Pathway to Japanese Literature

"I have an interesting story to tell.
It’s one from my own experience.
If you work this up right, it could even become material for your detective novel.
Will you hear it?
‘Oh yes—do tell!’
Well then—though I warn you I’m a poor speaker and it may prove tedious—shall I begin?"

"It’s no made-up tale.
I give this preface because whenever I’ve told it before—and I’ve told it often—people inevitably say,
‘You must’ve cribbed this plot from some novel!’
They press this absurdity beyond all reason.
But I swear every word’s true."

Now I'm stuck in this disreputable line of work, but until three years ago, believe it or not, I was a man connected to religion.
When I phrase it that way, it sounds somewhat respectable, doesn't it?
In truth, it was thoroughly trivial.
Not exactly a religion worth boasting about.
They call it the ×× Sect—you've likely never heard of it—but think something along the lines of Tenrikyo or Konkokyo.
Though mind you, if you asked the sect members themselves, they'd spout all manner of grand-sounding rationales—or so they'd have you believe.

It wasn’t grand enough to be called a headquarters, but this sect’s main family was located in XX Prefecture, with branch churches found in most fairly large towns across that region. The one I belonged to was the N City branch church. Among the many branch churches, N City’s stood out as particularly sizable. This was thanks to its Chief—though our sect gave him some pompous official title, let’s just call him the Chief. He happened to be from my hometown—an old acquaintance—but let me tell you, that man was a born hustler. Not that he’d achieved any spiritual awakening, mind you—you might say his talents leaned more toward commerce. Business savvy might seem odd in religion, but his knack for growing followers and squeezing donations from them? Remarkably adept.

As I mentioned earlier, I’d gotten tied up with the Chief through our hometown connection—how many years had it been now? Let me see—since I was twenty-seven then… yes, that would make it exactly seven years ago. That’s when I moved into the church quarters, you understand. I’d made a minor blunder and lost my previous job, leaving me with no choice but to take temporary refuge there—to put it bluntly, I’d resolved to become a live-in dependent. Yet try as I might to escape that arrangement, while idling about I gradually grew familiar with the sect’s ways. Naturally they began entrusting me with various tasks until finally, as the church’s handyman, I ended up putting down roots there proper. Altogether I stayed five full years by their count.

Of course, I never became a believer. Given my inherently weak sense of piety—compounded by knowing the inner workings—when you saw behind the scenes how the Chief, who put on that solemn face to preach sermons, was drinking, womanizing, and embroiled in constant marital spats, well, faith just wouldn’t take root. Such behavior might be common enough among those called shrewd operators, but that’s exactly what the Chief was.

Yet when it came to followers—those believers of our sect were truly something else. Many seemed borderline insane. I don’t know much about ordinary temples, but when it came to donations, they put on quite the spectacle. To think they could contribute so much without hesitation—for someone faithless like me, it seemed nothing short of miraculous. Naturally, this meant the Chief lived extravagantly. He even dabbled in stock trading with money squeezed from his followers.

Now, I’m generally a fickle sort—so much so that I’d never kept the same job more than two years—yet I endured five at that church. The reason? Even someone like me found it comfortable there, with earnings flowing in effortlessly.

So why did I quit such a good job?
Well, that’s what this story is about.

Now, the church’s preaching hall had been built over a decade earlier, and by the time I arrived there, it had grown quite worn and grimy.
Moreover, after the Chief took over, followers suddenly multiplied until the hall became downright cramped.
So he decided to expand the preaching hall for more space while fixing up the dilapidated sections.
That said, there were no reserve funds to speak of—even if they’d gone begging to headquarters, they might’ve scraped together some aid, but covering the full expansion cost was out of the question.
In the end, they had no choice but to squeeze donations from the followers.
Now, while an expansion would run under 10,000 yen, getting a rural branch church to cough up that much was no small feat.
If the Chief hadn’t possessed that business knack I mentioned earlier, things likely wouldn’t have gone half so smoothly.

Now, the method the Chief used to collect donations was quite something.
At this point, it’s practically fraud.
First, targeting the wealthiest among the followers—a retired patriarch from a top merchant family in N City—the Chief concocted some divine dream revelation and skillfully pressured him into becoming the lead donor, making him contribute three thousand yen.
That’s some real talent when it comes to this sort of thing.
And so, this three thousand yen served as the bait.
The Chief kept it in cash inside the small safe installed there, and every time a follower came,

“How commendable.”
“Mr. So-and-so here has already contributed a hefty donation, as you can see.”

He would flaunt this while simultaneously employing those elaborate dream revelations he was known for, so none of them could refuse and would make donations proportionate to their means.
There were even those who spent their treasured savings to demonstrate their piety, and before long, the total sum of donations was rapidly increasing.
When you think about it, there’s no easier business than that.
In just about ten days, some 5,000 yen in donations was collected.
If things continued at this rate, they would effortlessly secure the planned expansion funds within a month—the Chief was already rubbing his hands in glee.

But you see, a terrible thing happened.

One day, wouldn’t you know it, a truly strange letter arrived addressed to the Chief. In the novels you people write, this sort of thing might be nothing out of the ordinary, but when a letter like that actually arrived, I was rather taken aback. The letter read: “At the stroke of midnight tonight, I shall come to collect the donations amassed in your possession. Prepare yourself.” There was quite an eccentric fellow—he went and sent a theft notice. How about that? Amusing, isn’t it? When I think about it now, it seems utterly absurd, but back then, even someone like me turned pale. As I mentioned earlier, the donations were all kept in cash inside the safe, and since they were being flaunted to large numbers of followers, the fact that the church now held a substantial sum of money had become widely known among certain people. There was no guarantee that word hadn’t reached the wrong sort of people. So it’s no surprise that a thief would break in, but announcing the exact time in advance is downright strange.

The Chief, for his part, just brushed it off with a “Bah—it’s probably someone’s prank,” utterly unfazed.
If it hadn’t been a prank after all, there couldn’t possibly exist a thief who’d go out of their way to send such a warning letter.
Still—the logic might hold up—but I couldn’t seem to shake this unease. Better safe than sorry.
I even tried suggesting we temporarily deposit the money in a bank, but the Chief wouldn’t even entertain it.
So after finally convincing him we should at least report it to the police, it was decided I would go.

It was past noon. After getting ready and stepping out to head toward the police station—having walked about a block—I happened to encounter a policeman plodding my way. He was the same officer who'd come for a census check four or five days earlier and whose face I recognized. I grabbed him and laid out the whole situation in detail—this and that.
He looked every bit the imposing, bearded samurai-like policeman, but...
When he heard my story, didn't he just burst out laughing?

“Hey, you think there are such moronic thieves in this world?”
“Hahaha! You’ve been had, completely had!”

Though he had a fearsome face, he struck me as an easygoing sort.

“However, from our position, we can’t help feeling uneasy about this. As a precaution, couldn’t you at least investigate?”

When I pressed further,

“Well then, since I’m supposed to patrol that area tonight anyway, I’ll swing by around that time for you.”
“Of course no thief is going to show up, but since I’ll be in the area anyway.”
“Be so kind as to have some tea ready for me.”
“Hahahaha!”

He kept treating it all as a joke. But since he said he'd come, I felt relieved and, after impressing upon him not to forget, returned straight to the church.

Now, that night. Normally, unless there was an evening sermon, I would have been asleep by nine o'clock, but tonight I found myself unable to settle down. Having made arrangements with the policeman, I had tea and snacks prepared and sat at the desk in the back room—the one used for receiving followers—waiting intently for midnight to arrive. Strange how I couldn't tear my eyes from the safe in the alcove. As I sat there, I kept imagining the money inside might just slip away and vanish.

Even so, perhaps growing somewhat concerned, the Chief would occasionally come to the room and try making small talk with me.
Somehow, the night felt absurdly long.
Before long, as midnight approached, the daytime policeman arrived true to his word.
We promptly had him come up to the back room, where the Chief, the policeman and I formed a circle in front of the safe, drinking tea while keeping watch.
Though truth be told, I might have been the only one actually intending to keep watch.
Neither the Chief nor the policeman gave the daytime letter any serious consideration.
The policeman turned out to be quite the debater, having cornered the Chief into a vigorous religious argument.
The Chief himself seemed to have come precisely for such debates.
After all, sipping tea while philosophizing beat trudging through darkened streets on patrol any day.
Somehow, my solitary fretting had begun to feel utterly ridiculous.

After a while, the policeman—having talked as much as he wanted—suddenly seemed to notice something and, looking at my face, said:

“Ah, it’s already half past twelve, huh? Look here, that was just a prank after all, wasn’t it?”

At that, I felt somewhat embarrassed,

“Yes, thanks to you,” I replied vaguely with some such phrase, whereupon the policeman looked toward the safe,

“So, the money’s definitely in there, right?”

And wasn’t he asking such a strange question? Feeling as though I were being mocked and growing somewhat irritated,

“Of course it’s inside.”
“If you like, I can show it to you.”

I retorted sarcastically.

“Nah, as long as it’s inside, I guess.”
“You might want to check it just to be safe.”
“Hahahaha!”

And the policeman kept relentlessly mocking me.
I was so irritated I couldn't stand it,

“Look here.”

As I said this, I spun the safe’s combination dial, opened it, and took out the bundles of bills inside to show him.
Then the policeman—

“Ah, so that’s why you felt completely relieved there.”

I couldn’t mimic it well myself, but that delivery was downright unnerving.
He grinned meaningfully with this strange, awkward tone—like he had something caught between his back teeth.

“But a thief might have some trick up his sleeve.”
“You probably think everything’s fine since the money’s right here, but this—”
Saying that, the policeman picked up the bundle of bills lying there and,

“This might’ve belonged to the thief all along.”

When I heard that, I involuntarily shuddered.
What an indescribably eerie feeling this was.
Putting it this way, you might not quite grasp it, though.

For dozens of seconds, we remained still without saying a word.

We stared into each other’s eyes, probing for something.

“Hahahaha! Got it now?”
“Well, I’ll be taking my leave now.”

Suddenly, the policeman stood up after saying that.
The bundle of bills remained in his hand.
Then, with his other hand—having pulled a pistol from his pocket—he kept it trained on us without a moment’s lapse.
How hateful could you get?
Even then he maintained that policeman-like tone, saying things like “I’ll be taking my leave now.”
What an audacious bastard he was.

Of course, neither the Chief nor I could make a sound; we just sat there in a daze. We were completely dumbfounded! It never occurred to us that someone might use checking family registers as a new trick to get familiar with us. After all, we’d been utterly convinced he was a real policeman.

The rascal went straight out of the room—but just when you thought he’d left, he hadn’t. He left the sliding door slightly ajar on his way out and kept the pistol muzzle trained on us through that gap, perfectly still. He didn’t move an inch for what felt like ages. It was too dark to see clearly, but through the opening above the pistol, I could’ve sworn one of that scoundrel’s eyes was glaring right at us.

……Huh, got it now? You’ve really got your professional flair down, don’t you? Exactly right. He’d hung the pistol with a thin string from a nail in the kamoi lintel and made it look exactly like someone was taking aim. But at that moment, we had no time to think about such things. We were too consumed by the terror that a bang might come any second. After a while, when the Chief’s wife slid open the fusuma where the pistol was visible and entered the room, we finally began to grasp what had happened.

The absurd part was that the Chief’s wife had politely escorted the policeman—or rather, the thief disguised as a policeman—stealing that money all the way to the entrance. Since neither of us had raised our voices nor made any commotion, the Chief’s wife in the tearoom had no inkling of what was happening. As he passed through there, the rascal coolly said something like “Sorry for intruding” to her. “Well, I didn’t even see you out properly,” she apparently found it a bit odd, but in any case, she ended up personally escorting him all the way to the entrance. It’s absolutely laughable.

Then even the servants who had been asleep awoke and caused an uproar—but by then the thief was already a kilometer away.
Everyone spontaneously ran out to the entrance.
And while peering down both sides of the dark town, they wasted time on trivial debates—"He went that way," "No, this way"—as if shifting blame.
With shops on both sides having closed for the night, the streets lay pitch black.
Only round eaves lanterns glowed here and there at intervals of four or five houses.
Then from an alley across the way emerged a lone black shadow approaching us—and wouldn't you know it looked exactly like a policeman.
When I saw this I gasped, thinking our thief had returned to attack us.
Without thinking I grabbed the Chief's arm and silently pointed toward it.

But that was not a thief—this time, it was a real policeman. The policeman, apparently finding our commotion suspicious, asked what was going on. At that moment, the Chief and I were precisely positioned to respond. Well, if you’ll hear me out—when we explained the theft’s circumstances, the policeman declared pursuit would be futile but promised to arrange a police cordon immediately. Though confirming it was a fake officer, he insisted the uniform made identification easy and assured us of an arrest. He meticulously recorded the stolen amount and thief’s appearance in his notebook before rushing back the way he came. His confident tone made us feel thoroughly reassured—as if recovering the money were guaranteed—but reality proved far less accommodating.

Today there might be a notice from the police, tomorrow the stolen money might be returned—during that time, we did nothing but talk about it every single day.
But five days passed, then ten—still not a word of news.
Of course, throughout that period, the Chief had been going to the police station again and again to inquire about developments, but there was no sign of the money being recovered.

“The police are utterly useless.”
“At this rate, they’ll never catch that thief.”

The Chief gradually grew fed up with the police’s methods and began airing various grievances—that the Chief Detective was an arrogant bastard, that the policeman who had made those promises now avoided him whenever their paths crossed.
And so half a month passed, then a full month, but still the thief remained uncaptured.
The followers held meetings and made a great fuss, but being devotees of such a sect after all, they couldn’t come up with any practical solutions.
And so, what had been taken was left as taken—entrusted to the police—and they decided to start anew with collecting donations.
Then, through the Chief’s usual silver tongue, we achieved considerable results—ultimately gathering donations close to the target amount—and while the expansion itself proceeded more or less as planned, that’s irrelevant to this story, so I’ll skip over it.

Now, it was a certain day about two months after the theft incident.
I had some business to attend to and went to Y Town, located about twelve to fifteen miles away from A City.
Y Town had a Jōdo sect temple famous throughout the surrounding region, and on the very day I visited, their once-a-year grand sermon had just begun—for something like seven days, the entire area around the temple was caught up in festival-like commotion.
Stalls for acrobats and itinerant performers had been erected here and there, various food and toy stalls lined the streets, and there was a tremendous uproar with a cacophonous din.

Having finished my business, I had no particular need to hurry back. It being a tranquil spring day, lured by the cheerful music and human voices, I found myself stepping into the bustling entertainment quarter, peering at this sideshow and that vendor's stall from behind the crowds as I wandered about.

What was that again? I think it was a crowd gathered around a medicine vendor selling tooth remedies.
A large man was swinging a thick cane and talking about something, visible through gaps in the sea of heads.
Since that looked so entertaining, I wandered around the perimeter of the large crowd, searching here and there for the best spot to see from.
Then—a country-style gentleman who had been mingling among the spectators suddenly glanced over his shoulder. When I saw this, I gasped and nearly bolted.
The reason was that the man’s face looked exactly like that thief from before.
The only difference was that when he had disguised himself as a policeman, he’d sported a full beard from under his nose down to his chin—now cleanly shaved off.
Perhaps that had been a fake beard to alter his appearance.
I was truly shocked.

However, though I had even braced myself to flee at one point, upon closely observing his demeanor—since he showed no particular sign of having noticed me and was instead facing forward, intently listening to the speech inside—I first deemed it safe and left the spot, then kept a cautious eye on the man from behind an oden stall’s canvas awning a short distance away.

My heart was already pounding.
One part fear, one part joy at having found the thief—that’s what it was.
If I could somehow tail this guy, confirm his address, and report him to the police—and if even a portion of the stolen money remained—how overjoyed the Chief and the followers would be.
When I thought that, I somehow felt as though I’d become a character in a play, seized by an abnormal excitement.
But I needed to observe the situation a bit longer and confirm whether this man was truly the thief from that time.
After all, mistaking him for someone else would be disastrous.

After waiting for a while, he left the crowd and started wandering around. However, when I looked closer, he was actually with another man. I hadn’t noticed until then, but it seemed the man who had been standing next to him all along in similar attire was his companion. Well, whether it was one man or two made no difference in tailing them. Being careful not to be noticed—and given the crowd—I followed behind them at a distance of a few meters. Have you ever experienced it? Tailing someone is truly a difficult task, you know. If you’re too cautious, you’ll lose sight of them—and if you try not to lose them, you’ll inevitably put yourself in danger. It isn’t as easy as reading about it in novels, you know. When they had walked two or three blocks and entered a restaurant, I breathed a sigh of relief. However, right at that moment—when they were about to enter the restaurant, you see—I once again made a startling discovery. The reason was that—wasn’t it strange?—the face of the man who wasn’t the thief looked exactly like that other policeman who had said he’d catch the thief for us back then.

Wait—please.
Even if you’re a novelist, thinking you’ve already figured it out—that’s jumping the gun a bit.
There’s more to this story.
Please bear with me a little longer and listen.

Now, as for what I did upon seeing the two men enter the restaurant—if this were a novel, you’d slip the waitress some money, have her show you to the room next to theirs, press your ear against the sliding door to eavesdrop on their conversation. But how absurd—I didn’t even have enough cash on me at the time to set foot in that restaurant.
In my wallet lay half a round-trip train ticket and, if memory serves, less than one yen.
Yet given how utterly bizarre it all was, I couldn’t bring myself to report it to the police—and with the fear they might vanish while I dawdled—I ended up keeping a miserable vigil outside the restaurant entrance.

As I turned this over in my mind, it became clear: just as that first policeman who'd come to us had been fake, the later one—the very one who'd vowed to catch the thief—had to be fake too. There was no other way to see it.
Those bastards really thought this through.
The first part was a common trick, nothing particularly novel, but the latter half—the ploy of deploying another fake right after the first one—now that was truly well-crafted.
Hardly anyone would imagine there being two layers of the same scheme—and since they were dealing with a policeman this time, naturally everyone let their guard down thinking he must be genuine.
By doing this, the actual police wouldn't discover anything until much later, giving them plenty of time to flee far away.

However, as I thought this through, I suddenly realized there was an inconsistency—if those two were indeed working together.
Yes.
That very point.
Since the Chief had been making frequent appearances at the police station since then, they should have immediately recognized that second policeman as an impostor.
Well now—I found myself utterly unable to make sense of anything anymore.

Had I waited nearly an hour? Before long, the two men emerged from the restaurant with flushed faces. Of course, I followed them. They left the bustling district and gradually walked toward quieter streets, but upon reaching a certain corner, they paused briefly, nodded to each other, then parted ways there. I agonized over which one to trail but ultimately chose to follow the one who’d taken the money—the man I’d first spotted. Since he was drunk, he staggered unsteadily toward the town’s outskirts. The surroundings grew increasingly desolate, making tailing far more difficult. I trailed about fifty meters behind, sticking to shadows under eaves as much as possible while creeping along nervously. As I kept walking, I found myself reaching the edge of town where no houses remained. Ahead lay a small grove housing what seemed to be a shrine—a sacred shrine grove, you might call it—and the man marched boldly into it. An uneasy feeling crept over me. Surely his home couldn’t be deep within that woods? I seriously considered giving up, but having come this far, abandoning it now felt wasteful. Steeling myself, I kept following him. But the moment I stepped into the grove—I froze in shock. The man I’d assumed was still far ahead had instead leaped out from behind a massive tree trunk to stand right before me. He wore a sly grin and stared fixedly at me.

At that moment, I instinctively braced myself, thinking he might lunge at me any second—but to my utter astonishment, the man—

“Hey, long time no see,” he addressed me in a tone as if greeting an old friend. Well—to think such brazen scoundrels existed in this world. I stood utterly dumbfounded.

“I was thinking of going to express my thanks,” the guy said.

“Because I was so splendidly done in back then.”
“Even someone like me was completely taken in by your boss.”
“You, when you get back, kindly do me the favor of passing that along, will you?”

Of course, I had no idea what he was talking about.
I must have looked utterly bewildered.
He said with a laugh.

“So even you were taken in, huh? Surprised, are you? Those were all counterfeit bills. Had they been real—with five thousand yen at stake—it would’ve been clean work. But no dice. Every last one was expertly forged.”

“What?! Counterfeits? That’s absurd!” I barked before I could stop myself.

“Hah! Look at you jump. Want proof? Here—one, two, three bills. Three hundred yen total.” He flipped through the notes like playing cards. “Passed out the rest already. This is all that’s left. Get a good look—skillful work, but fakes through and through.”

He took out a hundred-yen bill from his wallet and, as he handed it to me, said—

“Since you don’t know a damn thing, you probably tailed me here trying to track me down—but that’s playing with fire, you realize.”
“Your boss’s neck’s on the line.”
“The one who deceived followers and extorted donations to swap with counterfeits versus the thief who stole them—you know which crime’s heavier without me spelling it out.”
“You’d better head back now. When you do, kindly convey my regards to the Chief—tell him I said I’d come by to thank him personally.”

Having said that, the man briskly went off in that direction.
I stood frozen for a long time, three hundred-yen bills in hand.

Ah, so that's how it was.
That completely explains how everything fits together.
It would be no wonder if those two were of the same kind.
The Chief frequently going to check with the police—that came as a surprise to everyone.
If they hadn't done that, it would've become an official police case—if they'd caught the thief, the counterfeit business would've been exposed.
He couldn't have been surprised even when that threatening letter arrived.
If they were fakes, there was nothing to fear.
Still, I'd thought him a speculator, but I never imagined he'd stoop to such wickedness.
Chief—maybe he'd dabbled in those shady investments and messed up.
Then perhaps he sourced counterfeit bills from somewhere—they say you can get convincing ones through Chinese connections—to keep up appearances before me and the followers.
Now that I think of it, various things do fall into place.
It's a miracle none of the followers had tipped off the police till now.
I burned with anger at my own stupidity for not seeing it until that thief spelled it out—even after getting home that day, I stewed in misery till nightfall.

After that, things took a rather strange turn, you know.
Because I couldn’t possibly expose the misdeeds of the Chief, an old acquaintance of mine, I kept quiet, but I felt somehow ill at ease.
Until then, it had just been a matter of feeling morally queasy, but now that I realized this, I didn’t feel like staying at the church for even a day longer.
Not long after that, since I found work elsewhere, I promptly requested leave and left.
I didn’t want to be a thief’s underling, you see.
This is the reason why I left the church.

"But here’s the thing. The story isn’t over yet. This is precisely the part that feels like a fabricated tale. As for those three hundred yen supposedly in counterfeit bills—well, I’d kept them tucked at the bottom of my wallet as a memento ever since. But then one day, my wife—I’d married her after leaving the church—unknowingly used one of those bills to make an end-of-month payment. Of course, it was bonus month, so even a poor man like me would have had a decent sum in his wallet—my wife’s mistake wasn’t entirely unreasonable. And would you believe it—it passed without a hitch. Hahaha. What do you think? This is quite an interesting story, isn’t it? Huh? What reason are you asking about? ‘Well, I never did look into that afterward, so to this day, I don’t know.’ ‘The fact remains that the three hundred yen I had wasn’t counterfeit.’ The remaining two bills also ended up being used for my wife’s spring clothes fund, you see."

That thief might have actually stolen real bills back then, then lied about them being counterfeit to throw me off his trail when I was tailing him.
If he tosses it out so casually like that—and we're talking hundreds of yen, not just pocket change—anyone would get tricked for a moment.
Truth is, I swallowed every word he said without even checking properly.
But if that's how it went down, I really need to apologize to the Chief for suspecting him.

And then, the other policeman—the one who said he’d catch the thief—well...
Is he real or fake?
The reason I suspected the Chief stemmed from that policeman going to a restaurant with the thief, but now that I think about it, that man might have been a real policeman who was later bribed by the thief.
Or perhaps he’d marked him as a suspect in the line of duty and was associating with him—in other words, acting as a detective.
Given how the Chief usually conducted himself, I ended up jumping to conclusions like that though.

There were still various other ways to think about it, you know. For example, one couldn't rule out the possibility that the thief had meant to pass counterfeit bills but carelessly handed me real ones by mistake. Well, the ending remained rather vague and the story didn't hold together well, but hey—if someone were to make this into a detective novel, they could just pick any of these possibilities and wrap it up neatly. In any case, wasn't it just amusing? ...Anyway, I ended up buying spring clothes for my wife with the money I got from that thief, you see. Hahahahaha.