times with manuscripts, it was not uncommon for him to spend an entire night on the long sofa.

Such habits of Oguri’s had been heard from old man Etō as well, and Ashi no Isamu, who had at least met him once, was not entirely unaware of them either.

At the end of the inner corridor stood the entrance to the detached study, where the massive oak door—shattered through some desperate effort—lay in splintered ruins. Inside, a middle-aged doctor in informal kimono attire, who seemed to have rushed there in haste, maintained a professionally detached demeanor as he guarded Oguri Keizaburō’s corpse, idly awaiting the authorities’ arrival.

“This gentleman from the newspaper was acquainted with Master.”

Introduced by Etō Rōjin, the two exchanged silent nods.
Dr. Saeki was an internist who, though merely a local practitioner, had earned renown throughout the neighborhood.

“I’m Hayasaka from Shinpō.”
“We received an anonymous call claiming Mr. Oguri had committed suicide—we rushed here in shock—but was this truly a suicide?”

“Well, nothing can be determined conclusively without an autopsy, but unless we presume suicide, there’s simply no alternative explanation.”

“You’re saying...”

“Once the police doctor arrives, we’ll make an official announcement after conducting a joint examination—but when someone dies in a sealed room exhibiting signs of either carbon monoxide or cyanide poisoning... I see no contradiction in declaring it suicide.”
“As you can observe, this room uses only electric heating—no gas lines or kerosene appliances—making carbon monoxide poisoning impossible.”

Dr. Saeki stood up and removed the handkerchief from the face of Oguri Keizaburō’s corpse—reclining comfortably on the armchair—to show them.

The plump novelist’s face remained exactly as in life, his ruddy complexion showing not the slightest alteration.

“This very healthy coloration is problematic.”
“Unless it were carbon monoxide or cyanide poisoning, a corpse deceased over two hours couldn’t possibly maintain such coloring.”

“Over two hours?”

“Yes, Mr. Oguri had passed away before eleven o’clock.”

“———”

“Moreover, there remains an intense bitter almond odor around his mouth.”
“This is evidence that Mr. Keizaburō swallowed a considerable amount of cyanide.”

“I see.”

Ashi no Isamu found none of it sitting right with him, but with the expert stating things so definitively, there was no room for question.

The room showed no signs of disturbance.
The windows were all tightly shut, latched from the inside with sliding bolts, and thick curtains meticulously drawn. Both the expansive teak desk and Persian-patterned carpet lay buried under haphazard piles of Japanese and French books—a disarray bearing rhythmic intentionality, clearly the work of the room's sole occupant rather than any intruder's disturbance.

Only one desk drawer was open, but there was nothing particularly important inside—not enough to suggest any disturbance.
The desk lamp remained unlit, while the cut-glass chandelier suspended from the ceiling—more befitting a parlor than a study—brilliantly illuminated every corner.

Within this space were one large paulownia wood box, an extravagantly crafted electric phonograph, a record cabinet, a tea table apart from the writing desk, a long chaise lounge that could double as a bed, two armchairs, and two small chairs—upon one of these armchairs lay Oguri Keizaburō, dead without a trace of anguish, as though he had drifted into slumber in a drunken stupor.

On the tea table sat only one ashtray doubling as a tabletop lighter, with a pipe neatly arranged beside it, but there were no signs of anyone other than master Oguri having smoked. In the corner of the room, a triangular shelf held a whiskey set and vermouth bottle, but these too showed no evidence of having been drunk from.

The entrance had a door facing the corridor—the one Etō and Sumiki had broken down with their combined efforts—and another door beyond it that opened directly to the garden, but this too was securely locked.

Both keys were inside the hidden pocket of Oguri Keizaburō’s corpse’s vest along with desk keys and such.

“This key isn’t the only one, is it?”

Ashi no Isamu turned back to old man Etō with these words.

"There is only one. As you know of the master's temperament—he greatly disliked anyone entering his study unannounced—he kept all keys in his own possession. When we had business with him, we would knock from outside and have him open the door for us."

All suspicions of murder had now completely vanished. However, for Ashi no Isamu, there remained something that still didn't sit right.

Before long, the assigned police inspector arrived from the local station together with the police doctor.

At 1:00 AM—Ashi no Isamu had to call Chigusa Jūjirō, who was surely waiting with bated breath at the editorial department to make the deadline for the city edition’s final run.

The death of novelist Oguri Keizaburō became the front-page scoop in the next morning’s Kantō Shinpō.
The demise of Oguri—a top-tier literary star notorious as a celebrated lothario—needless to say reinvigorated the newspaper’s society section that had been languishing in recent stagnation.

The posthumous phone call to Hayasaka Isamu was deemed critically significant, leading to his brief police summons for questioning. Investigators ultimately concluded that Oguri Keizaburō—ever eccentric—had likely orchestrated the call through some neighborhood child before his death.
In truth, no alternative interpretation remained feasible.
Oguri Keizaburō’s estimated time of death fell between 10:00 and 10:30 PM, the Kantō Shinpō received its tip at 11:30 PM, and Hayasaka Isamu arrived at the Oguri estate by midnight—each timestamp verified within five minutes’ accuracy.

There was no way someone could have been made to silently swallow a potent poison like cyanide with such a strong odor. Moreover, if he had been forced to drink it mixed into whiskey or water, there should have been some telltale item left behind—a glass reeking of cyanide or similar evidence.
Since the room was literally sealed from the inside, it was utterly inconceivable that anyone could have taken away the glass after administering the poison.

Admittedly, even in the case of suicide, the absence of a cup or bottle containing cyanide could indeed be considered suspicious.
This problem considerably troubled the authorities, but ultimately—citing that there existed cases where people died even from licking cyanide applied to stamp backs—it was settled with a vague explanation that he had probably carried the poison by applying it to some unnoticed object or other.

The autopsy results detected a considerable amount of cyanide in the corpse's mouth and stomach, but even this finding proved insufficient to overturn the suicide theory.

Both Namiko—the estranged wife—and Tachibana Hideko—a close acquaintance—were questioned, but with each possessing alibis of near-impeccable quality, the authorities never even considered pressing charges.

Namiko, who had been taken back to her family home, harbored deep resentment toward her callous husband Oguri Keizaburō. Though her family residence stood relatively nearby, her elderly mother testified that due to Namiko's severe hysterical episodes—particularly violent that night—she hadn't let her daughter out of sight for a single moment.

As for Tachibana Hideko, she had been drinking tea and engaging in idle chatter with her neighbor—the poetess Kanae Sakiko—in her well-known apartment near Shibuya Station until past ten o'clock. After returning to her own room, she wrote a manuscript under pressing deadline. Then, nearing midnight, she exchanged "goodnights" with Ms. Kanae next door before entering her bed.

Their laughter had been audible all the way to the hallway. Moreover, Tachibana Hideko’s subsequent continuous manuscript writing—apparent due to her flushed complexion and habit of keeping her window half-open even in winter—had been clearly visible from across the L-shaped building.

Moreover, it seemed inconceivable that anyone could have slipped like smoke into Oguri Keizaburō’s study—a man without literary rivals—and poured cyanide into his mouth.
Despite various inconsistencies, it was only natural that both police and public came to firmly believe Oguri Keizaburō had committed suicide.
The substantial inheritance would likely fall to his wife Namiko—though separated, their divorce proceedings had not been finalized.

Amidst it all, there remained one person unconvinced by Oguri Keizaburō's supposed suicide. This was Chigusa Jūjirō, social affairs editor at the Kantō Shinpō—while his friendship with Oguri and intimate knowledge of the novelist's temperament and philosophy may have played a role, it was ultimately journalistic instinct that compelled him to openly harbor suspicions about inconsistencies in the case.

“Isamu, what do you think?”
“What?”

“It’s about the Oguri Keizaburō case. Can you really accept that official statement without any doubt?”

In the end, it was five days later that he, unable to bear it any longer, pressed Ashi no Isamu.

“Meaning?”

“I just can’t accept Oguri’s death as suicide. That was murder.”

“What do you mean, Boss? Explain it properly. There’s something off about this too, but I can’t put my finger on it clearly yet.”

“You feel the same way, don’t you? First off—Oguri was a famous optimist and careerist. Not the type to kill himself.”

“—”

“Not only did he have ample money and was a first-rate writer—where on earth would there be a reason for him to die?”

“There isn’t.”

“And they claim he died of cyanide poisoning, yet there was no cyanide bottle or cup—”

“Exactly. That’s the most baffling part.”

“There’s more. I’ve heard of people announcing their suicides beforehand, but making someone call a newspaper after they’ve already died is unheard of.”
“He died by 11:00 at the latest, and since the call was received right before the first deadline for the city edition, it absolutely had to be 11:30—”

“——”

“Another point—even if we suppose Oguri had arranged for someone to make that call posthumously, why specifically name you? When I answered, a child’s voice distinctly said, ‘Please have Mr. Hayasaka Isamu come to the phone.’”

“——”

“You claimed you only met Keizaburō once or twice and barely knew him, but I’ve been his friend since university days. Even if he wanted his death to become Kantō Shinpō’s scoop through that call, the person summoned should’ve been me—Chigusa Jūjirō—not you, Hayasaka Isamu. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Sharp as ever, Boss—that’s why you’re carrying Kantō Shinpō’s society section on your shoulders.”

“Save the flattery.”

“Then why hesitate? Hanabusa Ichirō at Metropolitan PD’s your drinking buddy.”

“I already approached him.”

“And?”

“He says there’s logic to it, but not enough hard proof to override the local precinct’s verdict. Unless we find something airtight, HQ won’t budge—”

“Such pointless hesitation.”

“So I want to dig deeper without relying on the police—partly to avenge my friend, partly to land an extraordinary scoop—”

“That’s brilliant.”

“Isamu, will you join me in this fight?”

“Let’s do it. By all means, let me take on a role!”

“Alright—that settles it.”
“There’s someone to meet—just go to the reception room.”

In the dim reception room, a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy stood in the corner like a frightened kitten.

"So you're the one who came forward after reading this morning's newspaper."

Chigusa addressed him with a somewhat professional yet inescapably engaging tone,

“Uh...”

The boy looked up timidly at Chigusa Jūjirō and Ashi no Isamu as if they were two giants.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just tell us everything you know.”

“……”

Chigusa urged the boy and pulled chairs closer so they faced each other.

“Explain everything in detail.”

“Um... This morning, when I read the paper for sale, after the article about Mr. Oguri’s inheritance, it said if the person who was asked to call the newspaper office that night comes forward, they’ll offer a reward—is that true?”

“Of course it’s true. Look, the money’s right here. Just spill everything, and I mean everything. Are you the one who made that phone call that night?”

Chigusa pulled several bills from his wallet and placed them before the boy.

After that, they had made several inquiries with the telephone company, managing only to confirm that the call had been placed from an automatic telephone in front of Shibuya Station to the Kantō Shinpō editorial department. Since they could uncover nothing further, they had ultimately arranged to place an advertisement in today’s morning edition—something Hayasaka Isamu, listening silently nearby, largely already knew.
“Boss is dead serious now—”
As this thought struck him, even Ashi no Isamu—standing before the grubby boy—felt something like a warrior’s tremor course through him.

“Yes, it was me—that night was cold and the papers weren’t selling well, so it took until around 11:30 to finally empty my basket. Just as I was about to head home, a woman called out to me.”

“A woman?”

When Ashi no Isamu’s voice rose sharply, the boy clammed up as if startled, but—

“What happened next—”

Chigusa Jūjirō casually drew out the next words while casting a glance at Ashi no Isamu’s rash behavior.

“Uh… it was a woman—a young, beautiful woman.”

“Japanese clothes or Western clothes?”

“Japanese clothes. She had a fox-colored fur scarf she kept pulled up to hide half her face.”

“……”

Jūjirō and Isamu exchanged glances.
The description of a kimono with a fur scarf hinted at the estranged wife Namiko.
Tachibana Hideko strictly wore Western-style clothing—there was no record of her ever wearing traditional Japanese attire, and this itself had been one of her proud distinctions.

"If she was hiding her face with a fur scarf," said Chigusa Jūjirō, "how could you tell she was young or beautiful?"

"While she was making me place the call," he replied, "I watched through the glass window beside her. That's when the scarf slipped loose from some movement."

“What did her face look like?”

“Large eyes, thick eyebrows—but still beautiful.”

“Alright, I’ve got the gist.
“And you know exactly how the call was made, don’t you?”

“I know it well.”
“I was told to call the Kantō Shinpō editorial department and ask for a man named Hayasaka Isamu—‘The novelist Oguri Keizaburō has committed suicide. It’s a scoop, so I’ll let you take credit’—those were my instructions.”

The boy had grown quite accustomed to the atmosphere of the reception room and, somehow or other, reported all these details.

“That’ll do—here’s your hundred-yen reward, take it—but I’ve two more questions. After making that call, you received another thank-you payment from that woman too, didn’t you?”

“Uh, a single 100 yen note.”

“And do you remember the kimono’s pattern?”

“I know it well.”

“What kind of kimono was it?”
“A black coat that was all shiny.”
“Sandals or wooden clogs?”
“Shoes.”

“Alright, that’s enough.”

When Chigusa Jūjirō said this, the boy dashed out of the reception room as if snatching the thank-you banknote.

“It’s Mrs. Namiko after all,” said Ashi no Isamu.

“No, it’s not going to be that simple.”

“Why? That face and demeanor are just like Mrs. Namiko’s, aren’t they? What if Mrs. Namiko sneaked into the detached study, dripped cyanide into her dozing husband’s mouth, locked the door, rushed out, and had the evening paper newsboy at Shibuya Station call our newspaper?”

Ashi no Isamu launched into an uncharacteristically eloquent tirade.

"No, why would Mrs. Namiko need to make a phone call after killing her husband? Especially to you, whom she’s only met once or twice."

“……”

“Moreover, isn’t it strange that a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy would remember a woman’s face so clearly? And isn’t it odd he’d recall details like her coat and footwear from someone met on the street past eleven? Most of all—women today aren’t old-fashioned schoolgirls. A woman wearing a kimono with shoes? That’s downright peculiar.”

“That may be true, but even if he only glimpsed her vaguely then, after the case blew up, those faint memories might’ve gotten seared into clarity.”

“Well,”

The two fell silent and became lost in thought.

“Let’s go meet that evening paper newsboy again—we know his address, right?” said Ashi no Isamu.

“It’s written down.”

“Then let’s chase after them—this time we’ll visit both Mrs. Namiko and Tachibana Hideko together and make them undergo an identity parade.”

“That should do.”

The two sped by car to search for the evening paper newsboy’s address, but the location in Aoyama Onden that Chigusa Jūjirō had provided—an area filled with large mansions—was hardly the sort of place where a boy selling evening papers would live.

“Damn it—I should’ve told Inspector Hanabusa Ichirō back then and had the professionals handle it.”

But even saying that wouldn’t catch up now.

“Was all that complete nonsense?”

“This is no ordinary adversary, Isamu. Ready to go all in?”

“Let’s do this full throttle!”

“I’ll investigate Mrs. Namiko’s side, so why don’t you try getting closer to Tachibana Hideko? I know Mrs. Namiko superficially through my connection with Oguri, but you’re likely more acquainted with Tachibana Hideko from her actress days.”

“Now that you mention it, that’s right.”

“Tachibana Hideko may seem frivolous at first glance, but she’s a career woman—she’ll typically be at Ai no Tomosha during daytime hours.”

“Let’s move out—you coming?”

The two arrived at the famous *Ai no Tomosha* a little past noon.
Most of those who had finished lunch had already gone out, but Tachibana Hideko, on the roster at *Ai no Tomosha*, was sipping tea in a corner chair.

"Ms. Tachibana, a moment," Chigusa Jūjirō said casually.

"Oh! Mr. Chigusa! And Mr. Hayasaka too?"

"That recent business was rather unpleasant, wasn't it?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely fed up! Just because Mr. Oguri killed himself, must they drag me into it?"
"What connection could there possibly be between me and Oguri?"

“What an absolute misfortune. Well, it’s all over now—acceptance is what matters most.”
“By the way, Ms. Tachibana, might you indulge me with your company today?”

“Oh, I don’t mind accepting your invitation, but I couldn’t possibly eat a thing.”

“You must still be weighed down—”

“Now Mr. Chigusa, I won’t have you saying such things—wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Hayasaka?”

“My stomach’s utterly empty.”

“Oh, what a clumsy way to put it! But I like that straightforward earnestness of yours, Mr. Hayasaka.”

Tachibana Hideko moved her seat between the two men as she said this.

Pale face powder, dark lipstick, thick eyebrows reminiscent of a noble courtier—beneath them lay deep eyes brimming with seductive charm, while the curve from her cheeks to her neck held an indescribable allure.

Her Western dress seemed to have forgotten all colors but black; when she crossed her slender legs, her body became unsteady, and her soft arm swayed gently against Ashi no Isamu.

“Ms. Tachibana, that guy Isamu here has come down with lovesickness lately.”

“Oh how quaint! And who might this be?”

“Shall I tell them, Isamu?”
“Cut it out, Boss!”

Ashi no Isamu had turned completely red.

“What’s with the embarrassed act, Isamu?” said Chigusa.

“How pitiful—you’ve become completely despondent, haven’t you?”

“Since Isamu’s come down with lovesickness, it’s practically a story for the chronicles.”
“Ever since then, he’s become completely tone-deaf sentimental—ask him what’s wrong—”

“What’s this ‘tone-deaf sentimental’ you’re talking about?”

“It’s something like sentimental, but Isamu’s version is a bit foolish—so it’s tone-deaf sentimental—”

“Oh my!”

“When it came to questioning, he confessed.”

“What—”

“He said he wanted to see you.”

“Oh!”

“What kind of overreaching fool of a rookie reporter wants to meet Ms. Tachibana Hideko?”

“That’s simply not true—don’t you agree, Mr. Hayasaka?”

“Now, I may be a literature graduate—better at rugby than academics—but I’m no two-bit thug.
Well, do invite him over sometimes and dote on him a bit.
Since our man here fancies himself some medieval knight, it’ll give him proper motivation.”

“Oh, is that true, Mr. Hayasaka? How delightful!”
“Though the world sees me as some worn-out hag, I’m as pure as a maiden at heart. Let’s be friends, shall we? Hmm?”

The beautiful Tachibana Hideko laid her smooth, ungloved hands on Ashi no Isamu’s seven-pleated trousers and peered up at his crimson-flushed face with an artful sway.

“This is awkward.”

“There’s no need to fret. You’re already my lover—no matter what anyone says.”

“Well, I’m shocked.”

Ashi no Isamu was completely flustered.
He had never anticipated being addressed in such a manner by this woman—a beauty and talented writer renowned throughout the land, yet also a bewitching woman of considerable age.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave—a matchmaker’s work ends by nightfall. I’m counting on you, Isamu.”

Leaving behind words that could be taken either way, Chigusa Jūjirō swiftly stood up.

“Wait, Boss! This wasn’t the deal!”

“You’re such a fool—the arrangement should be with Ms. Tachibana. Good day.”

Chigusa Jūjirō said this and darted out into the afternoon sunlit streets.

The two left behind—Ashi no Isamu and Tachibana Hideko—huddled together on a corner chair like two small birds, their faces reddening as they exchanged glances.

Then another ten days or so had passed.

Ashi no Isamu took to holing up completely at Tachibana Hideko's apartment, to the point where he barely showed his face at the office anymore.

Initially, he had been supposed to infiltrate to investigate Oguri Keizaburō’s cause of death under Chigusa Jūjirō’s instructions, but before he knew it, he became ensnared by Hideko’s charms and beauty.

Hideko was rumored about in society in certain ways, but to men, she was the very epitome of charm.
Her tastes were refined, her personality quite intellectual, and as a writer she carved out a distinctive style—but even more remarkable was the value of this woman’s physical form.

"Isamu-san, you were planning to investigate me, weren't you?
“What a fool you are.”
“Do you think I killed Oguri? Hmph, hmph.”

When her derisive laugh rolled out, the doubts Ashi no Isamu had been harboring were blown away like smoke.

“I really did love you—it’s not a lie, you know.”
“You must have seen me now and then during my acting days.”
“Your stubborn, rugged rookie reporter act was so appealing, you know.”

“...”

“To confess, I’ve liked you since your university days when you were playing rugby.”
“You must think I’m terribly persistent—Oguri? What a joke! There’s never been a man more detestable. I loathed him.”

She also said such things.

In the indescribably beautiful light filtered through an iridescent lampshade, Hideko sat side by side with Ashi no Isamu, settling deeply into the long chair.

Even the hot-tempered Hideko had lately taken to keeping her windows shut and curtains perpetually drawn.
Kanae Sakiko in the neighboring room seemed rather flustered by this development, occasionally making loud noises or putting on affected coughs, but Hideko merely smiled like a Westerner might while giving subtle shrugs of her beautiful shoulders.

However, this relationship did not last long.
One evening when Isamu visited, he discovered an empty cyanide bottle and a large Western-style key inside the drawer of Hideko’s vanity.

Isamu instinctively picked up the two items and looked around in alarm.
Fortunately, there was no one around.
Quickly stuffing them into his trouser pocket, he staggered to his feet as if drunk,

“How strange—our neighbor Ms. Kanae used to be so friendly with me, but lately she won’t even speak to me. She must be jealous.”

While saying this, Hideko entered with her freshly washed face glowing with health.

“Oh my, Isamu-san, what’s wrong? You’re looking quite pale.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I’ll just go to the office for a bit—been taking too much time off.”

“What does it matter? If you get fired, that’s that.”
“I can’t just say that.”

Isamu darted out into the streets of Shibuya like a bullet.

The destination was, needless to say, the house where Oguri Keizaburō had died.
Since the widow Namiko had not yet moved in and only the old couple Etō were away minding the house, gaining access didn’t require much trouble.

“Mr. Etō, could you show me the annex for a moment? There’s something I need to investigate—”

“Ah, Mr. Hayasaka? Please come in.”
There was no resistance.

Circling around from the garden, when he inserted the key—brought from Hideko’s vanity—into the secure outer door’s lock of the annex, it slid in effortlessly, and turning it caused the door to open smoothly.

“Ah! Mr. Hayasaka, where did you get that key?”

Etō Rōjin, who had entered the annex via the corridor, abruptly revealed himself.

“It’s nothing.”

How deathly pale Ashi no Isamu had turned!

Late that night.

As usual, Isamu sat side by side with her on the long chair, gripped by terrible suspicions yet trembling with excitement, though he found himself unable to broach the subject.

“What’s wrong? You look pale.”

Hideko extended her young vine-like arms and tried to entwine them around Isamu’s neck.

The light from the pearl-colored lamp illuminated this entire scene with dramatic intensity.

“Ms. Hideko, I can’t keep going on like this. Tonight, let’s lay everything bare.”

“What’s wrong? Oh my, you’re terribly agitated!”
“I have reasons why I can’t keep living like this any longer.”
“Ms. Hideko, look at this.”

“Ah!”

Hideko startled and jumped back.
What Isamu pulled out from his trouser pocket and placed on the tea table was a cyanide bottle with a black label and a Western-style key gleaming silver.

“What’s the meaning of this, Ms. Hideko?—And that’s not all. After confirming this key fit perfectly in Oguri’s annex door and returning here, I saw you at the apartment entrance talking with that newsboy you mentioned.”
“Ms. Hideko, now that it’s come to this, everything is over.”
“Come on, Ms. Hideko—say something. If you’ve got an excuse, at least let me hear that excuse.”

Isamu grabbed Hideko’s plump arm and shook it like a child begging its mother for something.
Even as this happened, Hideko continued sobbing like a young girl.
That strong-willed Hideko—

“Isamu-san, it’s all over. I won’t hide anything anymore. Where on earth did you get that bottle and key?”

“From this vanity’s drawer.”

“Ah, so it was that woman after all.”

“That woman... you mean?”

“Isamu-san, I’m the one who killed Oguri. Without a doubt, it was me. But there’s a reason for this—that Oguri was a villain. He knew about my past mistakes and kept threatening to expose them to the world. The world may say I had a relationship with that man, but that’s an outright lie.”

“Wha—?”

“It was all Oguri’s scheme—and he tried to ruin my reputation completely and make everything go his way.”

“But just once I let that man kiss me—that night.”

“Wha—?”

“I had no other choice but to do that. Look, like this—”

Hideko brought her heated lips close and pursued Isamu’s.
She opened her sorrowful eyes wide.

A bitter almond scent wafted from her mouth—

“Oguri was so absorbed he sucked the cyanide capsule right from my mouth—but I won’t give you this one.”

“Ah! Ms. Hideko, don’t swallow that! Don’t—”

“Farewell—”

There was no time to react.

Hideko collapsed onto the long chair just like that, and twitching convulsions ran through her entire body.

When Tachibana Hideko had been threatened by Oguri and nearly had her chastity taken, she had obtained cyanide which she encased in a double-layered capsule and tightly sealed before transferring it mouth-to-mouth under the pretext of a kiss.

It is said that those who poison others always keep a dose prepared for themselves.
Tachibana Hideko also took another capsule she had prepared and died in Isamu’s arms of her own volition.

The key to the detached study was one Oguri had secretly made and given to Hideko; she was supposed to discard it along with the bottle that very night but ultimately failed to do so in her panicked state.

After realizing detectives were tailing her and being unable to take out and dispose of them, she had hidden the items in the apartment storage—but her neighbor Kanae Sakiko, fed up with Isamu and Hideko’s feverish romance and driven by a spinster’s envy, retrieved those two articles and quietly relocated them to a spot where Isamu would discover them.

Hideko had truly admired Isamu.

The act of bribing the boy to make the phone call had been meant both to let Isamu take credit and to soothe her own resentment—in short, a criminal’s petty vanity.

With everything now settled, Chigusa Jūjirō found himself unable to muster the courage to reprimand Isamu of the Fleet Feet.
So thoroughly despondent had Isamu become.

What led Chigusa Jūjirō to suspect Tachibana Hideko after hearing the evening paper boy’s account was this chain of reasoning: his doubts were first aroused by how excessively well the boy remembered the face and attire of the woman who’d requested the call, then crystallized when the boy answered “Shoes” to his question about her footwear.
He realized the boy had inadvertently given this answer because he remembered seeing the woman wear Western clothes with shoes.

The facial features and attire described by the boy closely resembling Namiko's arose from the listener's preconceived suspicions—there had been no particular cunning involved. This was appended as evidence that Tachibana Hideko was not so much a villain.