Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Nomura Kodō

Night at the Editorial Department “Isamu, care to join me for a drink? Okō-chan under the viaduct has been holding a grudge—people are saying Mr. Hayasaka’s found himself some nice new haunt lately—” Toraoi Mitsuju—a veteran diplomatic reporter who’d headed the Metropolitan Police press club for ten years—leaned his thinning-haired head sideways over the editorial assistant’s desk and made this proposition. “Don’t joke around—the city edition’s about to start! Telegrams were flooding in, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and the whole editorial department’s out at their New Year’s party—even the stenographers left! I can’t even begin here. Lend me a hand, Toraoi.”

“So you were the one editing—let’s just hope we don’t end up with some unhinged rag of a paper, eh Isamu?” “The devil’s in the details—when our competitors see tomorrow morning’s paper, they’ll shit bricks!” “I know the editorial department chief is out for their New Year’s party, but where the hell’s Chigusa, the social affairs deputy director? Vanishing before nightfall—that’s not like him at all.” That Social Affairs Deputy Director Chigusa Jūjirō’s figure was nowhere to be seen in the Tokyo Post’s editorial room that evening amounted to nothing less than a once-a-year miracle.

This was still an era when newspapers could publish sixteen daily pages—a scene from an editorial department during journalism's golden age of fierce competition for sensational scoops, before military tyranny dragged Japan into ruinous war. “Big brother’s gotten himself invited to the finest feast in Tokyo.” Hayasaka Isamu—who called Chigusa Jūjirō “Big brother”—was himself a hard worker nearing thirty, a man once nicknamed “Legwork Isamu” for “reaping stories through legwork.” Now despite his youth, he commanded respect in the Tokyo Post’s social affairs department, at times issuing directives to junior diplomatic reporters in Chigusa’s stead and assisting with editing provincial editions when manpower ran short.

“That can’t be ignored—what kind of promotional unveiling is this?” “Would Big Brother go for such a stupid feast? Tonight’s banquet is for our senior fellow townsman—the Kumagai zaibatsu’s On-dai, Kumagai Saburōbee’s birthday celebration.” “That must be stifling.”

“We newsmen have trained ourselves till even a pack of ministers and generals would seem like corpses to us—but in that banquet hall, there’s just one person who gets Big Brother’s heart racing.” Hayasaka Isamu tossed aside the pen he’d been using to sort manuscripts, finding himself keeping Toraoi Mitsuju company before he knew it. Toraoi Mitsuju was indeed a quarrelsome drunk who caused endless trouble, but he remained honest, sharp-witted, a scoop-hunting virtuoso counted among Tokyo’s most seasoned newspapermen.

Among seasoned newspaper reporters, there were often such outlandish individuals. Nihilistic yet disciplined, appearing utterly hopeless yet paradoxically pure-hearted with an unyielding sense of justice—the sort who'd declare they'd laugh through any hardship to expose evil, that was their breed.

The reason Legwork Isamu—our Hayasaka Isamu—got along with Toraoi Mitsuju might have been their shared traits of being equally poor, somewhat heavy-drinking, terribly strong in their sense of justice, and utterly lacking in financial acumen. Had one ventured to inquire with an accounting department clerk, they would have uncovered the astonishing fact that these two ranked as Tokyo Post’s undisputed grand champions of salary advances—men whose accounts, if properly tallied, stood to receive not a single sen in monthly pay for a full year to come.

“So this person who gets Chigusa Jūjirō all worked up—some actress, is she?” Toraoi Mitsuju—who had apparently drunk his fill at the bars under the railway viaduct—raised his dazed eyes. A seven-button suit with a collar askew like a Kanda street urchin’s cowlick, his face—framed by an unkempt beard—transformed unexpectedly into something as severe as a philosopher’s. “An actress? Don’t be absurd—when it comes to Big Brother, he’s the Puritan of journalism! The one getting him all worked up is this stunning beauty named Mihoko—young employee at Kumagai Partnership Company and sister of Ushioda Haruki.”

“Huh, that’s just too plain and charmless, isn’t it?” “You’ve never seen Miss Mihoko—that’s why you’re spouting such nonsense—” “Such nonsense, huh?” “With her completely natural face—so clean and beautiful—I’ve never imagined such a maiden could exist.” “Hmph—‘maiden’? How quaintly old-fashioned.” “There’s no better Japanese word for it.” “Incredible—so this ‘maiden’ is Chigusa’s fiancée too?” “Just a tacit understanding. If it were me, I’d charge straight in and break through—but Big Brother’s a gentleman. He doesn’t stoop to lowly tricks like wooing women.”

“Good one with the lowly tricks.” “I’ve tried those lowly tricks myself now and then, but my success rate’s about zero point three percent—that’s why I’m still single.” “You’re hopeless—why not try getting yourself a wife and start saving through postal savings?” “Regrettably, there’s no one interested. Hikari-chan under the viaduct burned through all love and resentment ages ago, and I tried making some half-hearted passes at the receptionist at headquarters too.” “You’re an idiot—infidelity’s a strict house prohibition. Do anything shady in the company, and they’ll fire you without mercy.”

“Relax—I won’t pay the receptionist any mind at all. Because that accounting lady goes around spouting nonsense, I’m treated like some yakuza thug throughout the Tokyo Post.”

The two men’s banter took on endless momentum.

In the back, a gas stove blazed fiercely, and from the neighboring proofreading department came the lonely echo of a sort of melody—the sound of manuscripts and galley proofs being cross-checked.

The evening editorial room was unexpectedly quiet. Once past eleven o'clock, it would bustle again with diplomatic reporters returning for the city edition, yet the editing of the interim regional editions remained leisurely—indeed, even Hayasaka Isamu's makeshift efforts proved more than adequate.

“Mr. Hayasaka.” “I’m closing the sixth edition now.” A boy from the factory, blackened with ink, brought wet galley proofs and spread them out on Hayasaka Isamu’s desk. “Ah, sure, go ahead and close it—Big Brother and the editing team should be back soon, so I’ll be free from year-end duties before long. Might as well go check on Hikari-chan’s face while I’m at it.” Toraoi Mitsuju left Hayasaka Isamu’s desk and let out a big yawn. From around that time, diplomatic reporters began bringing their respective materials and diligently writing articles at their own desks.

Exactly at 8:30, the telephone on Hayasaka Isamu’s desk began ringing vigorously. “Hey, Isamu! Phone!” “Alright, got it. Must be a city informant anyway.” “Sorry Mitsuju—pass me that pencil— Hello? This is Tokyo Post speaking. Hello? Hello? This is Hayasaka— Who’s there? Huh?” “Chigusa?” “Big Brother? That’s rough—hurry back! I’m terrible at editing. What?” “A major case?” “Where? Banchō District, the Kumagai residence—you’re telling me to come right now? Fine, I’ll go! Chasing after incidents isn’t your style, Big Brother—I’ll leave things here to Mitsuju. Someone’ll be back soon anyway—no problem.”

Hayasaka Isamu hung up the phone with a clatter.

“Hey, Isamu—you actually expect me to handle the editing?” Mitsuju thrust out his ruddy nose. “Apologies—just keep things patched together awhile longer. The section chief should return any moment now. Won’t leave you twisting.”

"Ah damn—I still haven't drunk my fill." "Take a bottle and lick at it while you work—I'll have Hikari-chan under the viaduct send over some grub on my way out. Alright, Mitsuju?"

Hayasaka Isamu slung his overcoat over his shoulders and grabbed his dapper bird-hunting cap from the nail above his head. "What the hell's kicking off here anyway?" "This is Big Brother's crucial moment! If this pans out, it'll be the scoop of the year—hold the fort, Mitsuju." Hayasaka Isamu shot into the wintry street like cannonfire.

Aftermath of the Grand Banquet

Let us rewind the story a little.

Kumagai Saburōbee, president of Kumagai Partnership Company, was holding an extremely luxurious—albeit small-scale—banquet at his home in Banchō District that night to celebrate his 58th birthday. It was a winter night in the early years of Shōwa. The dining hall had been opened just before seven o'clock; though the various elaborately planned entertainments were not without interest, this very fact delayed the meal time, making it only natural that the over thirty guests grew thoroughly nervous.

The guests, having marveled at the row of masterpieces by modern French masters hung in a line—their deep crimson Persian carpets reflecting under lavishly lit ornamental electric lamps that matched the mansion's grand scale—now entered the dining hall, where they were once again overwhelmed, this time by silverware, ornamental flowers, and the succession of first-class extravagant dishes carried in one after another—a reaction that was, once again, only natural.

At the head sat Kumagai Saburōbee and his wife Yukiko in morning coats and crested kimonos, poised with perfect composure; arrayed around them along a U-shaped table sat thirty meticulously selected guests in orderly formation. The host Saburōbee presented the florid-faced corpulence of a bourgeois patriarch, while his wife Yukiko—strikingly youthful at thirty-two—possessed a slender face of pearl-toned pallor framed by long narrow eyes and an aquiline nose that together formed a countenance of truly extraordinary beauty. His daughter Nanako was twenty-two—the sole remnant of his deceased first wife—and appeared no more than a sister to her stepmother Yukiko. Though her delicate features carried an air of melancholy refinement that some unkindly deemed haughty, she remained above all an impeccable young lady beyond reproach.

The pink evening dress with its vermilion sash, her wavy hair framed like rainbow hues—there was nothing more beautiful than this. Among the guests mingled dignitaries—a certain Minister So-and-so, a Chairman Such-and-such, a venerable Count from an old family—but the majority were executive employees of Kumagai Partnership and Saburōbee’s old friends, framing this as an intimate gathering. In truth, however, it was likely a fact that Saburōbee had gathered those closest to him precisely to flaunt his rise and success, taking pleasure in how they might rejoice, envy, or resent him from the depths of their hearts.

Among them, the inclusion of the partnership company’s young employee Ushioda Haruki and his sister Mihoko—a beauty of rare excellence who was Nanako’s music companion—alongside Tokyo Post’s Social Affairs Deputy Director Chigusa Jūjirō, a skilled young journalist, made for a truly unusual combination. In truth, Ushioda Haruki was from the same hometown as his employer Kumagai Saburōbee; his sister Mihoko was a friend whom the young lady Nanako had invited; Chigusa Jūjirō also shared a hometown connection; and Saburōbee had specifically invited them all in the hope that their presence might entice someone to write about his extravagance in the newspaper.

Now, the grand banquet had run its course, champagne was poured for toasts, and hot coffee was served. Kumagai Saburōbee, welcomed by applause, rose from his seat and cleared his throat twice— “Now, ladies and gentlemen—though you all have pressing engagements this evening—I find myself truly at a loss to adequately express my gratitude for your gracious presence here in such numbers.” “Through your benevolent favor alone have I, Kumagai Saburōbee—a man of modest talents and duller wit—attained my current standing in financial circles, celebrating this fifty-eighth birthday in the vigorous health before you. This I owe wholly to your esteemed patronage and steadfast support, for which I offer profoundest thanks.”

It was indeed a perfunctory greeting, yet in both attitude and tone, Kumagai Saburōbee—who had amassed a colossal fortune within a single generation and built a zaibatsu second only to Mitsui and Mitsubishi—radiated the arrogance of a satiated man and a self-will so intense it seemed to deny others their very humanity. He then proceeded to reflect on his past, recounting a series of hardship anecdotes, deliver a brief report on his current ventures, and outline his aspirations for the future—whereupon the sixty guests’ applause, fueled by shameless flattery and alcohol’s fervor, resounded thunderously throughout the dining hall.

Exactly at that moment. One of the formally attired waiters cautiously brought a beautifully decorated letter—adorned with flowers and placed on a silver tray— "My deepest apologies, but a messenger has brought this." “It concerns a matter of utmost urgency that cannot be deferred—the messenger insisted it must reach your esteemed presence immediately. He stated most emphatically that should we delay even a moment, we would undoubtedly face severe reprimand—” [The waiter] quietly slid it beside the host’s seat.

“What’s this—just a congratulatory letter? There’s no harm in looking at it later, but…” Even as he said this, Saburōbee—perhaps swayed by the waiter’s grave manner—accepted the letter, sliced it open with a nearby fruit knife, and skimmed through it with evident irritation. All at once, his face turned ashen in a single brushstroke, the robust complexion he always bore vanishing completely. “Is something wrong?”

As the young wife peered cautiously from his side, “No, it’s nothing. It’s just that the heater is a bit too hot.” So saying, he hurriedly slipped the letter into his kimono pocket, took out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow. During this time, the guests’ speeches began—a long-winded professor notorious for interminable lectures, an assemblyman famed for his outspokenness—and a torrent of nauseating flattery and elaborate congratulatory phrases were lavished upon Master Kumagai Saburōbee. But Saburōbee, normally a man of robust spirit, seemed in no state for such formalities. He let the guests’ well-wishes slip by unheeded, summoned his secretary Honda Daisuke to issue rapid-fire orders, sent his daughter Nanako and her friend Mihoko to a separate room, hastily concluded the banquet, and guided the guests back to the main hall.

The thirty guests, liberated from the cramped dining hall—men clustering with men, women with women, though at times mingling as gentlemen and ladies—let conversation and laughter blossom within the hazy tobacco smoke.

But from around this time, both inside and outside the mansion grew tense, and an uneasy air permeated the entire Kumagai residence—yet the thirty guests, intoxicated with revelry, had no way of knowing it.

*The Cursed Letter*

Chigusa Jūjirō, Social Affairs Deputy Director of the Tokyo Post—thoroughly nauseated by the alcohol, hollow flattery, boisterous laughter, and contest of lies—had been about to leave the dining hall last while keeping his distance from the crowd when his eye caught a white object fallen beneath the host’s chair, which he absentmindedly picked up. Undoubtedly, this was the very letter that the host, Kumagai Saburōbee, had received moments earlier. Chigusa Jūjirō recalled how at the very moment of reading this letter, the host’s complexion had turned ashen in an instant—then forgetting even the decorum required of one entertaining distinguished guests—he had become utterly discomposed.

The letter should have been delivered to the host immediately. But the journalist's instinct became captivated by what showed through—on a portion of letter paper protruding from that magnificent ivory envelope—where the large left-slanting character for "death" was visibly bleeding through. While it was true that Master Kumagai Saburōbee was his senior from the same hometown, Chigusa Jūjirō could not possibly harbor favorable feelings toward someone who acknowledged his existence solely for personal gain and publicity. Thus when he sensed a strange allure in the words concealed within this very letter he had picked up, it was inevitable that he succumbed to the temptation to peer inside.

Chigusa Jūjirō, clutching the letter in his kimono sleeve, stepped out into the corridor. However, plainclothes officers and burly retainers from Kumagai Partnership stood guard there—each hiding weapons while feigning nonchalance—making him abandon any thought of examining the letter. An idea struck him. He retreated into the washroom. Remembering how he'd once rushed to a restroom trembling to open his first newspaper salary envelope ten years prior—desperate to learn his worth—an innocent smile bloomed across his face, oblivious to the impropriety of such mirth in this place.

What had been pulled out from the envelope was two sheets of thick letter paper, written in masterful fountain pen—each character meticulously rendered in block script—and it read as follows:

Kumagai Saburōbee, this we send to mark thy fifty-eighth birthday celebration. Death. This gift we offer with fullest sincerity—yet mere death proves too crude and meager to repay the evil deeds thou hast accumulated through eight-and-fifty years. Therefore, Daughter, artworks, home, entire fortune, wife—and lastly, life. These we have ordained shall be claimed in this sequence. Our preparations stand complete; though thou marshal all thy gold's might, thy striving's vigor, and thy mind's cunning, not by hair's breadth shalt thou impede our design. Abide thou humbly now, and await thy fate.

The aforementioned executor: Hōunji Saburō Thou mayest not recall the name Hōunji Saburō. Yet wouldst thou do well to recall the names of the countless victims who, because of thee, had their daughters taken, their wives taken, their homes taken, their wealth taken, their honor taken, their lives taken—among them stands this Hōunji Saburō. Nay—it is I, *Hōunji Saburō*, who have arisen as the executor of death on behalf of all those victims. The text ended abruptly, but all the more intense for it—and Chigusa Jūjirō felt an involuntary cold shiver race down his spine.

Such threatening letters were commonplace, and Chigusa Jūjirō, a newspaper reporter, knew all too well that those who led even slightly unscrupulous lives often received them. However, those were usually idiotic threats scrawled in crude ink on coarse paper—either the work of a madman or undoubtedly delinquents’ pranks—but this letter was terrifyingly meticulous, exhibiting an uncompromising seriousness that could not be dismissed as mere threat or mischief. First, both the envelope and letter paper were of the highest quality sold at a first-class stationery store, and when Kumagai Saburōbee received it, it had even been adorned with floral decorations. The envelope’s address was written in high-quality Chinese ink, the handwriting less that of a calligrapher than an intellectual unbound by archaic conventions—and as for the contents, these were certainly not the work of a madman or delinquent youths.

Moreover, Kumagai Saburōbee—who by all accounts should have grown accustomed to threatening letters and extortion notes—had his complexion turn ashen the instant he glimpsed this letter. His subsequent demeanor, paroxysmal in its oscillation between gloom and frenzy, was anything but ordinary—a clear sign that something had struck him with urgent realization. From the corridor before the washroom—forehead pressed against the glass window as he looked outside—the New Year’s night sky stretched pitch black, a starless expanse heavy with impending snow. “Chigusa.”

Someone tapped his shoulder. When he turned around, there stood Ushioda Haruki—an employee of Kumagai Partnership, brother of the beautiful Mihoko, and Chigusa’s former classmate. Though their work differed and they rarely interacted day to day, theirs was a bond that warmed his heart at merely hearing each other’s names.

Both were thirty-five, both single, both humanities graduates—while Chigusa Jūjirō was sanguine and dashing, Ushioda Haruki was a fair-skinned, nervous man who closely resembled his beautiful sister. In contrast to Chigusa Jūjirō, who had plunged from school into a newspaper company and built up a considerable position within ten years, Ushioda Haruki had wandered through two or three companies before finally entering the Kumagai Partnership through hometown connections, yet still remained a low-ranking employee—a pitiful state of affairs.

“Ushioda—I knew you were here, but our seats were too far apart to talk.” “It seemed you’d stepped away briefly earlier—” “I felt unwell and went out to the veranda—by the way, what does that reporter’s sixth sense of yours make of this?” “What?” “Don’t you sense something unnervingly eerie about this supposedly joyous Kumagai household? When I looked from the veranda, it felt as if some invisible... sinister presence were creeping closer—encircling this mansion.”

The timid-looking Ushioda Haruki, both hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, shuddered violently. "I sense it too—but surely you wouldn't let mere atmosphere unsettle you. Have you noticed anything concrete?" Chigusa Jūjirō, true to his reporter's instincts, skillfully probed through his companion's utterances. "No, nothing tangible. As you know, I'm naturally timid—and a Spiritualism believer at that."

“An abacus wielder dabbling in Spiritualism makes for strange bedfellows.” “Lodge and Lombroso were scientists first—there’s no conflict in a company man believing in spirit communication.” “No need to bristle—if ‘abacus wielder’ grates your ears, I’ll say ‘man of culture’ or ‘businessman.’ But unpleasantness festers in this house. You’d do well to remove Mihoko-san posthaste.”

“Thank you, I do want to do that as well, but Nanako-san won’t easily let go of my sister, and we young employees can’t very well leave before the dignitaries.” “Salaried workers might have such reservations, but in that regard, we newspaper reporters are fortunate—when the atmosphere at a venue turns dull, we can leave any place briskly under the pretext of article deadlines. In fact, I’m about to head out tonight too. Frankly speaking, listening to those old-school politicians and industrialists with their gesture-filled, relentlessly self-promoting roundtables makes me nauseous beyond endurance.”

“How enviable. I wish I could be in a position to act so freely too.”

“Well then, let’s meet again in two or three days.”

The two of them waved. Chigusa Jūjirō headed toward the entrance, Ushioda Haruki back to the main hall—

Heiress Disappearance

It was when Chigusa Jūjirō received his overcoat and took one step outside the entrance.

Maniacal laughter—Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

—And then, a terrifyingly loud laughter resounded from nowhere. It was an ironic, grim voice that mocked those who heard it—yet carried within it a cruel, fierce, even nihilistic resonance. That impossibly loud laughter arose from somewhere near the third floor and poured down without restraint upon the heads of the thirty-some guests still savoring the remnants of revelry. "There's something wrong with the Young Mistress's room!"

From the third floor, a young maid came tumbling down. She was called Okoma - a clever-looking girl of twenty-two or twenty-three, favored by Nanako.

“There!” The plainclothes officers and household retainers who had been stationed in the hallway’s corners, beneath the stairs, and behind doors—five or six men in an instant—rushed to the third-floor door of Nanako’s room. The door remained securely locked from within; neither pushing nor pulling could open it.

“Inside were the Young Mistress and Lady Mihoko.” “She requested hot tea, so I brewed her favorite Mocha and brought it up, only to find the door not just locked but also hearing a groan from inside, wouldn’t you agree?” While brushing off the maid Okoma’s words, five or six burly men bundled together and hurled their bodies against the door. Even that formidable door shattered like a rice cracker snapping, and a flood of men came crashing in—

“Lights! Lights!” Inside was pitch black; someone flipped the switch, but with only a click to show for it, neither the ceiling’s decorative lights nor the ornate floor lamps illuminated. Before long, one of the maids rushed in with a handheld lantern.

“Ah!” There was scattered blood inside, and a young woman had collapsed unconscious upon the fiery-red carpet. “It’s Miss Mihoko!” “What about the young mistress?” Pushing past the approaching Okoma, Ushioda Haruki—Mihoko’s brother—emerged from behind. “Mihoko, Mihoko! Stay with me! What happened? What’s this—” Lifting the seemingly injured body, Haruki was somewhat disarrayed. “Nanako—Nanako isn’t here!”

With a despairing cry, Master Kumagai Saburōbee came rushing over. Close behind followed his young wife Yukiko; the throng of guests spilling onto the stairway could only gape at this unforeseen calamity. “Fetch a doctor! Now!” At someone’s shout, a houseboy sprinted to the telephone room. “Mihoko! Stay awake! It’s not deep!” The lapis-blue bodice of Mihoko’s evening gown—cradled in her brother’s arms—bloomed crimson where blood stained the fabric like a crushed peony. Yet fortune smiled: the wound proved shallow, and after moments that stretched eternally, she finally stirred enough to whisper.

“Brother, I’m scared.” Mihoko, who clung tightly to her brother, was already nineteen—in the bloom of her youth—but having lost her parents early, she had been raised by her brother as if he were her father. “Nanako? Where’s Nanako?”

Peering over them, Kumagai Saburōbee was trembling uncontrollably in a manner unbecoming of his age.

“Over there.” Mihoko raised her upper body and pointed toward the window. The window stood wide open; presumably, the villain had fled through it with Nanako. Kumagai Saburōbee—along with two or three men—rushed to the window and peered out, but outside lay an inky void now dusted with fine snowflakes, showing no trace of the perpetrator. Moreover, the building’s Meiji-era brick construction made a direct leap downward unthinkable. To abduct Nanako from that height without her consent would require either killing her outright, rendering her unconscious to carry her down a ladder, or preparing a robust rope ladder in advance.

"Directly below this was the dining room."

Having returned from the entrance, Chigusa Jūjirō—though concerned about Mihoko—found it improper to act intrusively, so he called Hayasaka Isamu at the newspaper office, then returned once more to this place where he had already begun exercising his innate detective instincts. For an estate in Banchō’s mansion district, the buildings stood unusually close together. To the west of Nanako’s room, separated by five or six ken from a small window, a concrete storehouse loomed—unreachable unless one had wings. Beneath the window, multiple layers of iron anti-climbing spikes had been planted, rendering human approach impossible from above or below.

Thus it followed that the culprit had stabbed Mihoko when she interfered, then fled through the large south window while carrying the unconscious Nanako. However, in the dining room below—where at least half of thirty people faced outward under garden lights blazing like midday—there could be no deceiving those thirty watchful eyes to either infiltrate or escape undetected. With the room’s door locked from within and the key still in its hole, unless the culprit had escaped through that window, they must have vanished like smoke along with Nanako inside the chamber itself.

Before long, a nearby doctor arrived; the injured Mihoko was transferred to an adjoining small room and given emergency treatment, while master Kumagai Saburōbee—along with thirty guests and household retainers—could only mill about in restless commotion.

The Maiden’s Wish “How is Miss Mihoko?” In the hallway, Chigusa Jūjirō intercepted Ushioda Haruki as he emerged from the small room.

“Thank you. It doesn’t appear to be serious. Her heart’s fine, and since the blade slipped, it seems her lungs weren’t injured either. She got so startled it made her head spin—though now she’s terribly self-conscious about it—” “If that’s the situation, then all’s well.” “By the way, my sister’s been desperate to see you. Will you meet with her?” “I don’t mind, but—is she in a state where receiving visitors is appropriate?”

For Chigusa Jūjirō, this appeared to be rather welcome news. "The doctor says there shouldn't be any problem—the initial treatment's already been completed."

“Then let’s go visit her.”

The two entered the small room. The room—apparently meant for guests—contained a neatly made bed, a chair, and a small table arranged pleasantly. On that bed lay Mihoko, who had just finished receiving treatment, her eyes wide with a startled—yet somehow lonely—gaze as she welcomed her brother and his friend Chigusa Jūjirō. The attending nurse tactfully withdrew from her seat. “Mihoko-san, how are you feeling?” “What a terrible ordeal. But the wound seems minor.”

Chigusa Jūjirō remained standing at the foot of the bed, gazing reservedly at this beautiful maiden.

Compared to the missing young lady Nanako’s somewhat elevated, aristocratic refinement, Mihoko’s beauty was commoner-like—even pristine. Rather than beauty, it would be more accurate to say hers was a loveliness buoyed by intelligence that fit perfectly. Petite and plump, with a beautiful smile, misty eyebrows, and a snaggletooth—imagine such a clever yet pure-hearted girl. That was precisely the portrait of nineteen-year-old Mihoko.

“Chigusa-san.” 「――――」

Mihoko called out again. Her face overflowed with seriousness, giving Jūjirō the impression of a kind of poignant vulnerability—like a schoolgirl facing an exam hall. “Please, I beg you—don’t delve too deeply into this case.” “This case?” “The case of Nanako-san’s kidnapping—yes, there’s something terrifying about this case. Please, I beg you...” Injured Mihoko, while being mindful of her brother, pleaded as if in prayer. In her large eyes, a pool of tears had gathered—

“They found a blade in the garden!”

Someone was shouting loudly downstairs. And from the entrance,

“What happened to Boss?” “It’s Chigusa Jūjirō of Tokyo Post!” The brashly clamoring voice of Hayasaka Isamu could also be heard.

Double-Edged Sword

“You there, Boss?”

Into this commotion came the energetic voice of Hayasaka Isamu—a Tokyo Post veteran nicknamed "Ashi no Isamu" for his legwork in gathering leads—bursting through the entrance of the Kumagai residence.

“And who might you be—pardon me, but do you have a business card—” Secretary Honda Daizuke, not so much spreading his arms wide as making this his decisive moment, set up a barrier at the entrance. “My apologies—Hayasaka Isamu of Tokyo Post. Here’s my card.”

Isamu searched his jacket pocket and pulled out a somewhat soiled company-issued business card.

“If you’re from the press, we’ll have to ask you to come back tomorrow. We’re rather occupied at the moment.” Secretary Honda pushed the business card back without even looking at it. “That’s exactly why I’m here—I heard about the commotion.” “Has something happened to your young lady?” “You’ve already heard about that?” “News travels fast in our line of work. In any case, my colleague Chigusa Jūjirō should be here already. Let me see him.” “Well, that’s...”

“You just need to relay the message.” Hayasaka Isamu, battle-tested through countless confrontations, had grown thoroughly accustomed to refused audiences and feigned absences. Though ordinarily rather timid and good-natured in daily life, when work demanded it, he transformed into an unyielding warrior with steel-reinforced resolve. Yet there in the Kumagai estate’s grand entrance—flooded by ornamental electric lights, backed by massive oak doors, standing upon marble mosaics—the disheveled figure of Ashi no Isamu cut an equally striking silhouette. With long hair tossed like Beethoven’s, swathed in a maroon greatcoat and Bohemian cravat while sporting galoshes, this was hardly attire suited for intruding upon soirées filled with morning-coated gentlemen and evening-gowned ladies.

"But I must ask about your business—" Honda Daizuke still held the soiled business card between two fingers, fidgeting awkwardly. His long hair slicked back like a pot lid, narrow face smeared with pomade to a glossy sheen, red-striped tie, and well-tailored morning coat—though nearing forty, he embodied the quintessential secretary who wouldn’t spare five minutes for formalities. "A journalist’s come to a crime scene—there’s no need for formalities with you."

Isamu grew slightly irritated. "In that case, I cannot allow you passage." "That’s absurd!"

This dispute, however, did not last long.

“Isamu! Perfect timing—there’s something I want you to appraise—come over here. It’s a sword—you’re the authority on blades, right?” Sticking his face out from the top of the grand staircase, Chigusa Jūjirō threw him a lifeline.

“Much obliged—that’s my field. “To tell the truth, Hon’ami’s Isamu is none other than me!” Still wearing his overcoat, Isamu snatched his hat like an eagle seizing prey, bounded up the grand staircase two steps at a time, and charged toward Chigusa on the second floor. Even the stubborn gatekeeper Honda Daizuke could do nothing when confronted with such a scene.

On the second-floor hall, centered around Hanabusa Ichirō of the Metropolitan Police who had just arrived at that very moment, the first investigative meeting was being held. Detective Hanabusa Ichirō should have been past forty at this time, yet at first glance he appeared nearly as youthful as Chigusa Jūjirō or Ashi no Isamu. Apart from his keen eyes, crisp speech, and witty responses, he was an utterly ordinary middle-aged gentleman—or rather, nothing more than an ordinary salaryman.

He had left university midway to work his way up from a regular patrol officer—having long held the rank of police sergeant before finally becoming an inspector through special appointment only recently. It was truly a patient climb up the ranks. He, however, seemed to find detective work itself utterly fascinating; while his classmates aspired to become executives or even cabinet ministers, he remained wholly devoted to this path, content with his position as what they called the Metropolitan Police’s “treasured asset.” “Ah, Mr. Hayasaka—are you truly knowledgeable about sword appraisal?”

Hanabusa Ichirō looked up with a dubious expression. In his hand was a Western-style double-edged sword, still stained with blood. “I can at least tell the difference between a paper knife and a chef’s knife—”

Hayasaka Isamu entered the room with an unceremonious attitude. “Ha ha! Well done—so I’ve been had by Chigusa-kun?”

Hanabusa Ichirō laughed with apparent amusement. At that time, police and journalists were by no means on good terms—indeed, keeping reporters away from crime scenes was standard investigative practice. However, in this case, Chigusa Jūjirō—Tokyo Post’s Social Affairs Deputy Director—had been present at the Kumagai residence as one of the guests. Not only did this allow him to fully grasp the circumstances surrounding the incident before and after its occurrence, making him the most crucial witness, but through what might be called fortunate coincidence, Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō had originally met at a Ginza tavern a decade prior, becoming close friends who supported each other’s work without reservation.

“Well, when it comes to appraising that double-edged sword, even I can tell.” “Huh?”

The preposterous words of Ashi no Isamu caught Hanabusa Ichirō’s attention.

“I caught a glimpse with the corner of my eye—that thing was taken from the waist of the Western warrior doll standing at the entrance to the downstairs hall.”

“What?” The two uniformed patrolmen, at a signal from Hanabusa Ichirō, rushed off. However, they soon returned, “What that person said is correct—there’s a Western suit of armor displayed at the hall entrance.” “There is a leather sheath at its waist, but the blade is missing.” “However, it seems the blade was present until the dining hall was opened, and one of the waiters had joked—‘This thing looks sharper than a silver knife’—or so it appears.” Thus they reported.

“When we entered earlier, we didn’t see anything like that—” “It appears it had been concealed behind a screen. Now that we’ve removed the screen, the suit of armor in the hallway corner has become visible.”

“So—”

Hanabusa Ichirō bit his lip.

“The culprit didn’t come from outside—it must be someone inside the house. If they’d come from the dining hall or main hall, the armor behind the screen would’ve been immediately noticeable.”

Chigusa Jūjirō interjected. "By the way—it was said this blade was found in the garden. Who found it?" "It was a houseboy named Takayama Noboru—let’s call him in."

One of the officers soon returned with an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old houseboy in tow. He wore an old-fashioned straight-sleeved kimono and striped ogura hakama, though whether from feeling out of place or some other reason, he seemed to have shrunk into himself terribly. “Where did you find this?” Hanabusa Ichirō showed the bloodstained double-edged sword. “It was in front of the dining hall—around when the light snow had begun falling—that sword stood planted in the lawn.” “Stood planted—hilt upward?” “Uh—the tip was straight. It had sunk two or three inches into the ground.”

"You found such a thing in the night garden—quite something." Hanabusa Ichirō's suspicion was everyone's suspicion. Discovering a blade standing upright in the earth of the garden—where light snow had begun to fall—amidst that commotion was hardly ordinary. "When I heard the young lady had been abducted from the second floor—the tightly sealed second floor—I went out to the garden to see whether the culprit could have carried her down from there." "Hmm, you've got an eye for odd details."

“I’ve always liked detective novels—so if something happened, I’d definitely planned to do some investigating myself.”

The boy Takayama Noboru, having been praised by Hanabusa Ichirō, was utterly overjoyed.

Mihoko began to speak.

Of the thirty-odd guests that night, most had left before young lady Nanako’s abduction; those who remained—having stayed behind to tend to the injured Mihoko—were all sent home except for Ushioda Haruki. At the same time, having somehow caught wind of the incident, a swarm of twenty or thirty journalists came flooding in—from the garden, through the entrance, into the house—and even captured on camera the grief-stricken master of the house, Kumagai Saburōbee, and his wife Yukiko. Secretary Honda Daisuke, houseboy Takayama Noboru, and others did their utmost to block them, but the news corps' formidable onslaught rendered such efforts futile. At that moment, Hanabusa Ichirō could barely manage to retreat to the room where Mihoko's injury was being tended—taking only the jurisdictional inspector and Chigusa Jūjirō with him.

“Would it be all right if she spoke just a little?”

To the nurse beside the bed, Hanabusa Ichirō whispered quietly. “Since it’s quite a serious injury, the doctor stated that it would be better to wait two or three days before conducting any inquiries—” The veteran-like middle-aged nurse wore an expression that seemed difficult to reconcile with the situation. It was a small yet well-organized large room; the cream-colored wallpaper, the new bedding—all of it somehow gave off a refreshing feel. “No—if it’s just a little, I can manage to speak. Since you must be in a hurry with your investigation...”

Mihoko opened her eyes wide. From the chair on the opposite side, Ushioda Haruki—concerned about his sister's condition—began rising as if to speak, but Mihoko pressed through his hesitation, clearly intent on saying something. “Then, please tell me just a little about what happened before and after—even briefly. Because I want to know as soon as possible.” “Yes.” “First, when you and the young lady, Nanako-san, returned to that room together—did anyone follow you from behind?”

“Okoma-san had stepped back a short distance. “Since Nanako-san asked her to bring tea for that, the maid immediately turned back from the room’s entrance and went down the stairs, but—” Mihoko’s account was unexpectedly clear and articulate. Her face, once pale from blood loss, flushed crimson under the strain of tension—the fleeting return of color made her unbearably adorable. “And inside the room?”

“Nanako-san went in first and turned the switch, but the light didn’t come on, so I went in after her and was groping my way closer when suddenly—out of the pitch darkness—someone leaped out—”

“——”

As if recalling the terror of that moment, Mihoko stopped speaking for a while and caught her breath.

“—I felt a terrible pain in my chest and staggered down.” “Everything went dark.”

“Did you not get a look at their face?” “It was pitch dark.” “And yet, in that pitch darkness, it’s quite something that the culprit managed to take Nanako-san out through the window.”

Hanabusa Ichirō pressed each critical point methodically. "But there couldn't have been an escape route outside—I was collapsed at the entrance."

“Do you know who closed that entrance door and when?”

“Probably—that villain must have closed it.” “Before entering, was the door locked?” “Oh, Miss Nanako took the key from her pouch and opened it.” “And the key—” “It seems it was left inserted in the door without being removed.” “So it was inserted from the outside?”

“——”

Mihoko nodded. She did indeed look somewhat fatigued.

“That’s enough now. If you make her talk any more, she’ll start bleeding again.” Her brother Haruki appeared deeply unsettled, alternating between sitting and standing in his chair while fretting incessantly. “No, I’ve disturbed you terribly. Take care now.”

Hanabusa Ichirō also seemed to give up and, cutting things short here, exited into the corridor.

There, twelve or thirteen newspaper reporters surrounded Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō, bombarding them with a barrage of questions from all directions. “What happened to Nanako-san?” “How is the injured Mihoko-san’s condition?”

“Please give us some information.” “You don’t mind if we take photos, do you?”

The reporters’ faces overflowed with eagerness, but Hanabusa Ichirō— “Mihoko-san is unexpectedly well. The doctor says it’s not life-threatening, but nothing concrete has been determined yet.”

Skillfully parrying their pointed questions, he entered the room where the incident had occurred. “Chigusa—you must know something. As fellow journalists, give us a hint.” The seasoned reporters encircled their colleague Chigusa Jūjirō. “I truly know nothing—I merely happened to attend tonight’s banquet. As for my paper, I won’t print a single word beyond what Hayasaka Isamu from our office witnessed firsthand when dispatched there as a reporter. You have my word on that.”

“That’s gentlemanly of you. We can’t have you using your privileges to secure an exclusive.” “It’s alright.”

Chigusa Jūjirō also followed after Hanabusa Ichirō. That being said, even Chigusa Jūjirō knew nothing beyond the threatening letter from this "Hōunji Saburō"—and since Hanabusa Ichirō had prohibited its disclosure, they had no choice but to rely entirely on Legwork Isamu's resourcefulness.

The Lipstick in the Photograph

In Nanako's room where the incident occurred, the Metropolitan Police's fingerprint technicians and photography technicians were collecting fingerprints from around the room and taking photographs from various angles.

“How could someone have escaped from this tightly sealed room while taking a woman with them?” After every corner of the extravagantly luxurious room had been searched with terrifying thoroughness, Hanabusa Ichirō plopped down into an armchair and spoke.

“On top of that—he laughed with such a terrifyingly loud voice that anyone from a quarter-century ago would’ve sworn they heard a demon cackling midair.” Chigusa Jūjirō settled into a beautiful armchair beside him. By that time, the smashed lights had been repaired, and the room was illuminated as if in broad daylight. Mahogany furniture in uniform beauty, Western-style chairs with resplendent upholstery, a luxuriously thick Chinese carpet that swallowed one’s heels whole—and beside the large floor lamp near the wall lay splotched bloodstains, likely where Mihoko had been stabbed.

"The spot where she was stabbed wasn't as close to the entrance as I'd expected."

Hanabusa Ichirō stood up while muttering to himself again. Gazing at this scene with an eternal smile was a girl from what seemed a classical French oil painting. When the adjacent door was opened, the next room revealed a compact bedroom—a so-called Westernized boudoir—where both the small desk, bed, and feather-stuffed comforter overflowed with maidenly charm favored by young girls and the lavishness befitting an heiress who was her wealthy family's sole inheritor. Indeed, drawing back the Indian chintz curtain hung along one bedroom wall exposed an unimaginable treasure trove of garments—silks, furs, and quantities of exquisite lace that would chill any poor soul to the bone.

The small drawer of the bedside table was slightly ajar, a nickel-plated key still inserted in its lock. Probably, Nanako had taken out a brooch or ring to attend the downstairs dinner party and simply forgotten to close it afterward.

“Well now, this is a familiar face.” From within it, Hanabusa Ichirō’s eyes widened at a single cabinet-sized photograph he had retrieved. “Isn’t this Ushioda Haruki’s photograph?” Chigusa Jūjirō leaned forward. “Why on earth would such a photo be here? Oh, take a look at this, Chigusa.” Hanabusa Ichirō passed over the photograph without so much as a grimace. When he looked, mottled traces of lipstick stained the photograph’s surface—

“——” Chigusa Jūjirō felt as though he’d glimpsed into a maiden’s beating heart and hurriedly withdrew his gaze. That Nanako—the cold, imperious, and incomparably beautiful heiress of the Kumagai conglomerate—had concealed within her bedside table drawer a photograph of a man stained with lipstick; that she would hide an image of this clever yet impoverished salaried youth, loyal though he might be, constituted an unimaginable revelation. “So this was another thread to pull,”

Hanabusa Ichirō appeared to have professionally received it and inscribed it as another term in his cold equation.

“It would be best to return the photograph to the drawer exactly as it was.”

Chigusa Jūjirō did not appear to be someone who could think about matters with such cold detachment. “Needless to say—and to ensure prying eyes don’t see it—I’ll safeguard this drawer key until Nanako-san returns unharmed—”

Hanabusa Ichirō put the small nickel key into his coat pocket and quietly left the bedroom. "By the way, about that demonic laughter—"

Upon returning to Nanako’s original room, Hanabusa Ichirō once again dropped heavily into the armchair and resumed their earlier conversation.

“Demonic laughter?” “That laughter heard overhead when Nanako-san was kidnapped—where do you think it resonated from?”

“It was overhead—probably right around this room. After all, it was an inhumanly terrifying laugh.” Chigusa Jūjirō recalled that laughter and felt a spine-chilling sensation creeping down his back.

“Undoubtedly a man’s laughter, I suppose.” “It was an ironic, arrogant, insolent, hollow, and terrifyingly tyrannical laugh—ah, ah—that laugh!” “What?” “That’s the voice.”

Chigusa Jūjirō strained his ears. At that very moment, from somewhere unknown, a terrifying laugh that shook the night air could be heard.

Hanabusa Ichirō stood up and leaned out from the window.

“Wah! Hahahaha! Hahaha!” Gradually swelling louder, growing ever stronger, the wave of laughter spreading across the night sky was—as Chigusa Jūjirō had described—arrogant, nihilistic, tragic, and mysteriously laced with tears. “The neighboring building—inside that window.”

Hanabusa Ichirō pointed to the concrete storehouse facing this window. It was a terrifyingly secure structure located barely ten meters from this window, but what lay inside was something no one could possibly know from the start.

Stage Two of the Revenge

Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō, who rushed out of the room, abruptly encountered the master, Kumagai Saburōbee, at the foot of the stairs. The composed arrogance he had maintained since nightfall was now cast aside along with the disappearance of his beloved daughter Nanako,

“That voice—Detective Hanabusa, that boisterous laughter—it must have been what took my daughter.” His words tumbled out incoherently, his composure utterly shattered. “Master, the boisterous laughter appears to be emanating from within the concrete storehouse outside your daughter’s room window.” “What exactly is stored inside that building?” “Inside the storehouse—Good God! There lie artworks into which I’ve poured half my lifetime—priceless treasures beyond calculation—”

Kumagai Saburōbee, his mouth flapping wordlessly while still in disheveled disarray, burst out through the inner entrance as if shoving aside the police officer stationed at guard duty. Needless to say, Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō followed suit, and the journalists who had remained—Hayasaka Isamu and five or six others—also clattered out noisily as though swept up in the momentum.

However, before the concrete storehouse stood two police officers, resolute and unwavering. When Kumagai Saburōbee had received the threatening letter that evening, he had inwardly panicked yet outwardly dismissed it with a laugh. However, the moment his daughter Nanako vanished from her locked second-floor room, the suppressed terror now agitated this stalwart industrialist’s nerves to their limits—and he recalled how he had requested the local police station’s inspector to strictly monitor the storehouse in the garden courtyard, believing it would be targeted second.

“What’s this—I’ve grown timid myself—I’d completely forgotten I’d even asked officers to stand guard! Ha! Ha! Hahaha!”

It was a ghastly, hollow, listless laugh. Saburōbee—who had amassed a colossal fortune in his lifetime and was hailed as the "flying general" of the business world—summoned his usual boldness and competitive spirit to mask his disarrayed state, likely forcing out this strained laugh. “Still, I’d like to inspect the storehouse. You do have the key, I presume?” Hanabusa Ichirō stared at the master’s convulsed face. “The key is with Secretary Honda—Hey, Honda! Isn’t Honda here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Honda Daisuke came rushing over. “Open the storehouse and show Mr. Hanabusa inside—there were no irregularities whatsoever when we had them retrieve the silverware for this afternoon’s banquet.” “Yes, I oversaw it myself. There should have been no abnormalities.” “After the earlier disturbance, officers kept watch, and there appears to be no tampering with the entrance locks.” Meanwhile, Secretary Honda removed the large patented lock, produced an antiquated iron key, and undid the double locks.

“As you can see—” Amidst several flashlight beams, Honda—who had stepped just inside—turned the switch of the light installed at the entrance, causing the storehouse interior to brighten as if midday and allowing a full view into its deepest recesses. “Ah! We’ve been had!”

The master Saburōbee finally noticed the abnormality inside. When he looked where he pointed, the massive vault door installed at the front stood wide open in a V-shape; shelves had been stripped bare, with calligraphic works, antique documents, bronze vessels, and every manner of ostentatious treasure scattered about in complete disarray. Kumagai Saburōbee froze utterly in place. Though admittedly containing both gems and dross, among this enormous collection of art and antiques—half acquired through speculative buying under pretexts like bullion reserves—there were not merely ten or twenty items of incalculable worth: treasures unobtainable through mere wealth, rarities transcending worldly measure.

Even at a cursory glance, the damage was staggering—seven or eight national treasures alone, and important cultural properties numbering in the dozens, too many to count. Had this been converted into cash, it could have funded the nation’s expenditures for several dozen days. “This is catastrophic! Detective Hanabusa—retrieve them at all costs! Losing those would be a national calamity! If you recover them safely, I’ll offer a million-yen reward!” Kumagai Saburōbee, true to his nature as a wealthy man, sought to resolve matters with money even in this situation.

“Oh, there’s something stuck to the back of the vault.”

Hanabusa Ichirō borrowed a flashlight from the police officer and illuminated the depths of the vault after its drawers had been pulled out. And there, on a sheet of typewriter paper, was a single page written in masterful fountain pen calligraphy, These are national treasures—they should not be privately owned by a single greedy individual. If you take the procedure to donate all artworks and antiques in this storehouse to a museum, entrusting them for use by scholars and researchers, I shall return every item I have taken away. If a month passes and you still cannot resolve to do so, the artworks I have taken into custody shall be taken abroad to contribute to the advancement of world culture. This I solemnly swear. Hôunji Gorô

When he finished reading, Kumagai Saburōbee, "Cruel—such an idiotic demand is impossible! The items in this vault make up half of Kumagai Saburōbee's fortune! Damn it all—what am I supposed to do?!" Saburōbee, driven by rage and despair, flushed his ugly face purple, stamped his feet furiously, and roared curses.

However, this was nothing more than the second stage of Hōunji Gorō's revenge. What means would guide the remaining four stages—all the way to the final "death"? Once again, Chigusa Jūjirō felt a spine-chilling terror.

Café “Shirene”

In a backstreet café of Ginza, "Shirene"—the cleanest establishment with homey brightness of that era—had its innermost room become the exclusive preserve of newspaper folks. No matter what hour one visited, two or three reporters could be found chatting in a carefree mood as if in an editorial department annex—some bringing work, others anticipating breaking news.

Journalists, as a breed, all possessed something of a wanderer’s disposition and a liberalist bent; even in what might be called the rather easygoing office of the editorial department, they felt stifled—so long as they had no immediate tasks weighing on their shoulders, they escaped to such places and passed the time in carefree camaraderie, putting aside their differences.

The ones who occasionally came there were lesser-known literary figures, utterly unfashionable calligraphers, and young detectives from the Metropolitan Police Department. It was a police axiom since the Meiji and Taisho eras to invariably infiltrate Special Higher Police (Tokkō) detectives wherever journalists gathered, and in this regard, Café "Shirene" truly served as a first-class information exchange hub.

Detective Hanabusa Ichirō did not possess the Tokkō mentality of deducing political trends from journalists' idle banter. Rather, as an intellectual among detectives, he maintained friendships with Tokyo's top reporters and visited this place between work assignments. Here, he indulged in refined pastimes utterly divorced from professional duty—discussing literature, art, and cinema; debating fine liquors; critiquing beauties; deriding trendy philosophy books; even tapping empty bottles to accompany his pleasantly resonant voice singing *Caro Mio Ben* or *Santa Lucia*.

“By the way, I don’t see Chigusa here today.” Hanabusa Ichirō grew somewhat sluggish and looked around in all directions. Cupping brandy in both palms, he was just tipsy enough to crave company. “Big brother’s on a business trip—making the rounds from Nagoya to Osaka. He should be back tomorrow or so—” Ashi no Isamu downed half his large beer mug, wiped the foam from his lips, and turned his chair toward us. He too seemed desperate for company, but his companion Toraoi Mitsuju had overdone his rounds and was now nodding off by the stove, pretending to row a boat.

“If he’s fooling around while making his rounds, his trip’ll probably get extended a day or two.”

Hanabusa Ichirō made a knowing remark. He spoke with the air of someone who fully grasped what journalists' so-called business trips truly entailed in those days. “Don’t be absurd—Chigusa Jūjirō is journalism’s celebrated Puritan.” Toraoi Mitsuju lifted his unkempt bearded face. Though he appeared to be nodding off, there remained something unshakable about him. After all, this Mitsuju—reputed as a master of extracting salary advances—had made the art of feigned slumber one of his weapons.

"A Puritan journalist—quite the rare breed in 1930 Japan." Toraoi Mitsuju raised his unkempt bearded face, though still feigning drowsiness by the stove. "Then again, you'll find men in this trade roasting their arses by stoves while swilling unseasonably cold beer."

Hanabusa Ichirō still clung to his brandy glass as if reluctant to let go, cradling it with near-tenderness. "This one?—I just can't quit it. Though I tried warming up a stout to drink—not half bad. Tastes like humoring some middle-aged dame's first crush." Ashi no Isamu downed the remaining beer in his mug in one go and exhaled a *hoo* that formed a misty rainbow. He seemed utterly unaware his expression had turned as charmless as the gargoyles clinging to Notre Dame's eaves.

"Have you ever tasted something so overpoweringly rich, Isamu?" “Don’t be absurd—it’s just a metaphor! I’ve made it a rule not to deal with middle-aged women or tailors on installment plans—they’re too damn persistent to handle.” "This is getting too vulgar. How about you look for more refined topics? Like... say, art or philosophy." This was Toraoi Mitsuju. “Wouldn’t you say things like the art of wheedling salary advances or sweet-talking lunch shops into extending credit count as forms of artistry?”

Ashi no Isamu, thoroughly lubricated, had his tongue completely loosened. "By the way, returning to our earlier topic—is Chigusa truly a paragon of virtue? For someone who's supposed to be Tokyo Post's Social Affairs Director..."

Hanabusa Ichirō was solely concerned about that. "He has a lover, you know. Hasn’t the Metropolitan Police’s investigation reached that far?"

“A lover?” “Don’t be surprised, Detective Hanabusa. Even if a young man has a lover, it’s not an incident worth putting on the Metropolitan Police’s blacklist.” Ashi no Isamu maintained a composed demeanor. “Chigusa isn’t young anymore. Still—who’s the woman? A geisha? A café girl?” “For God’s sake—weren’t you just saying Chigusa Jūjirō’s a gentleman, a man of character, the Puritan? How could his lover be some painted dame?” “Ah, cut it out Hayasaka—you’ve let that old-school detective mentality show.”

“Since the man himself says so, you can’t take offense, Detective Hanabusa—well then, for Big Brother’s honor, I suppose I must reveal the name of his divine lover—don’t be shocked now.”

“Surprised? You might as well call her Ono no Komachi or Juliet.” “Don’t look so put off—why hide it? Chigusa Jūjirō’s lover is none other than Miss Mihoko, sister of Ushioda Haruki from Kumagai Gōmei Company—a pure and lovely maiden straight from a Shimazaki Tōson poem.” “The one hospitalized with those injuries.” “As long as Big Brother was in Tokyo, he’d seize every gap between assignments to visit Banchō Hospital—thanks to that, Yūrakuchō florists would sometimes sell out their entire stock.”

“Cut the bullshit!”

Toraoi Mitsuji raised his head again. This man—like the wild boar of Fuji’s foothills that Nita Shiro Tadayoshi had slain—was unexpectedly an honest soul and an ardent admirer of star reporter Chigusa Jūjirō.

The once-boisterous guests from the neighboring room had departed like a receding flood, leaving Café Shirene—still early in the evening yet deliberately eschewing any musical accompaniment—in a silence as deep as midnight.

The Secret of a Maiden's Heart

“Isamu, you’re here? —I’d anticipated as much, but my—Detective Hanabusa’s with you too?”

Along with a gust of cold wind, the one who burst into the room from the corridor was none other than Tokyo Post's star reporter and Social Affairs Deputy Director—the much-discussed Chigusa Jūjirō. "Oh, and I'm here too—we were just talking about you, Big Brother."

Toraoi Mitsuju raised his head like a viper lifting its hood. "It must be slander anyway—when I circled north of the station earlier, I couldn't stop sneezing." "Count yourself lucky it's not a cold—here, have a drink. It'll cure that travel fatigue." Hayasaka Isamu clearly meant to force this intruder to drink beer. "If I may choose—I'd prefer hot sake." "Fine, let's get you a bottle—brandy's too quick to take effect anyway.—But speaking of earlier, all that talk wasn't idle chatter—we've urgent business with you and been searching everywhere."

Hanabusa Ichirō ordered hot sake from the waitress and seated Chigusa Jūjirō in the chair before him.

“Gives me the creeps, being tracked down by Detective Hanabusa—though I don’t recall being enough of a fugitive to warrant it.”

Chigusa Jūjirō threw his seemingly exhausted body onto a slightly wobbly chair. “No, I’d rather not hear too much of that innocent act from you.” “Huh?”

“It’s about the case of Kumagai Saburōbee’s missing heiress.” “It’s been two weeks since then—still no leads? Even in a city as vast as Tokyo, you can’t hide such a glaringly visible young lady forever.” “A censure of the Metropolitan Police?” “No, it’s not exactly like that.” “If you’d just cooperate, this should’ve been resolved much sooner—and that’s precisely why I don’t want you playing innocent.”

“Huh?” Chigusa Jūjirō was, for some reason, completely flustered. “Let me start from the beginning—Miss Mihoko, Ushioda Haruki’s sister who was injured in the very room where that young lady vanished, must know either the perpetrator’s face or identity.”

“Huh?!” Hanabusa Ichirō continued laying out his reasoning, disregarding the other’s expression entirely.

“Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō of Tokyo Post couldn’t possibly have failed to notice this much—Miss Mihoko’s words contradict reality at every turn. However much I sympathize, I can’t believe that pure maiden would tell such transparent lies through flower-like lips. Either she’s being coerced into saying things against her will, or she’s protecting someone with these evasive statements.” “That’s impossible!”

Chigusa Jūjirō grew vehement. “That’s not nonsense—there’s nothing more terrifying than a girl staking her life on a lie. Listen—Miss Mihoko claimed she was stabbed at the room’s entrance that night, yet her unconscious, blood-drenched body lay closer to the window.” “———” “The door was locked from the inside—the bolt clearly engaged from within. And Miss Mihoko insists the culprit abducted Nanako and fled through the window—but even if they were a young woman, could anyone escape that window while carrying a full-grown person?” “No footprints marked the garden snow. Though one might stretch a rope to the storehouse window three meters away—that’s a circus stunt. Hauling a young woman across? It defies human capability.”

“———” “Even if they crossed to the storehouse window, disposing of that stretched rope could only have been done by Mihoko-san remaining in the room.” “———” “Either Mihoko-san closed the door after the culprit boldly took Nanako-san out through the room’s entrance, or else—if not that—Mihoko-san removed the crossing rope after the culprit carried Nanako-san out through the window. A man of your stature, Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō of Tokyo Post, cannot have failed to notice this contradiction. So tell me—was I wrong to say you’re withholding cooperation?”

Detective Hanabusa Ichirō cast aside his avuncular facade and pressed Chigusa Jūjirō relentlessly. “———” Chigusa Jūjirō fell completely silent. He had not been unaware of such contradictions from the start, but lacking the courage to press the injured Mihoko for answers, he had no choice but to leave those doubts unresolved and watch events unfold as they would.

“But that’s not the only inconsistency.” “There should’ve been traces of blood on the inner window frame—just a small amount, but present nonetheless. And though there were no footprints in the garden, a double-edged dagger stood embedded in the thin snow—straight up, driven two or three inches into the ground. It could only have been thrown from above.” “Even so—can you still insist Mihoko-san knows nothing? My theory is this: Miss Nanako, daughter of Kumagai Saburōbee, wasn’t violently abducted by any criminal at all. She must’ve disguised herself and walked boldly out of that room among the guests before exiting through the main entrance.” “What do you say to that, Mr. Chigusa?”

“I do not know—regrettably, I don’t understand a single thing.”

“With this much evidence presented, I pressed Mihoko-san for answers—fortunately, she’s recovered over the past two or three days, and I obtained permission from the director that she’s now well enough.” “Isn’t that cruel?”

Chigusa Jūjirō indignantly shrugged his shoulders. “No, it isn’t cruel—this is merely the execution of a right granted to me, and for the sanctity of the law, Mihoko-san must be made to speak the truth.” “What did Mihoko-san say to that?”

"The problem is, she's clammed up and absolutely refuses to explain anything regarding that matter." "———"

Chigusa Jūjirō looked relieved for some reason. “But even if she clams up, we can’t just retreat with a ‘very well then.’” “I tried every method of questioning—as long as Mihoko-san’s health allowed, I spent three days exhausting all logic and persuasion.” “The result is that even Mihoko-san became deeply moved—though it pains her to speak—and for social justice’s sake, we’ve managed to get her to agree that tomorrow at ten o’clock, in your presence—that is, Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō’s—she’ll reveal everything she knows.”

“That’s a problem—I have no desire to coerce Mihoko-san in such a manner.” Chigusa Jūjirō hesitated deeply. “This isn’t coercion—for the sake of justice, Mihoko-san has volunteered to make a full confession before you. Naturally, you’ll come to the hospital by 10 AM tomorrow, I expect.”

“No.”

"No ifs or buts—I, Hanabusa Ichirō, am asking this in reliance on your friendship." With those words, Hanabusa Ichirō gave a slight bow. In his clownish demeanor lay a strange seriousness—one that made even Isamu the Legman from the spirit medium's troupe and Toraoi Mitsuju fall into a hushed mood.

Angel's Demonic Slumber

The next day around nine o’clock，Hanabusa Ichirō arrived at Chigusa Jūjirō’s apartment—where the latter remained deep in hesitation—in a Metropolitan Police Department car to fetch him. It was an arrangement that allowed no room for refusal. When they entered the Banchō district hospital where Mihoko was being treated for her injuries，inside there was an inexplicable restlessness—doctors and nurses alike were in a state of disarray，rushing about unsettled—but when they came before Mihoko’s hospital room as usual and tried to knock，they were met with a shock.

Inside the hospital room were two doctors, a nurse, and the head nurse, the door left wide open as they were in a state of utter disarray. "What’s going on? I’m with the Metropolitan Police Department—"

To avoid leaving everyone perplexed, Hanabusa Ichirō identified himself and stepped forward. Chigusa Jūjirō followed suit, needless to say. “The patient, Ms. Ushioda, has fallen into a coma.” The familiar nurse, recognizing them as police personnel, politely explained. “Coma?” “We ask that you refrain from disclosing this as it concerns the patient’s condition—but Ms. Ushioda has fallen into a deep coma, and we’re at a loss.”

Vice Director—though we would learn this later—one of the young, spirited doctors succinctly drove home the point.

“Depending on circumstances, we could keep this confidential—but might this be connected to a crime? As if she’d been made to swallow narcotics, so to speak.” Hanabusa Ichirō stepped forward. “There’s not the slightest trace of such a thing,” “No one could have brought in narcotics or sedatives—all food and drink are handled by the nurses.” “What about visitors?” “Her brother came by—when he left after a brief conversation, the patient cheerfully said, ‘Good day.’”

This was the nurse.

“After that, did the nurse ever leave the room unattended?” "Mornings are busy, you see." The attending nurse must have left the room time and time again to attend to her duties. “How is her condition?” Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō found themselves standing by the bedside before they realized it. Morning light poured through a windowpane into the hospital room—now almost oppressively bright—where flowers likely sent by well-wishers were arrayed in abundance. Before them lay a wilted bouquet left with reluctant finality, probably brought by Chigusa Jūjirō before his trip.

The crucial Mihoko lay helplessly on the bed as if crushed, emitting light snores. Her pallid, anemic face and deeply closed eyes—clearly indicating, even to an amateur’s eye, the effects of a powerful sedative—left the two doctors and nurse exhausting every means at their disposal, yet troublingly, there was no sign of her regaining consciousness. “Will she be all right? If…” Chigusa Jūjirō gulped audibly, holding his breath. That precisely because he had promised to disclose the secret to Hanabusa Ichirō at ten o’clock today with himself in attendance, a terrifyingly thorough villain had detected this and managed to sedate her by some means—there was no longer any room for doubt.

“I can’t say anything definitive yet—we’ll need to observe her a bit longer.”

While holding up the syringe, the Vice Director said curtly. It was a professional’s pride—an extreme aversion to amateur interference. “Mihoko-san must not die—no matter what happens—” There was no doubt this was an outpouring of passion from Chigusa Jūjirō as her lover, but upon seeing the Vice Director’s displeased pale glare, Hanabusa Ichirō began to withdraw—

“This person’s life is tied to resolving a horrific graft scandal—she was meant to disclose an extraordinary secret to me today at ten o’clock. What thwarted it was the deed of a devilishly shrewd, fearsome schemer.” “—” “Ah! Isn’t that an injection mark?”

On Mihoko’s pale arm—rolled up by the Vice Director—where alabaster skin shone almost too white, a solitary red mark dotted like a pinprick, Hanabusa Ichirō pointed. “I’m aware.” The Vice Director’s curtness—

Suspicious man “Let’s go, Chigusa. It’s useless to ask anything here.”

Perhaps even Hanabusa Ichirō could no longer withstand this intense professional resolve; taking Chigusa Jūjirō by the arm, he abandoned the hospital room. Needless to say, they stopped by the reception desk on their way out to inquire about today’s visitors, but as the hospital reception had no reason to remember each and every patient’s visitor, this was nearly a futile effort. “Will she be all right... Mihoko-san?”

“Given her robust constitution, there’s likely no cause for concern. If you’re worried, you can check again this afternoon—Hmm, what’s that?” “That’s her brother, Mr. Ushioda Haruki.”

In a great hurry, Ushioda Haruki leapt from the car and was dashing toward the hospital entrance when Chigusa Jūjirō intercepted him from the side.

“Mr. Ushioda.” “Mr. Chigusa?—They called the company saying something happened to my sister, so I rushed here.” Ushioda Haruki was terribly flustered. “Didn’t you visit her this morning?” “I sometimes stop by on my way to work—this morning I came around nine—was only there about ten minutes before leaving—” “Then look after her carefully. I’ll come check again this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” “Oh—by the way, when you came to visit Mihoko-san this morning, do you remember encountering anyone in the hallway?” Hanabusa Ichirō called out to stop Ushioda Haruki, who was already walking away briskly.

“Now that you mention it, I think I did encounter someone—whether he was an electric meter inspector or a gas company collector, I can’t say for certain—but I believe I came across a middle-aged man in the hallway carrying a briefcase and wearing a high-collared uniform.”

“Thank you. That was extremely important.” Hanabusa Ichirō politely thanked Ushioda Haruki and saw him off at the entrance, then signaled Chigusa Jūjirō with his eyes and circled around to the back of the hospital. When they questioned the kitchen staff, janitor, and night-duty clerk, it indeed aligned with Ushioda Haruki’s account—someone had come to inspect the electric meters as he’d stated. Beyond checking the kitchen meters, the man had examined switches in the second-floor hallway and jotted something down before leaving. His appearance matched that of a young, handsome man, though the timing was likely later than Haruki’s mentioned nine o’clock—possibly past nine-thirty—especially since this occurred after the Vice Director had arrived by car.

“Was that when the patient on the second floor—Mihoko-san—had fallen into a coma?” Hanabusa Ichirō’s questioning was thorough.

“When the electrician went up to the second floor, the entire floor was in an uproar.” The two janitors and kitchen aunt also corroborated this point.

"I told him to come back later for the meter inspection since we were in chaos, but the man pretended not to hear and hurried up to the second floor." Hearing this, there could be no shred of doubt. "This is a grave matter, Chigusa." A particular severity—the kind seen only in moments of tension—flashed across Hanabusa Ichirō’s face.

The Third Laughter

That night, a third attack occurred at the Banchō District mansion of Kumagai Saburōbee. Saburōbee had come to greatly enjoy taking quiet dinners with his young and beautiful wife Yukiko, and recently—perhaps because of this—his youthful debauchery had subsided; in one respect, he now made for a truly commendable husband. "What has become of those artworks?" When the meal ended, while sipping fragrant tea, Madam Yukiko spoke. “That’s absurd! Could I possibly hand over the artworks I’ve poured half my life’s efforts and half the Kumagai family’s wealth into collecting—simply donate them to some museum?”

Kumagai Saburōbee shook his head vigorously while dropping two or three sugar cubes in quick succession into his tea. "But isn't the deadline they imposed—to ship them overseas if we don't donate to the museum—now barely two weeks away?"

“No, registered National Treasures and Important Cultural Properties aren’t things that can be so easily taken abroad.” “But what if—” “No, I have a far greater treasure—you, my beautiful—” Kumagai Saburōbee pulled his chair closer with a lack of decorum befitting his age and took Madam Yukiko’s delicate hand. “Oh!” Even she—the thirty-two-year-old beautiful Madam—appeared awkward at having her hand taken by her sixty-year-old grotesque husband when her face faintly flushed at that very moment. Wah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

The demonic laughter pierced through—from the chilly sky it rattled the windowpanes, sardonic and arrogant, uncouth and utterly ruthless. “Damn it!” Kumagai Saburōbee left behind a vulgar curse and rushed out into the corridor. From the balcony connected to that corridor, demonic laughter seemed to echo. But outside lay a gloomy snow-threatened sky; in the garden-lamp-lit surroundings, there was nothing to obstruct the view.

“Impossible—!” Glaring a single threatening look into the darkness, Saburōbee returned to the dining room,

“Ah!” It was no wonder he was shocked—there was no trace of Madam Yukiko’s beautiful figure that should have remained there until now. On the chair where she had been seated, only a fragment of her skirt fluttered faintly despite the complete absence of wind.

(To be continued...)