Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Editorial Office at Night “Isamu, how about joining me for a drink? Miss Hikaru under the viaduct’s been holding a grudge—seems like Hayasaka-san hasn’t been around her place lately. Found yourself some new haunt, eh?” Tora Mitsuru—a veteran police beat reporter who’d chaired the Metropolitan Police press club for ten years—thrust his thinning-haired head sideways over the editorial assistant’s desk as he delivered this remark.

“This is no joke! The city edition’s about to start—telegrams are piling up, phones won’t stop ringing. The whole sorting department’s out at their New Year’s party, even the stenographer’s gone! Can’t handle this alone—give me a hand, Tora!” “So you’re the one who edited this? —Let’s just hope we don’t end up with some unhinged rag, eh Isamu?” “The craftsmanship’s in the details—when they see tomorrow morning’s paper, our competitors’ll be shocked outta their wits!” “I know the Sorting Department Chief’s out for their New Year’s party, but where the hell’s Chigusa, the Social Affairs Deputy Chief? Him vanishing before nightfall—that ain’t like him one bit.”

The absence of Social Affairs Deputy Chief Chigusa Jūjirō from the Tokyo Post’s editorial office that evening amounted to nothing less than an annual miracle. This depicted a scene from a newspaper editorial department during that era when papers could still print sixteen daily pages—an age before military tyranny dragged Japan into catastrophic war, when cutthroat competition for exclusive scoops still thrived. “Big Bro’s landed himself Tokyo’s grandest feast.” Hayasaka Isamu—who addressed Chigusa Jūjirō as “Big Bro”—was already nearing thirty, a diligent worker who’d earned the nickname “Legs Isamu” from his days of “gathering stories through sheer legwork.” Despite his youth, he now commanded respect in the Tokyo Post’s Social Affairs Department, occasionally directing junior correspondents in Chigusa’s stead and assisting with provincial editions when manpower ran short.

“That’s not something I can just ignore! What kinda publicity stunt is this?” “No way Big Bro’d lower himself to some half-baked grub! Tonight’s the birthday banquet for Kumagaya Saburōbee—the Great On of the Kumagaya zaibatsu, our big hometown honcho!” “That’d choke the life outta him.” “We’re reporters hardened enough to stare down ministers and generals by the dozen—but at that banquet, there’s just one person who gets Big Bro’s heart racing!”

Hayasaka Isamu threw down the pen he’d been using to organize manuscripts and found himself fully engaged in bantering with Tora Mitsuru before he knew it. Tora Mitsuru was indeed a heavy drinker quick to pick fights—a troublesome man through and through—but honest, perceptive, an ace at landing scoops, and as a journalist ranked among Tokyo’s most skilled practitioners of the craft. Among seasoned journalists there often existed such colorful characters. A nihilistic yet far from indolent sort—seemingly impossible to pin down yet paradoxically pure-hearted and fiercely just—the type who’d laugh through any hardship to expose wrongdoing.

The reason why our Hayasaka Isamu—nicknamed "Legs Isamu"—and Tora Mitsuru got along so well might have lain in their shared traits: both being equally poor, somewhat heavy drinkers, terrifyingly strong in their sense of justice, and utterly devoid of financial acumen. Had one inquired with the accounting department's female staff members, one would have discovered this astonishing fact—the two men ranked as Tokyo Post's grand champions of salary advances, such that were their accounts properly balanced, they wouldn't have received a single yen in monthly salary for about a year to come.

“So this person who gets Chigusa Jūjirō all worked up—what actress are we talking about here?” Tora Mitsuru, having apparently drunk his fill under the viaduct, raised glazed eyes. His seven-button suit’s collar curled like a Kanda street urchin’s cowlick, while his face—with its scraggly, unkempt beard—had paradoxically taken on a severity worthy of a philosopher. “An actress? Don’t be absurd—Big Bro’s the Puritan of journalists! The one winding him up is this stunner named Mihoko—younger sister of Shiota Haruki, a clerk at Kumagaya Consolidated.”

“Huh, she’s too ordinary—no charm at all.” “You’ve never laid eyes on Miss Mihoko, spouting such cursed nonsense—” “Cursed nonsense, you say?” “A face completely free of makeup—such a pure, beautiful maiden—I couldn’t have imagined her if I tried.” “Hmph—‘maiden,’ eh? Old-fashioned touch I like.” “There’s no better Japanese word for it.” “Damn—so that maiden’s Chigusa’s fiancée too?”

“It’s just an understanding between them. If it were me, I’d charge headfirst and get crushed—but Big Bro’s a gentleman through and through. He doesn’t stoop to underhanded tricks like sweet-talking women.”

“Lowly tricks, huh? Not bad.” “I try those lowly tricks every now and then myself, but my success rate’s about 0.3 percent—that’s why I’m still single.” “Good grief, Mitsuru! Why don’t you hurry up and get yourself a wife or start focusing on postal savings?” “Unfortunately, there’s no one. I’ve long since exhausted all love and hate with Miss Hikaru under the viaduct, and I even tried making small advances on the receptionist at headquarters…” “You’re such a fool—the household has strict rules against impropriety. If you do anything strange within the company, they’ll fire you without mercy.”

“Don’t worry—I’m not paying any attention to the receptionist. Because the accounting lady goes around spouting nonsense, I’m treated like some yakuza thug throughout the entire Tokyo Post.” Their banter continued without end. In the back, a gas stove blazed fiercely, and from the neighboring proofreading department came the forlorn echo of a sort of melody—manuscripts and proofs being read in unison.

The early evening editorial office was unexpectedly quiet. By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, it would become bustling again with field reporters returning for the city edition, but the editing of the mid-sized local editions was, as expected, leisurely enough that even Hayasaka Isamu’s makeshift meal managed just fine.

“Mr. Hayasaka.” “We’re releasing the sixth edition now.” A boy blackened with ink from the factory brought wet galley proofs and spread them out on Hayasaka Isamu’s desk. “Ah, sure—go ahead and release it. Big Bro and the editorial team should be back soon anyway, so I’ll be off duty before long. Maybe I’ll finally go see Hikaru-chan’s face.” Tora Mitsuru left Hayasaka Isamu’s desk and let out a big yawn.

From around that time, diplomatic reporters began bringing their respective materials and were diligently writing manuscripts at their own desks. Exactly at 8:30, the telephone bell on Hayasaka Isamu’s desk rang out vigorously. “Hey, Isamu, phone for you!” “Alright, got it. Must be some city informant.” “Sorry, Mitsuru, pass me that pencil— Hello? This is the Tokyo Post... Hello? Uh, this is Hayasaka— Who’s this? Huh?” “Chigusa?” “Was that you, Big Bro? That was careless. Hurry back here—I’m no good at editing. What?” “A major incident?” “Where? Banchō, the Nōdani residence— You’re telling me to come right now? Alright, I’ll go! Chasing incidents isn’t your style, Big Bro— I’ll leave this place to Mitsuru. Someone’ll come back soon anyway— It’s fine.”

Hayasaka Isamu hung up the phone with a clatter. "Hey, hey, Isamu—you're not thinking of making me handle the editing, are you?"

Mitsuru thrust out his red nose. "Sorry 'bout this, but keep things rollin' for a bit. The chief editor oughta be back soon—won't leave ya high 'n dry." "Dammit, I ain't had enough to drink yet." "Grab one 'n nurse it while workin'—I'll get Hikaru-chan under the viaduct to send over some grub before I head out, 'kay Mitsuru?" Hayasaka Isamu slung his coat over his shoulder and snatched his fancy hunting cap from the nail above his head. "What in hell's kickin' off here?"

“This is Big Bro’s big moment—if things go well, this’ll be a massive exclusive. I’m countin’ on ya, Mitsuru!”

Hayasaka Isamu dashed out into the wind-swept street like a bullet.

Aftermath of the Banquet

The story goes back a little.

Kumagaya Saburōbee, president of Kumagaya Gōmei Company, was hosting an extremely luxurious—yet small-scale—banquet at his Banchō residence that night to celebrate his fifty-eighth birthday.

It was a certain winter night in the early Shōwa era. The dining hall had been opened just before seven o'clock; though the numerous elaborately crafted diversions were not without interest, their prolonging of the meal hour left the thirty-odd guests thoroughly frayed—a reaction that could hardly be called unreasonable. These same guests—who had already marveled at the mansion's immensity where Persian carpets glowed crimson under extravagantly lit chandeliers, and at the rows of modern French masterpieces lining the walls—now found themselves overwhelmed anew by endless processions of silverware, floral arrangements, and sumptuous cuisine of the highest order. Once more, their astonishment proved entirely warranted.

At the head sat the master of the house, Kumagaya Saburōbee, and his wife Yukiko, composed and dignified in morning coats and crested formal attire, around whom thirty handpicked guests were arrayed in orderly fashion at a U-shaped table. Saburōbee was a red-faced, corpulent bourgeois type, while his wife Yukiko—decidedly younger at thirty-two—had a slender, pale face with a pearl-like depth of tone, long narrow eyes, a slightly high nose, and truly extraordinary beauty.

Their daughter Nanako was twenty-two—she was the keepsake of his ex-wife and appeared no different than a sister to her stepmother Yukiko. With a reserved yet refined countenance, even if there were malicious whispers of her being somewhat imperious, she was first and foremost an impeccable young lady.

Her pink evening dress with a vermilion band, her waved hair outlined like a prism—there was nothing that could compare to her beauty. Among the guests mingled dignitaries like Minister So-and-so, President Such-and-such, Chairman Someone-or-other, and a certain count from an old aristocratic family, but the majority consisted of Kumagaya Gōmei executives and master Saburōbee's old friends—officially making this an intimate gathering, though in truth Saburōbee had likely assembled these close associates precisely to flaunt his rise and success before those who would genuinely rejoice in, envy, or covet it from their hearts.

Among them, what made this gathering truly distinctive was both the inclusion of Shiota Haruki—a young employee of the general partnership company—along with his sister Mihoko, a rare beauty who was young lady Nanako’s musical companion, and the participation of Chigusa Jūjirō, the Tokyo Post’s Social Affairs Deputy Chief and a skilled young journalist. To put it plainly, Shiota Haruki was a fellow townsman of master Kumagaya Saburōbee; his sister Mihoko was a friend young lady Nanako had invited; and Chigusa Jūjirō also shared a hometown connection. The reason master Saburōbee had specifically invited them was that he harbored an ulterior motive: hoping that, if possible, they would write about his lavishness in the newspaper.

The feast had run its course, the champagne for the toast was poured, and hot coffee was served. Kumagaya Saburōbee, the master of the house, rose from his seat to applause and cleared his throat—

“Now then, everyone—though you are all occupied with pressing matters this evening—I am truly at a loss for words to express my gratitude that you have graced me with your presence in such numbers.” “Thanks to your gracious support, I, Kumagaya Saburōbee—despite my unworthy and untalented self—have attained my standing in the financial world today and, in the health you now behold, have been able to celebrate my 58th birthday. This is wholly due to your patronage and encouragement, for which I express my deepest gratitude.” It was indeed a perfunctory greeting, yet in both the demeanor and tone of Kumagaya Saburōbee—who had amassed a colossal fortune within his lifetime and built a zaibatsu second only to Mitsui and Mitsubishi—swelled the arrogance of the sated and a self-absorption so profound it seemed to deny others their very humanity.

Then, continuing on, as he reflected on his past, shared a series of hardships, gave a brief report on his current enterprises, and stated his ambitions for the future, the applause of sixty guests—fueled by shameless flattery and alcohol's excitement—echoed through the dining hall.

It was exactly at that moment. One of the formally attired waiters timidly brought over a beautiful letter decorated with flowers, placed on a silver tray. “My deepest apologies, but the messenger has brought this.” “As this concerns a matter of utmost urgency that cannot be delayed for anything, they insisted it be presented to your esteemed self immediately—for if time were wasted, they would surely face severe reprimand afterward—”

[The waiter] quietly slid it beside the master's seat. "What's this—just a congratulatory letter. No harm in reading it later—" Yet perhaps swayed by the waiter's grave manner, Saburōbee took the letter, sliced it open with a fruit knife at hand, and skimmed through it with an air of mild annoyance. Instantly, Saburōbee's face turned ashen as if painted with a single brushstroke, losing its usual robust color. "What's wrong?"

The young wife peeked from beside him,

“No, it’s nothing—the heater’s just a bit too hot.” With those words, he hurriedly stuffed the letter into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow. During this time, the guests’ speeches began—a certain professor notorious for long-winded orations and a certain congressman known for never withholding his opinion—as nauseating flatteries and elaborate congratulatory phrases were offered to master Kumagaya Saburōbee. Yet Saburōbee himself seemed in no state to receive them; letting the guests’ eulogies go in one ear and out the other, he called his secretary Honda Daisuke and issued a flurry of urgent instructions. He had his daughter Nanako and her friend Mihoko withdraw to a separate room, hastily concluded the banquet, and led everyone back to the main hall.

The thirty guests, freed from the cramped dining hall—men and women, or rather gentlemen and ladies intermingling—were making lively conversation blossom amidst the hazy tobacco smoke.

However, from around this time, tension began to mount both inside and outside the mansion, and an uneasy air permeated every corner of the Kumagaya residence—yet the thirty guests, intoxicated with revelry, had no means of knowing this.

The Cursed Letter Chigusa Jūjirō, Social Affairs Deputy Chief of the Tokyo Post—thoroughly sickened by the alcohol, hollow flattery, boisterous laughter, and contest of lies—had been attempting to withdraw from the crowd and leave the dining hall last when his eye caught a white object fallen beneath the host’s chair. Absentmindedly, he picked it up.

It was unmistakably the very letter that master Kumagaya Saburōbee had received just moments ago. The moment he read this letter, the master’s complexion changed abruptly—then forgetting even the decorum befitting a host to such distinguished guests—he became utterly flustered. This was what Chigusa Jūjirō now recalled.

The letter should have been immediately handed over to the master. But the journalist's instinct became captivated by a portion of letter paper protruding from that magnificent ivory envelope, where the character for "death" was visible in large leftward-stroked script through the paper. Though he was indeed a senior from the same hometown, toward master Kumagaya Saburōbee—who acknowledged Chigusa Jūjirō’s existence solely for his own profit and publicity—it was only natural that he harbored no goodwill whatsoever. Thus, when he felt an uncanny allure in the words concealed within this picked-up letter, his succumbing to the temptation to peek inside was unavoidable.

Chigusa Jūjirō pressed the letter into his pocket and stepped into the corridor. However, with what appeared to be plainclothes officers and burly retainers from Kumagaya Gōmei's household—each hiding weapons while maintaining an air of feigned indifference—he found it impossible to even consider retrieving the letter from his pocket.

Suddenly struck by an idea, Chigusa Jūjirō retreated into the washroom. He recalled how ten years earlier when receiving his first newspaper salary, he had carried the pay envelope into the restroom and opened it with trembling hands, desperate to learn how they valued his work—and now an involuntary smile softened his cheeks, heedless of his surroundings. What he extracted from the envelope were two sheets of heavy letter paper inscribed in masterful fountain pen strokes—each character painstakingly rendered in square script—that read as follows.

To Kumagaya Saburōbee: We send this in celebration of thy 58th birthday. Death This is a gift given with heartfelt intent—but mere death would be far too careless and meager to requite the evil deeds thou hast amassed over fifty-eight years. Therefore: Daughter, art objects, house, entire fortune, wife—and finally life.

We have determined to carry this out in the following sequence. We stand fully prepared; though thou shouldst marshal all thy financial power, efforts, and intellect, not by the slightest measure shalt thou hinder our designs. Thou wouldst do well to humbly await thy fate.

The aforementioned executor: Hōunji Saburō Thou mayest not recall the name Hōunji Saburō. But it would be well for thee to recall the names of the countless victims who—for thy sake—were deprived of their daughters, deprived of their wives, deprived of their homes, deprived of their wealth, deprived of their honor, and deprived of their lives. Among them dwells this Hōunji Saburō. Nay—representing all those victims, this Hōunji Saburō has risen as the executor of death sentences. The message had abruptly cut off, but precisely because of that, its menace was all the more intense—and even Chigusa Jūjirō found himself feeling an icy sensation race down his spine.

Threatening letters like this were common enough—cases where those who had led somewhat unscrupulous lives often received them were something journalist Chigusa Jūjirō knew all too well. However, those were typically idiotic threats scrawled in crude ink on coarse paper—either the work of lunatics or assuredly delinquent pranks—but this letter was terrifyingly meticulous, possessing a piercing 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 first-class stationery shops, and when Kumagaya Saburōbee received it, it must have been adorned with floral decorations. The envelope’s inscription was written with high-quality Chinese ink; the handwriting suggested not a calligrapher’s style but rather an intellectual one unbound by archaic conventions; as for the content itself, this was decidedly not the work of a madman or delinquent youths.

Moreover, Kumagaya Saburōbee—who should have grown thoroughly accustomed to threatening letters and extortion notes—had turned ashen the instant he glimpsed this letter; thereafter exhibited sudden violent swings between gloom and frenzy that defied normality, suggesting something swarmed through his mind—something he could recall.

From the corridor before the washroom, pressing his forehead against the glass window to look outside, he found the New Year's night sky pitch-black—a snow-laden darkness where not a single star could be seen.

“Chigusa-kun.” Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

When he turned around, it was Shiota Haruki—an employee of Kumagaya Gōmei, brother of the beautiful Mihoko, and Chigusa's old classmate. Though their work differed with little daily interaction between them, merely hearing his name sufficed to warm Chigusa's heart.

Both were thirty-five, both unmarried, both liberal arts graduates—yet where Chigusa Jūjirō was sanguine and dashing in type, Shiota Haruki was a handsome man who closely resembled his sister, with a pale complexion and nervous disposition. In contrast to Chigusa Jūjirō, who leapt from school into the newspaper company and established a considerable position over ten years, Shiota Haruki had drifted between two or three companies before finally entering Kumagaya Gōmei through hometown connections—a pitiable situation that left him still languishing as a lower-level employee.

“Shiota-kun—I knew you were here, but our seats were too far apart to speak.” “It seems you stepped away from your seat for a moment earlier—”

“I felt unwell and went out to the veranda—but tell me, what does your journalist’s sixth sense make of this?”

“?”

“Don’t you think there’s something unnervingly odd about this supposedly festive Kumagaya household? When I look from the veranda, it feels like some invisible, sinister force is steadily encircling this mansion.”

Nervous-looking Shiota Haruki—his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets—visibly shuddered.

“I’ve been sensing that too—but surely you’re not the type to get rattled by just that. Haven’t you noticed anything else?” Chigusa Jūjirō, true to his role as a journalist, was skillfully attempting to draw something out from his counterpart’s utterances. “Well, nothing—just that. As you know, I’m timid to begin with, and a believer in spiritualism.” “An abacus jockey believing in spiritualism is an odd combination, isn’t it?”

“Lodge and Lombroso of previous scholarship were scientists too—there’s no issue with a company man believing in spiritual communication.” “Don’t take offense—if ‘abacus jockey’ grates, I’ll call you ‘cultured man’ or ‘businessman’ instead—but unpleasant events are indeed unfolding here. You ought to take Mihoko-san home immediately.” “Thank you—I mean to do just that. But Nanako-san won’t readily release my sister, and we junior staff can’t possibly depart before the dignitaries.”

“Salaried workers must have such reservations,” he said. “But journalists have it easy in that regard—when an event’s atmosphere turns dull, we can use article deadlines as an excuse to make a quick exit from anywhere. In fact, I’m about to leave tonight too—listening to those old-fashioned politicians and businessmen with their gesture-heavy, self-aggrandizing roundtables is, to be blunt, enough to make one sick.” “How enviable. I wish I could attain a status allowing such free conduct.”

“Well then, let’s meet again in a couple of days.”

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

The Young Lady's Disappearance

It was when Chigusa Jūjirō received his coat and took a step outside the entrance.

Wah-ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

—And then a terrifyingly loud laugh echoed from nowhere. It was an ironic, dismal voice that mocked its hearers—yet carried within it a cruel, violent, and even nihilistic resonance. The impossibly vast laughter welled up from near the third floor and cascaded without restraint upon the heads of thirty-odd guests still lingering in revelry's aftermath. "There is something amiss with the young lady's room!"

A young maid came tumbling down from the third floor. Okoma was a twenty-two- or twenty-three-year-old girl who was Nanako’s favorite and seemed intelligent.

“There!” The plainclothes officers and household retainers who had been waiting in the corners of the corridor, under the stairs, and behind doors—five or six men in total—instantly rushed to the door of Nanako’s room on the third floor. The door was securely locked from the inside; pushing and pulling proved futile.

“Inside were the young lady and Miss Mihoko.” “As she’d requested hot tea, I brewed the Mocha she favored and came to bring it—not only was the door locked tight and wouldn’t open, but I could hear moaning inside too!”

While ignoring the maid Okoma’s words, five or six burly men threw their bodies against the door in unison. Even that formidable door, shattered like a rice cracker, gave way before the avalanche of men pouring in— “Lights! Lights!” The interior was pitch black; someone flipped the switch, but with only a click—neither the decorative ceiling lights nor the elegant floor lamps lit up.

Before long, one of the maids rushed in with a flashlight.

“Ah!” Inside was spattered blood—a young woman lay unconscious upon a crimson carpet.

“It’s Mihoko-san.” “What about the young lady?”

As if brushing aside Okoma who was approaching, the one who emerged from behind was Mihoko’s brother, Shiota Haruki. “Mihoko! Mihoko! Stay with me! What happened? What’s this?” Cradling the injured body, Haruki was somewhat distraught. “Nanako—Nanako isn’t here!”

With a desperate cry, the master Kumagaya Saburōbee came rushing in. Following close behind were the young wife Yukiko and a throng of guests who overflowed onto the staircase landing, left utterly astounded by this unforeseen calamity.

“Get a doctor, quick!”

When someone shouted, one of the house clerks dashed to the telephone room. "Mihoko, stay with me! The wound is shallow!" Mihoko's lapis lazuli evening gown—cradled in her brother's arms—was stained with blood as though a crimson peony had been struck against her chest, but fortunately the wound appeared shallow; after some time, she finally regained her senses enough to speak. "Brother, I'm scared." Mihoko, who clung desperately to her brother, was already a blooming nineteen-year-old but had lost her parents early and been raised by him as if he were her father.

“Nanako? Where’s Nanako?” Peering in at this, Kumagaya Saburōbee trembled uncontrollably, foolishly for his years. “Over there.” Mihoko raised her upper body and pointed toward the window. The window was been left wide open; it was likely that the villain had fled from there with Nanako.

Kumagaya Saburōbee and a few men rushed to the window and looked out, but outside was pitch black, and with the unfortunate timing of light snow beginning to fall gently, there was no sign of the villain anywhere. Moreover, the building featured old-fashioned Meiji-era brick construction, meaning that if someone had abducted the beauty Nanako from there, jumping down would be unthinkable—unless Nanako had consented, they would have had to either kill her or render her unconscious before carrying her down via a ladder, or else prepare a sturdy rope ladder.

"The area below here is exactly the dining room." Having returned from the entranceway, Chigusa Jūjirō—though concerned about Mihoko—deemed it improper to behave intrusively. He phoned the newspaper office to summon Hayasaka Isamu, then returned once more to the scene where he promptly began exercising his natural detective’s eye. For Banchō’s mansion district, the area was surprisingly densely built-up. About five or six ken away from the small window on Nanako’s western room stood a concrete storehouse blocking the way—unreachable without wings—while beneath the window itself lay two or three layers of iron spikes planted to prevent any human approach from above or below.

This would mean the culprit stabbed Mihoko when she interfered, then escaped through the large south-facing window while carrying the unconscious Nanako. However, in the dining room below, at least half of thirty people—around fifteen—would have been facing outward, with lights as bright as noon illuminating the entire garden. There was no way to deceive those thirty pairs of eyes—sneaking in or escaping undetected would have been impossible. Since the room’s door was locked from the inside with the key still inserted in the keyhole, unless the culprit escaped through the window, they would have had to vanish like smoke within the room alongside Nanako.

Before long, a nearby doctor rushed over. The injured Mihoko was moved to an adjacent small room where she received emergency treatment, while Kumagaya Saburōbee, thirty guests, and household retainers could only mill about in agitation.

The Maiden's Wish

“How is Miss Mihoko?” Chigusa Jūjirō intercepted Shiota Haruki in the corridor as he emerged from the small room. “Thank you. It doesn’t seem to be serious. Her heart’s unharmed—the blade must’ve slipped, so it didn’t reach her lungs either. She got so startled she nearly fainted, and now she’s terribly embarrassed about it—” “Then it should be fine.” “By the way, my sister’s desperate to see you. You’ll meet her, won’t you?”

“That’s fine—but is her condition appropriate for me to visit?”

For Chigusa Jūjirō, this seemed rather pleasing. "The doctor says it should be fine—the initial treatment has already been administered." "Then I'll go pay my respects." The two men entered the small room. Apparently meant for guests, it contained one neatly made bed with a chair and small table arranged comfortably. On the bed lay Mihoko—fresh from receiving treatment—her eyes wide with a startled yet somehow lonely expression as she greeted her brother and his friend Chigusa Jūjirō.

The nurse who had been attending her discreetly withdrew from her seat.

“Miss Mihoko, how are you feeling? What an 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 slightly elevated, aristocratic elegance of the missing young lady Nanako, Mihoko’s beauty was commoner-like and even pure. Rather than beauty, it would be more apt to say it was a loveliness aided by intelligence. Imagine a petite, plump girl with a beautiful smile, hazy eyebrows, and a snaggletooth—a clever yet pure-hearted young lady of that sort. That was precisely the portrait of Mihoko at nineteen.

“Mr. Chigusa.” ——

Mihoko called out again. Her face overflowed with seriousness, giving Jūjirō a certain heartrending impression, like that of a schoolgirl facing an examination hall.

“Please—I beg you—don’t dig deeper into this case.” “This case?” “The case of Miss Nanako’s kidnapping—yes, there’s something terrifying about this case. I beg you.” The injured Mihoko spoke pleadingly while being mindful of her brother. In those large eyes，tears pooled—

“A blade was found in the garden!”

Someone was shouting loudly from below. And from the entrance, “Where’s Aniki? It’s Chigusa Jūjirō from the Tokyo Post!” Hayasaka Isamu’s unceremoniously clamoring voice could also be heard.

Double-Edged Sword “Is Aniki here?” Amidst this commotion, what came rushing into the Kumagaya residence’s entrance was the eager voice of Hayasaka Isamu—a Tokyo Post veteran nicknamed “Legs Isamu” for gathering scoops through relentless legwork. “Who might you be—if I may ask for your business card—” Secretary Honda Daisuke, without making a grand gesture, took this as his decisive moment and stationed himself as a barrier at the entrance.

“My apologies—I’m Hayasaka Isamu from the Tokyo Post. Here’s my card.”

Isamu searched through his jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly soiled, company-issued business card. “If you are with the press, we would ask that you return tomorrow. At the moment, we are otherwise engaged.”

Secretary Honda pushed the business card back without so much as glancing at it.

“I came to hear about this urgent matter. Has something happened to the young lady?” “You’ve already heard about that?” “Newspapers have sharp ears. Anyway, Chigusa Jūjirō from my paper should be here—let me see him.” “Well, regarding that...” “Your job’s just to relay messages.” Hayasaka Isamu was battle-tested from endless skirmishes, thoroughly accustomed to denied meetings and feigned absences. Ordinarily timid and amiable, Hayasaka transformed when work demanded—steel reinforcing his core until he became an unyielding combatant no lever could dislodge.

However, illuminated by the flood of decorative lights filling the grand entrance of the Kumagaya residence, with his back against the large oak door and standing upon the marble mosaic floor, Legs Isamu’s appearance was also remarkably striking. His long hair disheveled like Beethoven’s, wearing a dark red overcoat with a Bohemian collar and rubber boots—such an outfit was hardly the sort to crash a soirée of gentlemen and ladies adorned in morning coats and evening dresses. “But if I don’t ascertain your business—”

Honda Daisuke was still pinching the soiled business card between two fingers, fidgeting uneasily. He had long hair combed back in a pompadour style, a narrow face seemingly smeared with something that left it gleaming, a red-striped tie, a well-tailored morning coat—though he was likely nearing forty, he was the very model of a secretary who wouldn’t let five minutes slip by. “A journalist came to the scene of a case—it’s not like I’ve got any business here, pal.” Isamu grew slightly miffed.

“In that case, I’m afraid I cannot relay your request.” “That’s absurd!”

However, this confrontation did not last long.

“Isamu! Perfect timing—there’s something I want you to appraise. Come over here—it’s a sword. You’re an expert on these things, right?” From atop the grand staircase, Chigusa Jūjirō showed his face and threw a lifeline.

“Thanks.—That’s my territory. No use hiding it—Hon’ami’s Isamu is yours truly!”

Isamu, still wearing his overcoat and clutching his hat in an eagle-like grip, bounded up the grand staircase two steps at a time and charged toward Chigusa on the second floor. Even the stubborn gatekeeper Honda Daisuke could do nothing against such a force.

In the second-floor hall, centered around Inspector Hanabusa Ichirō of the Metropolitan Police Department—who had just arrived at that very moment—the first investigative meeting was being held. The famed detective Hanabusa Ichirō should have already passed forty at this point, but at first glance he appeared nearly as youthful as Chigusa Jūjirō or Legs Isamu. Except for his keen eyes, crisp speech, and witty repartee, he was an utterly ordinary middle-aged gentleman—or rather, nothing more than an ordinary salaryman.

He had dropped out of university, worked his way up from a beat cop, and long held the title of police sergeant, but had only recently been specially appointed as an inspector through exceptional recruitment. It was truly a slow climb up the ranks. He himself, however, found detective work irresistibly fascinating. While his classmates aimed to become executives or even ministers, he remained wholly immersed in this path, contentedly occupying what some called the Metropolitan Police Department’s prized position. “Oh, Hayasaka. Are you truly versed in appraising swords?”

Hanabusa Ichirō raised a suspicious face. In his hand was gripped a Western-style double-edged sword, still stained with blood. “I can at least tell the difference between a paper knife and a kitchen knife—”

Hayasaka Isamu entered the room with an unceremonious attitude. “Ha ha, ha—that’s fine. Chigusa-kun got me good and proper, did he?” Hanabusa Ichirō laughed in amusement. At that time, police and journalists were by no means on good terms, and it was standard investigative practice to keep reporters away from crime scenes. However, in this case, Chigusa Jūjirō—Social Affairs Deputy Chief of the Tokyo Post—had been present at the Kumagaya residence as one of the guests. Not only did this allow him to know every detail of the incident from start to finish, making him the most crucial witness, but by some fortunate twist, Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō had become close friends over a decade earlier after meeting at a Ginza bar. They now collaborated unreservedly in their professional capacities.

“Well, if it’s about appraising that double-edged sword, even I can handle that.” “?”

Legs Isamu’s preposterous words seized Hanabusa Ichirō’s attention. “I stole a quick sideways glance—that thing was yanked straight from the waist of some Western suit of armor planted at the downstairs hall’s entrance.” “What?”

The two uniformed officers, signaled by Hanabusa Ichirō with a glance, rushed off. But they soon returned and, “What that person said is correct—there’s a Western suit of armor displayed at the entrance to the hall.” “There’s 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 seems.”

Thus they reported.

“When we came in earlier, we didn’t see anything like that—” “It appears it had been hidden by a screen.” “Now that we’ve removed the screen, the suit of armor in the hallway corner is visible.” “Then—”

Hanabusa Ichirō bit his lip.

“The culprit didn’t come from outside—they’re from inside the house. If someone were coming from the dining hall or main hall, the suit of armor behind the screen would’ve caught their eye immediately.”

Chigusa Jūjirō interjected. “By the way, you said this dagger was found in the garden—who found it?” “A house clerk named Takayama Noboru.” “We’ll bring him here.”

One of the officers soon returned with an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old house clerk. Dressed in an old-fashioned tube-sleeved kimono and ogura-weave hakama trousers—seemingly out of place—the youth appeared to shrink into himself. “Where did you find this?” Hanabusa Ichirō displayed the bloodstained double-edged sword. “In front of the dining hall—around when the light snow began falling—that sword was stuck upright in the lawn.”

“Stuck upright—with the handle up?”

“Uh—the tip was driven straight two or three inches into the ground.” “You found something like that in the night garden?”

Hanabusa Ichirō's suspicion was everyone's suspicion. To find a blade thrust upright into the earth in the garden where light snow had begun to fall, amidst all that commotion, was anything but ordinary.

“When I heard the young lady was kidnapped from the second floor—the tightly shut second floor—I went out into the garden and decided to check it. Whether the culprit could carry the young mistress down from there.” “Hmm, you have a knack for noticing peculiar things.” “I love detective novels—so if something happened, I had thought I’d try to investigate it myself.”

The young man Takayama Noboru, having been praised by Hanabusa Ichirō, was completely elated.

Mihoko began to recount.

Most of over thirty guests that night had left before Young Lady Nanako was kidnapped．Those who had remained behind－except for Shiota Haruki－were all sent home despite having stayed initially．At same time－though where they had caught wind－a swarm of twenty or thirty journalists came flooding through garden gates into mansion．They even captured Kumagaya Saburōbee－master－and wife Yukiko－both crushed－in camera flashes．Secretary Honda Daisuke and clerk Takayama Noboru strained against tide－but newsmen’s assault proved unstoppable．In chaos－Hanabusa Ichirō barely escaped－dragging jurisdictional inspector and Chigusa Jūjirō－into room where wounded Mihoko lay．

“Would it be all right if we talked for a bit?”

Hanabusa Ichirō whispered softly to the nurse beside the bed. “Given how severe her injuries are, the doctor said it would be better to wait two or three days before any questioning—” The middle-aged nurse—appearing seasoned—wore an expression of reluctant compliance. It was a compact yet orderly large room where cream-colored wallpaper and fresh bedding somehow created an air of crispness. “No—I can speak for a little while,” Mihoko interjected. “You must need to investigate quickly.”

Mihoko widened her eyes sharply. From the chair on the opposite side, Shiota Haruki stood up as if to speak, concerned about his sister’s condition, but Mihoko pressed on, looking as though she had something she desperately wanted to say. “Then, please tell me just a little about the circumstances before and after—because it’s something I want to know as soon as possible.” “Yes.” “First of all—when you and Miss Nanako returned to that room together, did anyone follow you from behind?”

"The maid Okoma-san came a little ways behind us. Since Nanako-san had ordered tea for that purpose, the maid immediately turned back from the room's entrance and went down the stairs." Mihoko's account was surprisingly clear and articulate. Her face, once pale from blood loss, flushed with tension and regained a rosy hue—an unbearably adorable sight. "And inside the room?" "Nanako-san went in first and turned the switch, but the light didn't come on. So I followed her inside and was groping my way closer when—suddenly—someone leaped out from the pitch darkness—"

“—”

As if recalling the terror of that moment, Mihoko fell silent for a time and caught her breath.

“—I felt a terrible pain in my chest and staggered down.” “Everything went dark.” “Could you see the attacker’s face?”

“It was pitch dark.” “And yet, in that pitch darkness, you somehow realized the culprit had taken Nanako out through the window?” True to form, Hanabusa Ichirō pressed on, hitting one critical point after another. “But there should have been no way out—since I was collapsed at the entrance.”

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

“Probably—that villain closed it.” “Before entering, was the door locked?” “Oh, Miss Nanako took the key from her pouch and opened it.” “As for that key—” “She apparently left it inserted in the door without removing it.” “From the outside.” “—” Mihoko nodded. Even she was starting to look somewhat fatigued.

“That should be enough. If you make her talk any more, she’ll start bleeding again.” Her brother Haruki was beside himself with worry; he had been sitting down and standing up from his chair over and over while frantically fretting all the while.

“Ah, terribly sorry for intruding. Please take care.”

Hanabusa Ichirō, also appearing to have given up, ended things here and stepped out into the corridor.

There, twelve or thirteen journalists surrounded Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō, showering them with questions from all directions.

“What happened to Miss Nanako?” “How is the injured Mihoko-san’s condition?”

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

The faces of those journalists were filled with eagerness, but Hanabusa Ichirō, “Mihoko-san is unexpectedly well. The doctor says it’s not life-threatening, but we still haven’t figured out anything concrete yet.” Skillfully avoiding confrontation, he proceeded to enter the room where the incident occurred. “Chigusa-kun, you must know all sorts of things. Out of professional courtesy among colleagues, leak a little something for us.”

The veteran reporters surrounded their fellow journalist Chigusa Jūjirō.

“I don’t know anything either—I was merely invited to tonight’s banquet by chance. And in my newspaper, I don’t plan to write a single line beyond what Hayasaka Isamu—sent from our company as a journalist—has witnessed. You can rest assured on that point.” “That’s gentlemanly of you—but we can’t have you using your privileges to get special treatment.” “It’s fine.”

Chigusa Jūjirō followed after Hanabusa Ichirō. That said, Chigusa Jūjirō himself knew nothing beyond the threatening letter from this "Hōunji Saburō," and since Hanabusa Ichirō had barred him from making any public statements, he had no choice but to depend entirely on the resourcefulness of Legs Isamu.

Lipstick on the Photograph In Nanako’s room where the incident had occurred, fingerprint and photography technicians from the Metropolitan Police Department were collecting fingerprints from all over the room and taking photographs from various angles.

“How could someone escape from this sealed room with a woman in tow?”

After conducting a terrifyingly thorough search of every corner in the extravagantly luxurious room, Hanabusa Ichirō dropped heavily into an armchair and spoke. “On top of that, they laughed with a horrifically loud voice—had someone from a quarter-century ago heard that, they’d have claimed a tengu was cackling from the skies.” Chigusa Jūjirō sank into an elegant upholstered chair beside him. By then, the shattered lamps had been repaired, bathing the room in midday-like brightness.

The beautiful mahogany furniture unified in hue, the splendid Western-style upholstered chairs, the plush Chinese carpet thick enough to sink one's heels into, and beside the large floor lamp near the wall lay mottled bloodstains—this must have been where Mihoko was stabbed. “The spot where she was stabbed wasn’t as close to the entrance as I’d thought.” Hanabusa Ichirō stood up again while muttering to himself. Observing this scene was a classical French-style oil painting of a girl maintaining an unwavering smile. When the adjacent door was pushed open, the next room revealed a compact bedroom—a so-called Westernized boudoir—where both the small desk, bed, and down quilt overflowed with loveliness befitting a young girl’s taste and opulence characteristic of a wealthy family’s sole heiress.

When someone pulled aside the Indian chintz curtain hung on one side of the bedroom, they found within an unimaginable treasure trove of garments—silks, furs, and vast quantities of exquisite lace that would chill a poor person to the bone.

The drawer of the small desk before the bed stood slightly ajar, a small nickel key still lodged in its lock. Nanako had likely taken out a brooch or ring for the downstairs banquet and forgotten to secure it properly. "Oh, this face I recognize—"

At the cabinet-sized photograph he had taken out from within, Hanabusa Ichirō stared wide-eyed.

“Isn’t this a photo of Shiota Haruki?” Chigusa Jūjirō leaned forward. “What on earth is this photo doing here? Oh, take a look at this, Chigusa-kun.”

Hanabusa Ichirō, without so much as a grimace, handed over the photograph. When he looked, mottled traces of lipstick were on the photograph’s surface— — Chigusa Jūjirō felt as if he had glimpsed into a maiden’s heart and hurriedly pulled his head back. The heiress of the Kumagaya zaibatsu, Nanako—that cold, haughty, and incomparably beautiful Nanako—had hidden in her bedside table’s drawer a photograph of a man stained with lipstick—a photograph of a clever and loyal yet impoverished salaried youth. This was an utterly unimaginable major incident.

“So another thread of the secret was here after all.” Hanabusa Ichirō accepted this professionally, appearing to inscribe it as a term in a cold equation.

“It would be best to return the photograph to the drawer exactly as it was.” Chigusa Jūjirō did not seem capable of viewing things with such cold detachment. “It goes without saying—and to ensure no one else sees it—I’ll keep hold of this drawer key until Nanako-san reappears safely—” Hanabusa Ichirō placed the small nickel key into his pocket and quietly left the bedroom. “By the way, about that tengu’s laughter—”

Returning to Nanako's original room, Hanabusa Ichirō once again plopped down heavily into the armchair and resumed the earlier conversation.

“The tengu’s laughter?” “That laughter heard overhead when Miss Nanako was kidnapped—where do you think it came from?” “It was overhead—probably right around this room. After all, it was a terrifyingly inhuman laugh.”

Chigusa Jūjirō felt a spine-chilling sensation as he recalled that laughter. “Of course it was a man’s laugh.” “It was a sardonic, arrogant, insolent, hollow, and terrifyingly tyrannical laugh—ah! That laugh—it was the same one!” “What?” “That voice.”

Chigusa Jūjirō pricked up his ears. Just at that moment, from somewhere unknown, a fearsome laugh shook the night air as it rang out. Hanabusa Ichirō stood up and thrust his head out the window. "Hah! Hahahaha! Hahaha!" The waves of laughter grew gradually louder and stronger, spreading across the entire night sky—exactly as Chigusa had described them: arrogant and nihilistic, tragic yet strangely tinged with tears.

“It’s the neighboring building—inside that window.”

Hanabusa Ichirō pointed to the concrete storehouse facing the window. It was a terrifyingly secure structure located barely ten meters away, but as for what was inside it, they naturally had no way of knowing.

Second Stage of Revenge

Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō, who had rushed out of the room, came upon the master of the house, Kumagaya Saburōbee, at the foot of the stairs. The composed arrogance he had maintained since nightfall had been cast aside along with the disappearance of his beloved daughter Nanako, "That voice—Inspector Hanabusa! That laughter! My daughter must have been killed by it!" His words tumbled out incoherently as he stood there in complete disarray.

“Master, that laughter seems to be echoing from inside the concrete storehouse outside your daughter’s room window. What on earth is inside that storehouse?” “Inside the storehouse—Disaster—! In there are the art objects I’ve devoted half my life to collecting—treasures beyond counting—” Kumagaya Saburōbee, his mouth gaping soundlessly while still in disarray, rushed out through the inner entrance as if shoving aside the policemen stationed there. Needless to say, Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō followed immediately after, and the journalists who had remained behind—Hayasaka Isamu and five or six others—also clattered outside in a tumultuous rush as though drawn along.

However, in front of the concrete storehouse, two police officers stood resolutely on guard. When Kumagaya Saburōbee received the threatening letter that evening, though inwardly panicked, he had initially dismissed it with a laugh. But the moment his daughter Nanako vanished from her locked second-floor room, the suppressed terror now agitated the nerves of this stalwart industrialist to an extreme degree—and he remembered having urgently requested the inspector from the local police station to strictly monitor the storehouse in the garden, which he believed would be targeted next.

“What’s this—I’ve grown timid too—I’d completely forgotten I’d even asked the police officers to keep watch. Ha! Ha! Hahaha!”

It was a ghastly, hollow, listless laugh. Saburōbee, who had amassed an immense fortune in his lifetime and was called a daredevil commander in the business world, likely forced out that strained laugh—his usual boldness and indomitable spirit reviving to mend his disarrayed demeanor.

“Still, I’d like to take a look inside the storehouse at least once. You do have the key, I take it?”

Hanabusa Ichirō stared at the master’s convulsed face. “The key is held by Secretary Honda—hey, Honda! Isn’t Honda here?” “Yes, yes.”

Honda Daisuke rushed over. “Open the storehouse and let Inspector Hanabusa see it—there’d been no irregularities whatsoever until we removed the silverware for this afternoon’s banquet.” “Yes, I supervised the procedure myself—there should have been no discrepancies.” “After the earlier disturbance, officers maintained surveillance, and the entrance lock appears undisturbed.”

In the meantime, Secretary Honda removed the large patented lock, brought an old-fashioned iron key, and opened the double lock.

“As you can see—”

Amidst the beams of several flashlights, Honda Daisuke—having taken a single step inside—twisted the switch of the light fixture at the entrance. The storehouse interior became as bright as midday, allowing them to see all the way to the farthest depths in a single glance. “We’ve been had!” Master Saburōbee finally noticed the abnormality inside. When he looked where he pointed, the door of the large vault installed at the front stood wide open, items had been pulled down from the shelves, and artworks, antiques, ancient documents, bronze vessels—all manner of imposing treasures—lay scattered in utter disarray.

Kumagaya Saburōbee completely shrank back and froze. Though it contained a mix of gems and pebbles, this enormous collection of art and antique pieces—half acquired through speculative purchases under the pretense of specie reserves or similar justifications—included no small number of treasures hard to find in this world and items that could not be obtained even with vast sums of money, their quantity by no means limited to ten or twenty. Even at a glance, there were seven or eight national treasure-level items and countless important art pieces—so many that converting their value into cash could have funded the nation’s finances for dozens of days.

“This is disastrous! Inspector Hanabusa—retrieve them at all costs! Losing those would be a national catastrophe! If you recover them safely, I’ll offer a reward of one million yen!” Kumagaya Saburōbee, true to his wealthy nature, attempted to resolve matters with money here as well. “Oh, there’s something pasted at the back of the vault.” Hanabusa Ichirō borrowed the flashlight that the police officer was holding and illuminated the depths of the vault after the drawers had been removed. And there, on a single sheet of typewriter paper, was a sheet written in masterful fountain pen,

These are treasures of the realm—not something a single greedy individual should possess. Should you donate all art objects in this storehouse to a museum and establish procedures for scholarly access, I shall return every item I have taken. If after one month you remain unresolved, there will be no alternative but to take the entrusted artworks overseas to advance world culture. This I solemnly swear. Hōunji Gorō When he finished reading, Kumagaya Saburōbee— "Cruel! Such idiocy cannot be tolerated! The contents of this vault constitute half of Kumagaya Saburōbee's wealth! Damn it all—what am I supposed to do?!"

Saburōbee, driven by fury and disappointment, turned his contorted face purple with rage, stamping his feet and shouting curses. However, this was nothing more than the second stage of Hōunji Gorō's revenge. What means would lead through the four stages to the final "death"? Once again, Chigusa Jūjirō felt a terrifying chill run down his spine.

*Café Shirene*

In the backstreets of Ginza stood Café Shirene—the cleanest establishment of its time with a homey brightness. Its back room had become the exclusive domain of newspaper people, and no matter when one visited, two or three journalists could always be found there—bringing work with them, anticipating new incidents, chatting with the carefree ease of being in a section of the editorial office. Journalists as a breed all possessed something of a wanderer’s disposition and liberalistic tendencies. Even in what might be called the rather laid-back offices of editorial departments, they felt confined. Provided they had no immediate tasks weighing on them, they would escape to such places, passing time in relaxed camaraderie despite their differences.

The ones who occasionally came there were lesser-known writers, utterly unfashionable calligraphers, and young detectives from the Metropolitan Police Department. It had been police common sense since the Meiji and Taishō eras to always infiltrate Tokkō detectives wherever journalists gathered, and in that regard, Café "Shirene" was truly a first-class location as an information exchange. Inspector Hanabusa Ichirō did not possess the Tokkō mentality of deducing political trends from journalists’ idle chatter. Rather, as an intellectual among detectives, he cultivated friendships with Tokyo’s top journalists and would visit this place during work breaks to indulge in refined tastes far removed from professional duty—discussing literature, art, and films; debating liquor; critiquing fashionable philosophy books; even tapping on empty bottles to sing *Caro Mio Ben* or *Santa Lucia* in a rather pleasant voice.

“By the way, it seems Chigusa-kun isn’t here today.”

Hanabusa Ichirō looked around sluggishly in all directions. While warming brandy in both palms, he had reached just the right level of intoxication to crave company. “Big Bro’s on a business trip. He’s making the rounds from Nagoya to Osaka. Should be coming back sometime tomorrow—” Legs Isamu downed half his large beer mug, wiped the foam from his lips, and turned his chair toward Hanabusa. He too seemed desperate for company, but his companion Tora Mitsuru, having overindulged, was nodding off beside the stove.

“While fooling around on his trip, he’s probably stretched it by a day or two.” Hanabusa Ichirō remarked knowingly. He spoke with the air of one who fully grasped the true nature of what passed for a journalist’s “business trip” in those days. “Nonsense! Chigusa Jūjirō’s the Puritan of the newspaper world—renowned for it.”

Tora Mitsuru raised his unkempt bearded face. Though he appeared to be nodding off, some part of him remained alert. To be sure, Mitsuru—renowned as a master of gathering scoops—had made the art of feigning sleep one of his weapons. “The Puritan of journalists—a rare breed in Japan in 1930—though among our kind, there are also those who warm their behinds by the stove while drinking out-of-season cold beer.”

Hanabusa Ichirō was still lingering over his brandy glass with evident attachment. “This one—I just can’t quit it. Though I did try warming some stout once—wasn’t half bad. Tastes like humoring some middle-aged dame’s first crush.” Legs Isamu gulped down the remaining beer in his mug and exhaled a breath that shimmered like rainbow mist. He had taken on an expression as devoid of allure as Notre Dame’s gargoyles, seemingly unaware of the transformation himself.

“Have you ever tasted such a rich brew, Hayasaka?” “Don’t be ridiculous—it’s just a metaphor! I’ve made it a rule not to deal with middle-aged women or installment-plan tailors. They’re too persistent to handle.” “This conversation’s getting vulgar. Why don’t we find a classier topic—like art or philosophy, for instance?” This was Tora Mitsuru.

“Wouldn’t things like salary advance techniques or lunchbox shop persuasion tactics count as art?” The lubricant had taken effect, and Legs Isamu’s tongue had grown completely loose. “By the way, returning to our earlier topic—is Chigusa-kun truly as upright as they say? For someone who’s the Social Affairs Chief of the Tokyo Post…” Hanabusa Ichirō was fixated solely on that. “He has a lover, you know. Can’t the Metropolitan Police’s investigations even reach that far?”

“Lover?” “Don’t act so shocked, Detective Hanabusa—a young man having a lover isn’t exactly an incident worth putting on the Metropolitan Police’s blacklist.” Legs Isamu maintained his composed demeanor. “Chigusa-kun isn’t young anymore—but still! Who’s this partner? A geisha or a café waitress?” “Enough already! You’re the ones calling Chigusa Jūjirō a gentleman of character—a Puritan! How could his lover possibly be some powder-caked floozy?”

“Come now, give it a rest, Mr. Hayasaka—your inner snitch is showing.” “Since you’re the one prodding, Detective Hanabusa—guess I’ll have to announce Big Bro’s sacred lover’s name to protect his honor—don’t faint on me.” “Why would I? Call her Ono no Komachi or Juliet if you like.” “No need for dramatics—truth is, Chigusa Jūjirō’s sweetheart is Miss Mihoko, sister of Shiota Haruki at Kumagaya Consolidated. A maiden so pure she’d make Shimazaki Tōson rewrite his poems.”

“She’s the one injured and hospitalized.” “Whenever Big Bro was in Tokyo, he’d find gaps between company work to visit the Banchō hospital—thanks to that, the Yūrakuchō florist would sometimes close up shop entirely.” “Quit your lying!” Tora Mitsuru raised his viper-like head again. This man—like the wild boar of Mount Fuji’s foothills that Nitta Shiro Tadayoshi had once subdued—turned out to be surprisingly honest and was even an ardent admirer of renowned journalist Chigusa Jūjirō. The once-boisterous guests from the neighboring room had departed like a receding flood, leaving Café Shirene—though still early in the evening—strangely hushed as if deep in the night, deliberately eschewing any clamor.

The Secret of a Maiden’s Heart

“Isamu—so you’re here. I’d tracked you down, but—oh—Hanabusa’s with you too?”

Along with a cold gust of wind, it was none other than the rumored Chigusa Jūjirō—renowned journalist and Social Affairs Deputy Chief of the Tokyo Post—who came rushing in from the corridor. “Ah! And I’m here too—we were just talking about you, Aniki.” Tora Mitsuru raised his viper-like head. “It’s probably you badmouthing me—when I passed north of the station earlier, I kept sneezing one after another.” “It’s not a cold but good fortune—well, let’s get you a drink. That’ll cure your travel fatigue.” Hayasaka Isamu intended to have this intruder drink beer.

“If we’re drinking anyway, make mine hot sake.”

“Let’s get an order going then—brandy’s too potent to savor properly.—Anyway, that talk earlier about you? An urgent matter’s come up—we’ve been searching everywhere.” Hanabusa Ichirō ordered hot sake from the waitress while seating Chigusa Jūjirō in the chair before him.

“Gives me the creeps, having Detective Hanabusa hunt for me—though I don’t recall being enough of a fugitive to warrant that.”

Chigusa Jūjirō threw his seemingly exhausted body onto a slightly wobbly chair. "No, I’d rather not have you play the innocent card."

“What?” “The Kumagaya Saburōbee missing daughter case.” “It’s been two weeks already—no leads? However vast Tokyo may be, you can’t keep hiding such a conspicuous young lady forever.” “An indictment of the Metropolitan Police?” “Not exactly.” “If you’d simply cooperate, this should resolve quicker—which is precisely why I won’t tolerate your innocent act.”

“Hmm?”

Chigusa Jūjirō was utterly flustered for some reason.

“Let me lay it out from the start—Miss Mihoko, Shiota Haruki’s sister who was wounded in the room where the young lady vanished, must know either the criminal’s face or their true identity.” “What?!”

Hanabusa Ichirō continued to voice his thoughts, paying no heed to his counterpart’s expression.

“Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō of the Tokyo Post should have noticed this much—Miss Mihoko’s words are riddled with contradictions against reality. However much I sympathize, I cannot believe that pure maiden would tell such transparent lies through flower-like lips. This means she’s either being coerced into saying things she doesn’t mean… or carelessly covering for someone.” “That’s absurd!”

Chigusa Jūjirō grew slightly frantic.

“It’s not absurd—there’s nothing more terrifying than a girl risking her life to tell a lie. Listen—that night, Miss Mihoko said she was stabbed at the room’s entrance, yet her blood-soaked body, having lost consciousness, was found collapsed near the window.” “――――” “The room’s door was locked from the inside—the key had been inserted from within, so there’s no mistake about that. And Miss Mihoko claims the culprit abducted Nanako and escaped through the window—but even if we call her a young woman, could someone really flee through that window with a person under their arm? There were no footprints on the snow in the garden, and while it’s not impossible to stretch a rope from the window to the storehouse three or four *ken* away—this would be a circus-like stunt—there’s no way anyone could manage it while carrying or hoisting a young woman.”

“――――” “Even if they crossed over to the storehouse window, there was no one but Miss Mihoko—who remained in the room—to handle the rope that had been stretched across.”

“...” “Either the culprit boldly took Miss Nanako out through the room’s entrance—after which Miss Mihoko closed the door—or else carried her out through the window, with Miss Mihoko then removing the rope they’d stretched across. A man of your standing as Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō of the Tokyo Post couldn’t possibly have missed such contradictions. Was I wrong to say you’re withholding cooperation?”

Hanabusa Ichirō discarded his previous kindly old man act and pressed Chigusa Jūjirō relentlessly. “――――”

Chigusa Jūjirō fell silent. He had not failed to notice such contradictions from the start, yet lacking the courage to interrogate the injured Mihoko, he could hardly deny having left those doubts unresolved—simply watching events unfold as they would. “That’s not all. There should have been blood—albeit a small amount—on the inside of the window frame. Moreover, though there were no footprints in the garden, a double-edged dagger stood upright on the thin snow—straight into the ground for two or three inches. There’s no doubt it was thrown from above.”

“Even so, can you claim Miss Mihoko knows nothing? In my estimation—Miss Nanako, daughter of Kumagaya Saburōbee, wasn’t violently abducted by some culprit. She left that room in disguise, boldly blended in with the guests, and surely exited through the main entrance.” “Well, Mr. Chigusa?”

“I don’t know—unfortunately, I don’t know at all.” “With just this much evidence, I confronted Miss Mihoko—fortunately, she’s regained her strength these past few days and was deemed fit by the hospital director, so I obtained permission.” “That’s cruel, don’t you think?” Chigusa Jūjirō indignantly shrugged his shoulders. “No—it’s not cruel. This is merely exercising the authority granted to me, and for the sanctity of the law, Miss Mihoko must be made to speak the truth.”

“How did Miss Mihoko answer that?”

“The problem is she’s clammed up and absolutely refuses to explain anything about that matter.” “――――” Chigusa Jūjirō looked inexplicably relieved.

“However, merely because she begins to speak doesn’t mean we can retreat with a polite ‘Is that so?’” “I made various attempts to question her—within the limits of Miss Mihoko’s health, I meant to exhaust all logical persuasion over three days.” “As a result, Miss Mihoko’s resolve has been profoundly shaken—though it pains her to confess—and for social justice’s sake, she has agreed to disclose all she knows tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning, with you—that is, Mr. Chigusa Jūjirō—present as witness.”

“That’s a problem—I don’t want to do something like threatening Miss Mihoko.”

Chigusa Jūjirō hesitated heavily. “This isn’t coercion—for justice’s sake, Miss Mihoko has resolved to confess everything before you herself. Naturally, you’ll come to the hospital by ten tomorrow morning.” “No.” “No ifs or buts—I’m asking this of you myself, trusting in your friendship as Hanabusa Ichirō.”

With that, Hanabusa Ichirō performed a light bow. In his clownish demeanor lay an odd seriousness that even rendered Hayasaka Isamu—nicknamed “Legs”—and Tora Mitsuru utterly silent.

The Angel’s Demonic Slumber

The next day around nine o'clock, Hanabusa Ichirō came to pick up Chigusa Jūjirō—still wrestling with indecision—at his apartment using a Metropolitan Police Department car. It was an arrangement that permitted no refusal. When they entered Banchō Hospital where Mihoko was undergoing treatment for her injuries, the interior felt unnervingly restless—doctors and nurses moved about unsettled, caught in disarray. Yet when they reached Mihoko’s sickroom as usual and moved to knock, they froze in surprise.

Inside the sickroom, two doctors, a nurse, and the head nurse were inside, the door left wide open, and everything was in utter disarray. "What's going on? I'm with the Metropolitan Police—"

To avoid leaving everyone bewildered, Hanabusa Ichirō announced himself and took a step forward. It goes without saying that Chigusa Jūjirō followed suit.

“Ms. Shiota, the patient, has fallen into a coma.” The familiar nurse, upon recognizing them as police personnel, politely explained.

“Coma?” “As this concerns the patient’s condition, we must ask you not to disclose this—but Ms. Shiota has fallen into a deep coma, and we find ourselves at a loss.”

The deputy director—though this would only become clear later—one of the young, high-spirited doctors, emphasized the point with practiced efficiency. "Depending on circumstances, we could keep this confidential—but could this be related to a crime? Something like being administered an anesthetic."

Hanabusa Ichirō took a step forward. “There isn’t the slightest trace of such a thing.” “There’s no way they could have brought in anesthetics or hypnotics, and besides, all food and drink is handled by the nurses.” “Visitors?” “The patient’s brother came to visit, but when he left after just a short conversation, the patient was in good spirits and bid farewell with ‘Goodbye.’”

This was the nurse. “After that, did you leave the sickroom unattended?” “Mornings are a busy time for us.” The attending nurse had likely left the sickroom time and again to handle her duties. “How is her condition?” Hanabusa Ichirō and Chigusa Jūjirō found themselves standing beside the sickbed before they realized it. Morning light streamed through a single pane into the overly bright sickroom, now filled with an abundance of flowers likely sent by friends. Before them lay a bundle of wilted blooms placed with reluctant care—probably those Chigusa Jūjirō had brought before his trip.

Mihoko lay crushed across her sickbed like a broken doll, soft snores escaping her lips. Her pallid face drained of blood and tightly shut eyelids made even laymen recognize the effects of a potent sedative. Two doctors and a nurse scrambled with every medical trick they knew, yet showed no progress toward reviving her. “Will she recover? If she...” Chigusa Jūjirō’s throat clicked as he swallowed hard. That some fiendishly thorough villain had discovered our arrangement—my promise to witness Mihoko’s confession to Hanabusa at ten o’clock today—and silenced her through narcotic means now stood beyond all doubt.

“It’s hard to say—we’ll have to observe her a while longer.” While holding up the syringe, the Deputy Director declared somewhat brusquely. He detested amateur interference—a professional’s pride, no doubt. “You must not let Miss Mihoko die—no matter what I have to do—” It was undoubtedly an outpouring of passion from Chigusa Jūjirō as her lover, but upon seeing the Deputy Director’s displeased, pallid glare, Hanabusa Ichirō began to withdraw.

“This person’s life is connected to solving a terrible corruption scandal—she was meant to reveal a momentous secret to me today at ten o’clock. What thwarted it was the work of a devilishly clever, fearsome schemer.” “—” “Ah! Isn’t that a mark from an injection needle?” Hanabusa Ichirō pointed to Mihoko’s pale arm—exposed by the Deputy Director—where a single red dot marred skin so white it might have been carved from alabaster.

“We are aware of that.”

The Deputy Director’s brusqueness—.

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

Even Hanabusa Ichirō, perhaps unable to withstand this intense professional resolve, took Chigusa Jūjirō by the arm and abandoned the sickroom. It goes without saying that they stopped by the reception desk on their way out and inquired about today’s visitors, but a hospital reception desk has no reason to remember every single patient’s visitor, rendering this nearly a wasted effort.

“Will she be alright... Mihoko?” “Since she’s fundamentally strong, there’s likely no cause for concern. If you’re worried, we should check again this afternoon—Oh, what’s that?” “That’s her brother—Shiota Haruki.” As Shiota Haruki frantically leapt out of the automobile and dashed toward the hospital entrance, Chigusa Jūjirō called out to stop him from the side. “Shiota-kun.” “Oh, Chigusa-kun? I got a call at the company saying something had happened to my sister, so I rushed here—” Shiota Haruki was terribly flustered.

“Didn’t you come to visit her this morning?” “On my way to work, I sometimes stop by to check on her. This morning I came around nine—maybe stayed ten minutes before leaving—” “Then keep looking after her properly. I’ll come check again this afternoon.” “Thank you.” “Ah—one more thing. When you visited Mihoko-san this morning, do you remember meeting anyone in the hallway?” Hanabusa Ichirō called out to halt Shiota Haruki as he turned to hurry away.

“Now that you mention it, I think I did meet someone—maybe an electric meter inspector or a gas company collector? At any rate, I believe I encountered a middle-aged man in the hallway carrying a bag and wearing a high-collared suit.” “Thank you. That was extremely important information.” Hanabusa Ichirō politely expressed his thanks, saw Shiota Haruki off at the entrance, then signaled Chigusa Jūjirō with a glance and circled around to the back of the hospital. When they inquired with the kitchen auntie, janitors in the custodian room, and night-duty clerks, it turned out to be true—as Shiota Haruki had stated—that someone had indeed come to inspect the electric meters. Beyond checking the meter in the kitchen, this person had also examined switches in the second-floor hallway and taken notes before leaving. However, the man’s appearance was that of a young, handsome man, and the time was likely later than the nine o’clock Shiota Haruki mentioned—possibly past nine-thirty. This aligned with the fact that it occurred after the Deputy Director had arrived by car.

“At that time, had that second-floor patient—Miss Mihoko—already fallen into a coma?” Hanabusa Ichirō’s questioning was thorough.

“When the electrician went to the second floor, there was already a major commotion up there.” The two janitors and kitchen auntie also corroborated this point. “I told him we were in a commotion and asked if he could check the meters later, but that man pretended not to hear and marched straight up to the second floor.” Hearing this left no room for doubt. “This case is grave, Chigusa-kun.” A particular severity—one only seen in moments of tension—flashed across Hanabusa Ichirō’s face.

Third Laughter

That night saw the third attack strike Kumagaya Saburōbee's residence in Banchō. The master Saburōbee had grown particularly fond of sharing quiet suppers with his young and beautiful wife Yukiko - a domestic habit that recently cured him of youthful dissipations and made him passably respectable as husbands go. "What became of those art objects?" Madame Yukiko inquired between sips of aromatic tea after their meal concluded. "Outrageous notion! Should I donate treasures gathered through half my life's labor and half our family fortune to some wretched museum?"

Kumagaya Saburōbee shook his head vehemently while dropping two or three sugar cubes one after another into his tea. "But isn't the deadline stated for donating to the museum—or else having them sent abroad—now just two weeks away?" "No—registered national treasures and Important Cultural Properties aren't things that can be taken abroad so easily."

"But what if—" "No, I have a far greater treasure—you, my beautiful—" Kumagaya Saburōbee pulled his chair closer with undignified eagerness and took Madame Yukiko’s delicate hand. "Oh!"

It was the moment when the thirty-two-year-old beautiful wife, looking rather awkward at having her hand taken by her sixty-year-old grotesque husband, faintly blushed. Ha... ha... ha... ha... ha... ha.

The demonic laughter pierced through unhindered—from the chill-laden air outside, it set the windowpanes rattling with its sarcastic, arrogant, utterly uncouth cruelty. “Damn it!” Kumagaya Saburōbee spat the vulgarity and bolted into the hallway. From the balcony beyond came what seemed like echoes of that demonic laughter.

Outside was a gloomy snow-laden sky, and in all directions illuminated brightly by the garden lamps, there was nothing obstructing the view.

“Impossible!” Glaring threateningly into the darkness, Saburōbee returned to the dining room.

“Ah—” It was no wonder he was shocked—there was no trace of Madame Yukiko’s beautiful figure where she should have been. Only a portion of her skirt remained on the chair, fluttering unnervingly despite the absence of wind. (Unfinished)