Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

There are times when I think. Detective novelists may be divided into two types: what you might call the criminal-type—writers who focus solely on crime and remain unsatisfied unless fully depicting a criminal's cruel psychology even when crafting deductive detective stories—and what you might call the detective-type—thoroughly wholesome writers interested only in the rational detective's methodology and completely unconcerned with a criminal's psychology. And so, Oe Shundei—the detective novelist I intend to chronicle—belongs to the former category, while I myself likely fall into the latter. Consequently, though engaged in a profession that traffics in crime, I am no villain whatsoever, finding fascination solely in a detective's scientific deductions. No—one could say there are few as morally acute as myself. That I—this guileless paragon of virtue—became entangled in this affair through mere happenstance was fundamentally where things went awry. Had I been but slightly less morally attuned—had I harbored even a modicum of roguish inclination—I might have avoided such profound remorse. I need never have plunged into this terrifying chasm of suspicion. Indeed, under different circumstances, I might now bask in domestic bliss with a comely wife and extravagant fortune, my days steeped in satisfaction.

A considerable amount of time had passed since the incident concluded, and though a certain terrifying suspicion remained unresolved, I had distanced myself from reality's raw immediacy and grown somewhat retrospective.

And so I found myself inclined to write this something like a record, and while I think turning it into a novel would make for a rather compelling story—even if I were to write through to the end, I lack the courage to publish it immediately. The reason being that Mr. Koyamada's mysterious death, which forms this record's crucial part, still remains fresh in public memory; thus no matter how many pseudonyms I used or embellishments I added, none would accept it as mere fiction. Therefore, it cannot be said that no one in society might suffer inconvenience from this novel—moreover, knowing this fills me with both shame and discomfort. Or rather, to speak truthfully, I am terrified. Not only was the incident itself an eerily sinister affair—like some daytime dream defying comprehension—but the delusions I wove around it were so dreadful they unsettled even myself. Even now, when I think of it, storm clouds blot out the blue sky and a drum-like droning begins echoing from deep within my ears. Thus does my vision darken, making the world itself seem some strange and alien place.

For that reason, though I have no intention of publishing this record immediately, I do wish to someday try my hand at writing a detective novel—my specialty—based on it. This is, so to speak, nothing more than that notebook. It is nothing more than a somewhat detailed memorandum. Therefore, I am writing this down only up to the New Year section in an old diary with blank pages remaining afterward, as if penning a lengthy diary entry.

Before describing the incident, I thought it prudent to provide a detailed explanation concerning detective novelist Oe Shundei—the protagonist of this affair—his character, literary style, and unusual lifestyle; yet in truth, until this incident occurred, though I had known him through his writings and even debated him in magazine articles, I had no personal acquaintance with him and knew little of his daily existence. Since I only came to learn these particulars in greater detail after the incident occurred—through my friend Honda—I deemed it most natural to begin my account from the initial trigger that drew me into this strange affair, reserving documentation of the facts I investigated through Honda regarding Shundei for when I would write of them later, following the chronological sequence of events.

It was last autumn, in mid-October. I wanted to see old Buddha statues, so I wandered through the dimly lit, hollow rooms of Ueno’s Imperial Museum, muffling my footsteps. The rooms were spacious and deserted, so even the slightest noise created an echo so unnerving that I felt hesitant not just about my footsteps but even about clearing my throat. The museum was so deserted that one might question why such places are so unpopular—there was not a soul in sight. The large glass of the display cases shone coldly, and not even a speck of dust had fallen on the linoleum. The high-ceilinged building, resembling a temple hall, lay hushed and still as though submerged in water’s depths.

Just as I stood before a display case in one of the rooms, absorbed in the dreamlike eroticism of an antiquated wooden Bodhisattva statue, I became aware of muffled footsteps and a faint rustle of silk behind me, sensing someone drawing near. A shiver ran down my spine, and I looked at the figure reflected in the glass before me. There, overlapping with the shadow of the Bodhisattva statue I had been viewing, stood a woman of refined appearance wearing a lined kimono with yellow-striped patterning, her hair arranged in a traditional chignon. The woman soon came to stand beside me shoulder to shoulder and fixed her gaze intently upon the same Buddhist statue I had been viewing.

Though it was shameful, I couldn't help stealing glances toward the woman while feigning interest in the Buddha statue. So thoroughly had she captivated me. Her face was pale, but I had never encountered such an appealing pallor. If mermaids truly exist in this world, they would undoubtedly possess skin as exquisitely alluring as hers. Her features tended toward an old-fashioned oval shape—every contour from eyebrows to nose, lips to neckline and shoulders appearing delicately fragile, willowy in form, carrying an ethereal quality as though she might vanish at a touch like heroines described by novelists of yore. To this day I cannot forget her long lashes and that dreamlike gaze from that time.

Which of us first broke the silence—I cannot clearly recall now—though it was likely I who provided some sort of opening. It began with her and me exchanging a few words about the exhibits displayed there, which led us to tour the entire museum together; afterward, we spent a long time walking companions down through Ueno Park’s hillside after leaving the building, talking sporadically about various matters.

As we conversed in this manner, her beauty grew increasingly imbued with grace. Above all, when she smiled with that fragile beauty tinged with shyness, I could not help but be struck by an uncanny impression—as though gazing at an antique oil painting of a saintly figure or recalling Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile. Her incisors were pure white and large, and when she smiled, the corners of her lips caught on those teeth to form a mysterious curve; yet the prominent mole on her right cheek’s pallid skin mirrored that curve, creating an indescribably tender, nostalgic expression.

But had I not discovered that strange thing upon her neck, she would not have captivated my heart so intensely—beyond merely being an elegant, gentle, fragile beauty who seemed to vanish at a touch. She had skillfully adjusted her collar to conceal it without any affectation, but as we walked through Ueno Park, I caught a fleeting glimpse. On her neck—likely extending deeply toward her back—there had formed a thick, earthworm-like swelling resembling a red birthmark. It appeared like a congenital mark, yet also seemed akin to a recently formed scar. Upon her pale, smooth skin—upon that elegantly delicate neck—that crimson-black swelling crawled like yarn across her flesh, its cruelty somehow exuding an uncanny eroticism. When I saw it, her beauty—which until then had seemed dreamlike—suddenly bore down upon me with raw, visceral reality.

As we conversed, it became clear that she was Koyamada Shizuko, wife of Mr. Koyamada Rokuro—a businessman and one of the investor members of Roku-Roku Trading Company—but fortunately, she happened to be an avid reader of detective novels who particularly loved my works (I shall never forget how thrilled I was upon hearing this), meaning our relationship as author and reader allowed us to grow close without any awkwardness, sparing me the regret of parting ways with this beautiful woman after that single encounter. We developed a relationship close enough through this connection that we began exchanging letters frequently.

I found Shizuko’s refined tastes—visiting deserted museums despite being a young woman—utterly charming; I felt a dear fondness toward her preference for my works, which were considered the most cerebral among detective novels. In my complete infatuation with her, I frequently sent her letters without any real purpose, to which she unfailingly replied with dignified, feminine responses. As a single man prone to loneliness, how overjoyed I must have been to have gained such a refined female friend.

II The correspondence between Koyamada Shizuko and me continued in this manner for several months. As our letters accumulated, I cannot deny that while trembling with anxiety, I had been subtly imbuing my messages with certain implications; whether imagined or not, Shizuko's replies—though remaining properly reserved beyond mere formal exchange—began to contain something resembling a warm sentiment. To lay bare the truth—though it shames me to admit—I had painstakingly ascertained that Shizuko's husband, Mr. Koyamada Rokuro, not only was considerably older than her but appeared even more aged than his years would suggest, a man whose head had completely gone bald.

Then, around February of this year, strange elements began to surface in Shizuko's letters. She seemed profoundly frightened by something.

“Lately, something most troubling has occurred, and I find myself waking frequently at night.”

She wrote something like this in one of her letters. Though the wording was simple, beneath those words—throughout the entire letter—the figure of her battling terror seemed vividly visible. “Master, might you perhaps be acquainted with Mr. Oe Shundei, who is also a detective novelist?” “If you happen to know that gentleman’s address, would you be so kind as to inform me?”

One of the letters contained the following. Of course, I was well acquainted with Oe Shundei’s works; however, as Shundei himself was an extreme misanthrope who had never once appeared at writers’ gatherings or similar events, I had no personal interactions with him. Moreover, I had heard rumors that he had abruptly ceased writing around mid-last year and moved somewhere unknown—his very address now a mystery. I had answered Shizuko truthfully in this manner, but when it occurred to me that her recent terror might somehow relate to that Oe Shundei, I found myself experiencing an unpleasant sensation for reasons I would later explain.

Not long after that, a brief note arrived from Shizuko: "There is something I would like to consult with you about—would it be permissible for me to call upon you?" I had vaguely sensed the nature of this “consultation,” but never could I have imagined it would involve such a horrifying matter. Foolishly giddily elated, I had even indulged in elaborate daydreams about the pleasure of meeting her for the second time. Yet when Shizuko—having received my reply stating, “I await your visit”—came to call upon me that very day, she appeared so visibly dejected even as I greeted her at my boarding house’s entrance that it thoroughly dashed my expectations. Her “consultation” proved so abnormal an affair that all my prior fantasies vanished without trace.

“I have truly come here driven by desperation.” “Master, I thought that if it were you, you might listen to me... But wouldn’t it be rude of me to bring such a frank consultation to you in your present circumstances?”

At that moment, Shizuko smiled her fragile smile—her incisors and mole standing out—and softly looked up at me. It being the cold season, I had placed a rosewood oblong brazier beside my work desk, but she sat properly across from it, resting the fingers of both hands on its edge. Those fingers—as if symbolizing her entire being—were supple, slender, and delicate; yet not emaciated, their pallor not unhealthy; fragile enough to vanish if grasped, yet possessing an exquisitely subtle resilience. Not just her fingers—her entire being gave exactly that impression.

Seeing her earnest demeanor, I found myself growing serious. When I responded, “If there’s anything I can do,” she prefaced her words with “It truly is something eerie,” then wove together the story of her circumstances since childhood to reveal the following bizarre fact to me. To briefly recount the personal history Shizuko related at that time: her hometown was Shizuoka, where she had grown up in utmost happiness until just before graduating from girls’ school. The sole misfortune one might speak of was that during her fourth year at girls’ school, she had succumbed to a young man named Hirata Ichiro’s cunning seduction and become briefly involved with him. The reason this constituted misfortune was that she—merely an eighteen-year-old girl acting on a fleeting whim—had engaged in a mock romance without ever truly caring for the young Hirata. And this was because, while it had not been true love on her part, the man had been deadly serious. She tried desperately to avoid the persistently pestering Hirata Ichiro, but the more she did so, the deeper the young man’s obsession grew. Eventually, late at night, a dark figure began prowling outside her house’s walls, and eerie threatening letters started appearing in the mailbox. The eighteen-year-old girl trembled violently at the terrifying repercussions of her impulsive act. Her parents, noticing their daughter’s unusual state, were deeply anguished.

At that very moment—though for Shizuko it could even be considered a blessing—a great misfortune befell her family. Due to the economic upheaval at the time, her father found himself saddled with unmanageable debts; forced to shutter his business and flee almost like a nighttime escape, he had no choice but to go into hiding by relying on a minor acquaintance they knew in Hikone. This unforeseen change in circumstances forced Shizuko to withdraw from girls' school just before graduation; yet conversely, the sudden relocation allowed her to escape Hirata Ichiro's unnerving persistence, which gave her a sense of profound relief.

Her father fell ill because of that and soon passed away; afterward, a wretched life continued for some time upon her mother and Shizuko, now reduced to just the two of them. But that misfortune did not last very long. Before long, Mr. Koyamada—a businessman from the same village where they had been living in obscurity—appeared before them. That was their salvation. Mr. Koyamada fell deeply in love with Shizuko after catching a glimpse of her and sought connections to propose marriage. Shizuko did not dislike Mr. Koyamada either. Though he was more than ten years her senior, she felt a certain admiration for Mr. Koyamada’s dashing gentlemanly demeanor. The marriage negotiations proceeded smoothly. Mr. Koyamada returned to his Tokyo residence with his mother, bringing the bride Shizuko with him.

Seven years flowed by. Apart from Shizuko’s mother passing away around their third year of marriage, followed some time later by Mr. Koyamada undertaking a roughly two-year overseas journey for critical company duties (he had returned to Japan at the end of the year before last; during those two years, Shizuko reportedly consoled her solitary loneliness by daily visits to instructors of tea ceremony, flower arrangement, and music), their household experienced no notable incidents, and days of marital harmony continued blissfully. Mr. Koyamada was a highly driven individual, and over those seven years, he rapidly amassed wealth. And now, he established an unshakable position among his colleagues.

“It is truly shameful to admit, but I told a lie to Koyamada when we married.” “I ended up concealing the matter of Hirata Ichiro.” Shizuko, overcome with shame and sorrow, kept her long-lashed eyes lowered, tears pooling in them, as she spoke in a small, thin voice.

“Koyamada had apparently heard Hirata Ichiro’s name somewhere and grown somewhat suspicious, but I insisted I knew no man other than Koyamada and concealed my relationship with Hirata thoroughly.” “And I have been continuing that lie to this very day.” “The more Koyamada doubted, the more I had no choice but to conceal it.” “It’s truly terrifying to think where people’s misfortunes lie hidden.” “Even though the lie I told seven years ago—and it was never a lie born of malice—could it have now taken on such a terrifying form to torment me?” “I had truly forgotten all about Hirata.” “Even when such a letter suddenly arrived from Hirata, and even upon seeing the sender’s name as Hirata Ichiro, I was so utterly forgetful that for a time I could not recall who he was.”

Shizuko said this and showed several letters that had come from Hirata. Afterward, I was entrusted with the safekeeping of those letters and still have them here; as the first one that arrived will serve well to advance the narrative, I shall transcribe it here.

Ms. Shizuko. I have finally found you. You may not have noticed, but from the moment I encountered you, I followed you and discovered the location of your residence. I also learned your current surname—Koyamada. Surely you haven't forgotten Hirata Ichiro? Do you remember how utterly detestable I was? I agonized endlessly after being abandoned by you—something a heartless woman like you could never comprehend. How many nights did I wander around your residence in torment? Yet the more my passion burned, the colder you grew. You avoided me, feared me, and finally came to hate me. Can you fathom the heart of a man despised by his lover? Is it so unnatural that my anguish turned to lament, my lament to resentment, until that resentment hardened into vengeful resolve? When you vanished like a fugitive—exploiting family circumstances without even a farewell—I sat fasting in my study for days. And there I swore revenge. Being young then, I knew no means to track your whereabouts. Your father—beset by creditors—disappeared without revealing his destination to anyone. I knew not when I might meet you again. But contemplating my whole life, I found it unthinkable to endure existence without encountering you again.

I was poor. I was in a position where I had to work to eat. One reason was that this utterly hindered me from searching for your whereabouts. One year, two years—time passed like an arrow, yet I remained locked in battle with poverty. And that fatigue made me forget my resentment toward you without even meaning to. I became obsessed with mere survival. But about three years ago, unexpected good fortune came my way. When I had failed at every profession and languished in despair’s depths, I wrote a single novel to vent my frustration. This became the catalyst—I attained a position where I could sustain myself through writing novels. Since you still read novels even now, you must know of the detective novelist Oe Shundei. Though he hasn’t written anything for nearly a year, the public likely hasn’t forgotten his name. That Oe Shundei is none other than myself—the one who speaks these words. Do you imagine that I, intoxicated by this hollow literary fame, have forgotten my resentment toward you? No, no—it was precisely because those blood-drenched novels harbored profound resentment within my heart that I could write them. Had my readers known that all elements—the paranoia, obsession, cruelty—sprang from my relentless thirst for revenge, they would have shuddered at the sinister aura permeating those pages.

Ms. Shizuko. Having secured stability in my life, I endeavored to find you to the fullest extent that money and time permitted. Of course, I did not entertain any impossible hopes of regaining your love. I already have a wife. I have a wife in name only, taken to eliminate the inconveniences of daily living. But for me, lovers and wives are entirely separate entities. In other words, just because I have taken a wife does not mean I have forgotten my resentment toward my lover.

Ms. Shizuko. At last, I have found you. I am trembling with joy. The time has come to fulfill my years-long wish. For a long time now, I have constructed the means of my revenge against you with the same joy as when devising the plots of my novels. I have carefully deliberated upon the method that would most torment and terrify you. The time has finally come to put it into action. Perceive my exultation.

You cannot seek protection from the police or others to hinder my plans. I have made every necessary preparation. For about a year now, my disappearance has circulated among newspaper and magazine reporters. This concealment stemmed not from vengeance against you, but from my misanthropy and love of secrecy—yet it has unwittingly served its purpose. I shall vanish from society with redoubled meticulousness. Then I shall steadily progress with my plan for revenge against you.

You undoubtedly want to know my plan. But I cannot disclose its entirety now. For terror proves most effective when it gradually draws near. However, should you insist on asking, I do not begrudge revealing a fragment of my revenge enterprise. For instance, I can now recount to you without the slightest error every trivial occurrence that transpired around you in your home three days prior—that is, on the night of January thirty-first.

From seven o'clock until half past seven in the evening, you leaned against the small desk in the room assigned as your bedroom and read a novel. The novel was Hirotsu Ryūrō's short story collection *Henmetsuden*. You finished reading only *Henmetsuden* from within it. From seven thirty to seven forty, you ordered tea and sweets from the maid, consuming two Fūgetsu maijū pastries and three bowls of tea. From 7:40, after using the toilet for about five minutes, you returned to the room. From then until around 9:10, you were lost in thought while knitting. At 9:10 PM, your husband returned home. From around 9:20 PM until just past 10 PM, you kept your husband company during his evening drink and engaged in casual conversation. At that time, urged by your husband, you drank about half a glass of wine. The wine had just been opened, and a small cork fragment had fallen into the glass, which you picked out with your fingers. As soon as the evening drink ended, you had the maid lay out two futons, and after both of you used the toilet, you went to bed. Then, until eleven o'clock, both of you remained awake. When you lay down again in your bed, the slow-ticking clock in your house struck eleven o'clock.

Can you read this record, as faithful as a train timetable, and remain unafraid?

February 3rd, late at night — From the Avenger

To the woman who stole love from my life

"I was aware of the name Oe Shundei for some time now, but I had no idea it was Hirata Ichiro’s pen name."

Shizuko explained with visible revulsion. In truth, even among us writers, those who knew Oe Shundei's real name had been few in number. As for myself, had I not seen the colophons of his books or heard Honda—who often visited me—speak of him by his real name, I might never have learned the name Hirata. To such an extent was he a misanthrope—a man who never showed his face in society. There had been about three more threatening letters from Hirata beyond those already mentioned, all following the same pattern—though each bore a postmark from a different office—without exception in their structure: following vengeful curses came exhaustive records of Shizuko's nightly activities, meticulously annotated with precise times. Most strikingly, even the most intimate details of her bedroom had been brazenly laid bare. Gestures and words that would make anyone blush had been coldly chronicled.

How shameful and agonizing it must have been for Shizuko to show such letters to another person was all too easy to imagine, but that she endured even that and chose me as her confidant must be called truly extraordinary. This, on one hand, revealed how deeply she feared her husband Mr. Rokuro learning of her past secret—the fact that she had not been a virgin prior to marriage—while at the same time, it also served as proof of how profound her trust in me truly was.

“I have no family except my husband’s relatives, nor any close friends with whom I could discuss such matters—though I knew it was presumptuous of me—but I believed that if I relied on you, Master, you would tell me what I ought to do.”

When she spoke to me like that—when I considered how this beautiful woman relied on me so utterly—I felt such happiness that my heart raced. That I was a detective novelist like Oe Shundei, that within the realm of fiction at least I possessed considerable deductive skill, undoubtedly formed part of her reason for choosing me as her confidant; yet even so, such a consultation would never have occurred had she not maintained profound trust and goodwill toward me.

Needless to say, I accepted Shizuko’s request and agreed to provide as much assistance as possible. To know Shizuko’s actions in such exhaustive detail, Oe Shundei must have either bribed a servant of the Koyamada household, infiltrated the residence himself to lurk near her, or carried out some similarly malicious scheme—there was no other conclusion. Judging from his writing style, Shundei was precisely the sort of man who would resort to such outlandish methods. I asked Shizuko if she had any leads regarding that matter, but strangely enough, she said there were no such traces whatsoever. The servants were all long-term live-ins who thoroughly understood the household’s ways; the mansion’s gates and walls had been constructed with extraordinary care by her husband—a particularly fastidious man—making them quite secure; moreover, even if someone were to infiltrate the mansion, approaching Shizuko’s secluded quarters without being noticed by the servants would be nearly impossible, she explained.

But, to tell the truth, I despised Oe Shundei’s ability to carry out his plans. What could a mere detective novelist like him possibly achieve? At best, he could only frighten Shizuko with the prose of his own letters; there was no way he could execute any more nefarious schemes than that. I had written him off as harmless. How he had managed to uncover the minutiae of Shizuko’s actions struck me as somewhat puzzling; but I lightly assumed that this too was simply another display of his magician-like cleverness—that without much effort, he had probably wheedled the information out of someone. And so, I explained my thoughts to comfort Shizuko; since it would also be convenient for me in that regard, I firmly promised that I would track down Oe Shundei’s whereabouts and, if possible, confront him to put a stop to these absurd antics—then sent her home. I focused my efforts more on comforting Shizuko with gentle words than on scrutinizing Oe Shundei’s threatening letters. Of course, this was because I found it pleasing. Then, as we parted, I said something like, “It would be best not to tell your husband about this at all. This matter isn’t significant enough to sacrifice your secret over.” Foolish I was—I wanted to prolong, as long as possible, the enjoyment of discussing with her alone the secret even her husband did not know.

However, I truly intended to carry out at least the task of locating Oe Shundei. I had long intensely disliked Shundei, whose tendencies were diametrically opposed to mine. He prided himself on making perverse readers cheer with his decayed, womanish paranoia-laden tirades, and I found him unbearably irritating. Therefore, I had even thought that if possible, I would expose his clandestine misconduct and make him howl in distress. I had never imagined that tracking down Oe Shundei’s whereabouts would prove so difficult.

III

Oe Shundei was a detective novelist who had suddenly emerged from a completely different professional field about four years ago, as mentioned in his letters. When he published his debut work, the literary world—where detective novels written by Japanese were almost nonexistent at the time—applauded it tremendously out of novelty. To put it grandly, he suddenly became the darling of the literary world. He was not prolific, yet he continued to publish new novels one after another in various newspapers and magazines. Each one was gruesome, sinister, evil—works so eerie and repulsive that a single reading would send shivers down one’s spine—yet this very quality became their captivating charm, and his popularity showed no signs of waning.

I too had switched from writing juvenile novels to detective novels around the same time as he did; and though we both became quite well-known within the small detective fiction community, Oe Shundei and I differed so greatly in our styles that one could say they were polar opposites. His style was dark, morbid, and obsessively detailed, whereas mine was bright and sensible. As a natural consequence, we had come to strangely compete in our writing. And we even disparaged each other’s works. That said—irritating as it was—I was the one doing most of the criticizing. Though Shundei occasionally rebutted my arguments, he generally remained aloof and silent. And he continued to publish one terrifying work after another. Even as I criticized him, I couldn’t help but be struck by the eerie aura that pervaded his works. He possessed a passion akin to a smoldering subterranean fire. (If this stemmed from his deep-seated grudge against Shizuko as described in his letters, one might somewhat concede the point—) an inscrutable charm captivated his readers. To tell the truth, every time his works were applauded, I couldn’t help feeling an inexpressible jealousy. I even harbored childish enmity. The desire to somehow defeat that bastard had constantly lurked in a corner of my heart. But about a year ago, he abruptly stopped writing novels and disappeared without a trace. His popularity had not waned—magazine reporters had scoured everywhere for his whereabouts—yet for some reason, he had vanished completely. Though he was a man I detested, now that he was gone, I felt a certain loneliness. To put it in childish terms, I was left with a sense of dissatisfaction—as though I had lost a rival. It was Koyamada Shizuko who brought news—and what’s more, extremely bizarre news—concerning Oe Shundei’s recent activities. Though it shames me to admit, under such bizarre circumstances, I could not help but secretly rejoice at this reunion with my old rival.

But when I considered it, the fact that Oe Shundei had shifted the fantasies he poured into constructing detective stories into actual execution might have been a natural progression after all. This fact should be widely known to the world, but as someone once said, he was a “fantasy-driven criminal lifestyle practitioner.” With the same morbid fascination and exhilaration that a serial killer derives from murdering people, he conducted his blood-soaked criminal life on manuscript paper. His readers would remember the peculiar eerie aura that clung to his novels. They would remember that his works were always filled with extraordinary paranoia, an obsession with secrecy, and cruelty. In one of his novels, he had even let slip the following eerie words.

“Might the time have finally come when he could no longer be satisfied with mere novels?” He had grown weary of this world’s dullness and mundanity, taking pleasure in at least giving form to his abnormal fantasies on paper. That was what had led him to begin writing novels. But now, he had even grown tired of those novels. Where on earth was he to seek stimulation now? Crime—ah, crime alone remained. “Before him who had exhausted all things, there remained only the exquisitely sweet thrill of crime.”

He was also extremely eccentric in his daily life as a writer. His misanthropy and secretiveness were well-known among fellow writers and magazine reporters. Visitors were rarely shown to his study. He would unflinchingly turn away even senior colleagues at the entrance. Moreover, he frequently moved residences and, claiming to be ill nearly all year round, never attended writers’ gatherings or similar events. According to rumors, he would lie sprawled out on his perpetually unmade futon day and night, doing everything—whether it was meals or writing—while remaining in bed. And it was said that even during the day, he would tightly close the storm shutters, deliberately turn on a five-candlepower lamp, and writhe about in the dimly lit room while weaving his signature eerie delusions.

When I learned he had stopped writing novels and gone missing, I secretly wondered if perhaps—just as he often wrote in his stories—he had begun nesting in Asakusa’s squalid backstreets to start putting his delusions into practice. Sure enough, within less than half a year, he appeared before me precisely as a delusion practitioner. I concluded that tracking down Shundei’s whereabouts would require inquiries with newspaper literary departments or magazine reporters specializing in external assignments. Even so, given Shundei’s exceedingly eccentric habits—he rarely received visitors—and considering magazine companies had already tried locating him without success, I needed a reporter particularly close to him; fortunately, such a person existed among my acquaintances in journalism. This was Honda—a diplomatic reporter from Hakubunkan renowned in his field—who had essentially served as Shundei’s handler during the period when procuring manuscripts from him was part of his duties; moreover, fitting his role as a reporter, he possessed detective-like skills not to be underestimated.

So I called Honda, had him come over, and first inquired about aspects of Shundei’s life I was unaware of; then, Honda—using a tone as casual as if addressing a playmate— “Shundei?” “He’s a despicable bastard.” With a face like the god Daikoku, grinning broadly, he obligingly answered my questions. According to Honda, when Shundei first began writing novels, he lived in a small rented house in suburban Ikebukuro; but as his literary reputation rose and his income increased, he gradually moved around to more spacious houses—though most were still row houses. Ushigome’s Kikuimachi, Negishi, Yanaka Hatsunechō, Nippori Kanasugi, and so on—Honda listed about seven places where Shundei had moved over roughly two years. From around the time he moved to Negishi, Shundei finally became a popular figure, and magazine reporters flocked to him in droves; however, his misanthropy was already present then—he would always keep the front door shut, while his wife and others would come and go through the back entrance. Even when reporters went to the trouble of visiting, he wouldn’t meet them—pretending to be out—then later sending a letter of apology stating, “I detest people, so please communicate any matters by letter.” Most reporters would grow discouraged, and only a handful ever managed to meet and speak with Shundei. Even magazine reporters who were accustomed to novelists’ eccentricities found Shundei’s misanthropy excessive.

But as luck would have it, Shundei’s wife was quite the capable wife, and Honda often handled manuscript negotiations and reminders through her. However, meeting her was no simple task; not only was the front door kept shut, but signs with strict messages like “No Visitors Due to Illness” or “Away on Travel” sometimes hung there—or even notices reading: “To All Magazine Reporters: All manuscript requests must be submitted by letter. No visitors allowed.” With such prohibitive signs in place, even someone as tenacious as Honda often found himself exasperated and returning empty-handed more than once. Given these circumstances, he never sent relocation notices; reporters had to track down his new addresses themselves using postal records.

“Even among all those magazine reporters, I bet I’m the only one who’s actually talked with Shundei and exchanged jokes with his wife.” Honda said this boastfully. “Shundei looks quite handsome in photos, but is he really like that in person?” Growing increasingly curious, I ventured to ask. “No, that photo’s clearly fake.” “He claims it’s from his youth, but something’s off about it.” “Shundei isn’t some dashing gentleman.” “He’s disgustingly flabby—never exercises.” “(Since he’s always lying down) His face skin sags despite the fat, blank as a Chinaman’s, with cloudy fish-eyes. Frankly, he looks like a drowned corpse.” “And he’s hopeless at conversation—barely speaks.” “Makes you wonder how such a man writes those brilliant novels.” “You know Uno Koji’s novel *Human Epilepsy*?” “Shundei’s exactly like that.” “He’s lain around so much he’s got bedsores.” “I’ve only met him two-three times, but he always talks from bed.” “Given his state, I believe he really eats lying down too.”

“But it’s strange, isn’t it? There’s this rumor about a man who hates people and sleeps all day long, yet sometimes disguises himself to wander around Asakusa. And always at the dead of night! He really is like a thief or a bat-like man.” “I think he must be pathologically shy—don’t you agree? In other words, isn’t he simply disgusted by having others see his bloated body and face? The more his literary fame grew, the more ashamed he became of that unsightly physique.” “So without making friends or meeting visitors, he sneaks out at night to roam through crowded streets as compensation. From Shundei’s temperament and his wife’s testimony, that’s certainly how it seems.”

Honda quite eloquently evoked the visage of Shundei. And then, in the end, he reported a truly bizarre fact.

“But here’s the thing, Mr. Samukawa—just the other day, I actually encountered that missing Oe Shundei. His appearance was so altered that I didn’t greet him, but it was undoubtedly Shundei.”

“Where? Where?”

I reflexively asked back. “Asakusa Park.” “I was actually on my way home in the morning then—perhaps I hadn’t fully sobered up yet.” Honda grinned awkwardly and scratched his head. “You know that Chinese restaurant called Rairaiken?” “Right at its corner, from the early hours when few people were about, a heavily overweight bill distributor in a bright red pointed hat and clown costume suddenly stood there.” “It sounds like a dream, but that was Oe Shundei.” “Startled, I stopped and hesitated whether to call out—then he must have noticed me too.” “But with that same vacant expression, he turned sharply around and hurried straight into the alley across the way.” “I nearly gave chase, but considering his bizarre appearance, I thought greeting him would seem stranger still—so I simply went home.”

As I listened to the grotesque details of Oe Shundei’s lifestyle, a growing sense of unease came over me, as though trapped in a nightmare. When I heard he had been standing in Asakusa Park wearing a pointed hat and clown costume, I was inexplicably startled, feeling every hair on my body stand on end. I couldn’t grasp any causal link between his clownish attire and the threatening letters to Shizuko—Honda had encountered Shundei in Asakusa around when the first letter arrived—but regardless, I felt compelled to act.

At that time, I did not forget to select just one page from the threatening letter entrusted to me by Shizuko—choosing a section that was as incomprehensible as possible—show it to Honda, and confirm whether it was indeed Shundei’s handwriting. Then he not only asserted this was undoubtedly Shundei’s handwriting but also stated that the text—down to its adjective choices and kana orthography quirks—could not have been written by anyone other than Shundei. He had once tried writing a novel imitating Shundei’s stylistic mannerisms himself, so he recognized them well—

“I can’t quite imitate that nitpicky prose of his,” he said. I also agreed with his opinion. As I read through the entirety of several letters, I felt the lingering aura of Shundei there more keenly than Honda did. So, under some fabricated pretext, I asked Honda if he could somehow track down Shundei’s whereabouts. Honda,

“Sure thing, leave it to me!”

He readily agreed, but I couldn't feel reassured by that alone, so I myself decided to go to 32 Ueno Sakuragi-cho—where Shundei had last lived, according to Honda—and investigate the neighborhood.

IV The next day, leaving my half-written manuscript as it was, I went to Sakuragi-cho and questioned maids and local merchants about the Shundei household. While this confirmed that Honda had not lied, I could learn nothing about Shundei’s subsequent whereabouts. In that area—with its many middle-class homes featuring small gates—even neighbors didn’t converse like those in tenements, and no one knew anything beyond the fact that they had moved away without announcing their destination. Naturally, since Oe Shundei had not even displayed a nameplate, there was no one who knew he was a famous novelist. Even the moving company that came with a truck to collect the belongings didn’t know which shop it was, so I had no choice but to return empty-handed.

With no other options available, in what little time I had between writing urgent manuscripts, I called Honda daily to inquire about the progress of the investigation, but there seemed to be no leads whatsoever, and five or six days went by. And while we were occupied with such matters, Shundei was steadily advancing his deeply obsessive schemes.

One day, I received a call at my lodgings from Koyamada Shizuko. She said something terribly worrying had occurred and asked me to visit her at once. Her husband was away, she explained, and she had sent any servants she distrusted on distant errands—she would be waiting. She had apparently not used her home telephone but deliberately called from a public booth; her hesitation in uttering even these few words was so profound that the call disconnected midway when the three-minute time limit expired.

Taking advantage of her husband’s absence, she had sent the servants out on errands and quietly summoned me—this alluring arrangement left me with an odd sensation. Of course, that wasn’t the reason—but I immediately acquiesced and called upon her residence at Asakusa Hill Lodgings. The Koyamada house was an antiquated structure nestled deep between mercantile establishments, reminiscent of an old-fashioned boardinghouse. Though indiscernible from the front, I imagined the Ōkawa River might flow behind it. What clashed with this dormitory-like impression was a garishly crude concrete wall encircling the estate—seemingly a recent addition, with glass shards embedded along its top as burglary deterrents—and a two-story Western-style edifice looming behind the main building. These two elements jarred discordantly with the traditional Japanese architecture, exuding a vulgar ostentation that reeked of nouveau riche pretension.

After presenting my card, I was ushered by a country-looking maid to the reception room in the Western-style building, where Shizuko waited in an unusual state of preparedness. After apologizing repeatedly and profusely for the rudeness of summoning me, her voice dropped to a whisper for some reason as she said, “First, please look at this,” and presented a sealed letter. And then, as if fearing something, she glanced over her shoulder and drew closer to me. It was indeed another threatening letter from Oe Shundei, but since its contents differed slightly from previous ones, I decided to affix its full text below.

Shizuko. I can practically visualize your anguish. That you're secretly laboring to uncover my whereabouts behind your husband's back—I know this perfectly well. But cease this futile endeavor. Even were you to muster the courage to confess my threats to your husband and set the police upon me, my location would remain beyond discovery. The extent of my meticulousness should be apparent from my past literary works, should it not?

Well, I suppose it's time to conclude my preliminary maneuvers here. My enterprise of revenge has reached the stage to transition into its second phase. Regarding this, I must impart some preparatory knowledge to you. How have I been able to know your nightly conduct with such precision? By now, you must have largely surmised the answer. To put it plainly—ever since discovering you, I have clung to your person like a shadow. Though imperceptible from your vantage, from mine—whether you keep indoors or venture out—not a moment passes where my gaze isn't fixed upon you. I have transformed utterly into your shadow. Even now, as you quiver reading this letter, I—your shadow—might be observing intently from some corner, narrowing my eyes.

As you well know, while observing your nightly actions, I found myself unavoidably confronted with the intimacy of your marital relationship. I could not help but feel intense jealousy. This was something I had not accounted for when first devising my revenge plan; yet far from hindering my designs, this jealousy instead became fuel that ignited my vengeful resolve. And I realized that making a slight modification to my plan would prove even more effective for my purpose. To put it plainly: Under my initial scheme, I intended to torment you relentlessly, terrify you utterly, then slowly take your life. But after being made lately to witness the intimacy between you and your husband, I have come to think it far more effective to first seize your beloved husband's life before your very eyes, let you fully savor that grief, then turn to you. And I have indeed settled on that course. But there's no need for panic. I never rush, you see. First of all, it would be too wasteful to execute the next step before you—having read this letter—have fully endured your suffering.

March 16th, late night — From the “Avenging Demon”

Ms. Shizuko

Upon reading these words of extreme cruelty, even I couldn’t help but shudder. And I felt my hatred for that inhuman Oe Shundei grow severalfold. But if I were to show fear now, who would comfort that pitifully broken Shizuko? Forcing myself to appear calm, I could only repeat that this threatening letter was nothing but a novelist’s delusion. “Please, Sir—you must speak more quietly.”

While I earnestly tried to persuade her，Shizuko seemed distracted by something else，occasionally staring fixedly at one spot and making gestures as though straining to listen. Then，as if someone were eavesdropping，she lowered her voice to a whisper. Her lips had lost all color，indistinguishable from her ashen complexion.

“Sir, I think something is wrong with my mind.” "But could those things really be true?"

Shizuko muttered incomprehensible things in a whisper, in a manner that made one suspect she had lost her mind. "Has something happened?" I too was drawn in and found myself whispering ominously.

“Mr. Hirata is inside this house.” “Where?” I couldn’t grasp her meaning and remained stupefied.

Then, Shizuko stood up resolutely, turned deathly pale, and beckoned to me. When I saw that, I too felt a strange thrill and followed her. Along the way, when she noticed my wristwatch, she made me remove it for some reason and went back to place it on the table. Then, muffling even our footsteps, we passed through a short corridor and entered the room that was Shizuko’s parlor in the Japanese-style wing; but when she slid open the fusuma door there, she showed terror as though a villain might be hiding just beyond.

“How strange.” “That man sneaking into your home in broad daylight—could this be some sort of misunderstanding?” As I began to say such things, she looked startled, silenced me with a gesture, took my hand, led me to a corner of the room, then directed her gaze toward the ceiling above as if to signal, “Be quiet and listen.”

We stood there for about ten minutes, staring into each other’s eyes and straining our ears in utter stillness. Though it was daytime, the innermost room of the sprawling mansion lay in such utter stillness—devoid of any noise—that one could hear the very sound of blood flowing in their ears. “Can’t you hear the tick-tock of the clock?” After a little while, Shizuko whispered to me in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.

“No—where is this clock you’re talking about?” Then Shizuko fell silent again and strained her ears for a while. Perhaps finally reassured, she said, “You can’t hear it anymore either, can you?” and beckoned me back to the original Western-style room. There, with labored breathing, she began to speak of something strange.

At that time, she was doing some sewing in the living room when the maid brought in Shundei’s letter that had been left earlier. By now, she had come to recognize it at a mere glance from the envelope’s exterior; upon receiving it, she was overcome with an indescribably unpleasant feeling—yet knowing that not opening it would only heighten her anxiety—she tentatively cut open the envelope and read its contents. And when she learned that the matter had now reached even her husband, she could no longer remain still. She stood up for no particular reason and walked to the corner of the room. And just as she stopped in front of the chest of drawers, she thought she heard a sound—like faint earthworms squirming through soil—coming from above.

“I thought it might be tinnitus at first, but when I endured and kept listening quietly, I could distinctly hear a sound different from ringing—a metallic ticking, like ‘tick, tick.’” It meant someone was hiding above those ceiling boards. She could think of nothing else but that person’s pocket watch ticking against their chest. Through the chance proximity of her ear to the ceiling and the room’s profound silence, she—with nerves honed to sharpness—must have heard the faintest metallic whispers from within the attic space. Perhaps the sound of a clock from another direction was being heard as if from the attic through some principle akin to light reflection—she searched every corner but found no clock nearby.

She suddenly recalled a line from the letter: “Even now, as you tremble reading this letter, I—your shadow—may be watching intently from some corner, eyes narrowed.” Then, just then, she noticed that the ceiling board there had warped slightly, forming a gap. In the pitch darkness beyond that gap, it even began to seem as though Shundei’s eyes were narrowing and gleaming.

“Is that you there, Mr. Hirata?”

At that moment, Shizuko was suddenly seized by an eerie excitement. With resolute determination, as if throwing herself before the enemy, she addressed the figure in the attic through streaming tears. "I don't care what becomes of me." "I'll do anything you wish." "Even if you kill me, I won't resent you." "But please spare my husband." "I lied to him." "If he were to die because of me... it's too horrifying to bear." "Please help me." "Please help me." Though her voice remained small, she poured her heart into each entreaty. Yet from above came only silence. Her momentary fervor spent, she stood deflated for what felt like ages. But the attic retained its faint clock-tick rhythm while outside stayed soundless. The beast in darkness held its breath, mute as stone. In that uncanny stillness, terror suddenly gripped her. She bolted from the parlor—couldn't endure the house—and impulsively dashed outside. Then remembering me in her panic, she rushed into an automatic telephone booth nearby.

As I listened to Shizuko’s account, I could not help recalling Oe Shundei’s eerie novel *Attic Games*. If the sound of the clock that Shizuko heard was not an illusion and Shundei had indeed been hiding there, then he had put that novel’s concept into practice exactly as conceived—a method so quintessentially Shundei that I could not help but acknowledge it. Not only could I not dismiss Shizuko’s seemingly outlandish story with a laugh—precisely because I had read *Attic Games*—but I myself could not help feeling intense terror. In the attic’s darkness, I even hallucinated Oe Shundei—plump, wearing a bright red pointed hat and jester’s costume—grinning mockingly.

5 After much discussion, we ultimately decided that I would climb into the attic above Shizuko’s living room—like the amateur detective in *Attic Games*—to verify whether there were any traces of someone having been there and, if so, determine exactly where they had entered and exited. Shizuko kept objecting, saying, “Such a dreadful idea,” but I brushed her off and, just as I’d learned from Shundei’s novel, prized open the closet’s ceiling board and crawled into the hole like an electrician’s lantern. At that time, aside from the girl who had answered the door earlier, there was no one else in the mansion; moreover, since the girl seemed to be working in the kitchen area, I had no fear of being noticed by anyone.

The attic was nothing like the beautiful space described in Shundei’s novel. Though it was an old house, they had apparently hired professional lye washers during the year-end soot cleaning to remove the ceiling boards and scrub everything thoroughly, so it wasn’t terribly dirty—yet even so, over three months, dust had accumulated and spiderwebs hung here and there. First, since it was pitch dark and I couldn’t do anything about it, I borrowed a flashlight from Shizuko’s house and, painstakingly inching along the beams, made my way toward the area in question. There was a gap in the ceiling boards—likely warped so severely due to the lye washing—and a faint light shone up from below, which served as my marker. But before I had advanced half a ken, I discovered something startling. Even as I climbed into the attic, I had truly thought it impossible—but Shizuko’s imagination had not been mistaken in the slightest. There, on both the beams and the ceiling boards, unmistakable traces remained that suggested someone had passed through recently. I felt a piercing chill. The thought that Oe Shundei—venomous spider-like, whom I knew only through his novels and had never met—had been crawling through that attic in the same manner as I now assaulted me with an indescribable shudder. I stiffened and followed the traces of what seemed to be hands or feet left on the dusty beam. The spot where the sound of the clock had been heard indeed showed severely disturbed dust, with clear traces that someone had been there for a long time.

I had already become engrossed and began pursuing the trail of the figure presumed to be Shundei. He appeared to have traversed nearly every attic space in the house; no matter how far I followed, the trails of disturbed dust along the beams showed no sign of ending. And in the ceilings above Shizuko's living room and bedroom—where the boards had warped apart—only those areas exhibited significantly disturbed dust. I mimicked the attic player and peered down into the room below, finding it hardly unreasonable that Shundei had become enraptured by this vantage. The uncanny quality of "the world below" visible through gaps in the ceiling boards truly surpassed imagination. What struck me most was observing Shizuko's figure bowed directly beneath my gaze—I marveled at how grotesquely human forms could appear when viewed from such an angle. We are always observed from the side, so however self-conscious one might be, none consider their appearance when seen squarely from above. Therein lay profound vulnerability. Precisely through this vulnerability, humans stood exposed in their unadorned essence—awkwardly laid bare. Shizuko's lustrous marumage—already uncanny in shape when viewed from directly above—showed dust thinly accumulated in the hollow between forelocks and bun, rendering it incomparably soiled against her otherwise immaculate coiffure. Beyond her bun at the nape, where kimono collar and back formed a valley visible from my aerial perch, I could see down to the hollow of her spine. There upon that clammy bluish-white skin stretched that repulsive earthworm-like swelling, continuing mercilessly into shadowed depths beyond sight. Viewed from above, Shizuko had shed some refinement, yet in its place I felt an indescribable obscenity inherent to her press upon me with heightened intensity.

Be that as it may, I brought the flashlight close and inspected the beams and ceiling boards for any evidence that might substantiate Oe Shundei’s presence, but all handprints and footprints were indistinct, and naturally, no fingerprints could be identified. Shundei must have faithfully reenacted *Attic Games*, not forgetting to prepare tabi socks and gloves to avoid leaving traces. There was only one thing: directly above Shizuko’s living room, at the base of a support beam suspended from the ceiling joist in a spot slightly out of view, lay a small mouse-gray round object. It was a button-like object made of matte metal, hollow and bowl-shaped, with the letters R·K·BROS·CO· embossed on its surface. When I picked it up, I immediately recalled the shirt button that appears in *Attic Games*, but the item was somewhat odd for a button. I thought it might be a decoration for a hat or something, but I couldn’t ascertain anything definite. Even when I later showed it to Shizuko, she could only tilt her head in puzzlement.

Naturally, I thoroughly investigated where Shundei had sneaked into the attic. Following the trail of disturbed dust led me to where it stopped above the storage room beside the entrance. When I lifted the crude ceiling board of the storage room, it detached effortlessly. Using the broken chair discarded there as a foothold, I climbed down and tried opening the storage room door from inside—it lacked a lock and yielded without resistance. Directly outside stood a concrete wall slightly taller than a person’s height. Likely, Oe Shundei had waited until the streets emptied before scaling this wall (though glass shards were embedded along its top as previously mentioned—trivial obstacles for a methodical intruder) and infiltrated the attic through this now-unlocked storage room.

Once I had completely figured out the trick, I felt somewhat anticlimactic. It seemed like nothing more than a childish prank—the sort even delinquents would pull—and I felt a contemptuous urge to scorn him. The strange, inexplicable fear had vanished, leaving behind only a tangible sense of discomfort. (Though I would later realize this contemptuous dismissal had been a colossal mistake) Shizuko was terrified beyond reason—unable to countenance risking her husband’s safety—and proposed that even at the cost of exposing her secret, it would be better to involve the police. But I—having already begun to scorn our adversary—restrained her, arguing there was no way he could execute such absurd theatrics as dripping poison from the ceiling like in *Attic Games*, nor could anyone commit murder merely by sneaking into an attic. This intimidation tactic, so emblematic of Oe Shundei’s juvenile tendencies, was likely his handiwork—crafting the illusion of criminal machinations through such posturing. I comforted her by insisting that he—for all his pretensions as a novelist—surely lacked any real capacity for decisive action beyond these antics. And since Shizuko remained so terrified, as a hollow reassurance I enlisted a friend who relished such tasks and promised to have him keep watch outside the storage shed’s wall each night. Shizuko mentioned that—taking advantage of a guest bedroom on the second floor of the Western-style house—she would devise some pretext to temporarily relocate their sleeping quarters there. Since Western-style houses lacked ceiling gaps for peering through.

And so these two defense methods were implemented starting the very next day—yet the fearsome claws of the beast Oe Shundei disregarded such stopgap measures. Two days after that, in the late night of March 19th, he strictly observed his own threat and finally slaughtered his first victim. He snuffed out the life of Mr. Koyamada Rokuro.

VI

In addition to threatening Mr. Rokuro’s murder, Shundei’s letter contained the phrase: “But there’s no need to panic—I never rush.” Yet why did he then commit this atrocity in such haste, allowing only two days to pass? While this might have been a stratagem—lulling us into complacency through his letter before striking unexpectedly—I suddenly began to suspect another motive entirely. When I learned that Shizuko had heard the clock’s sound, believed Shundei lurked in the attic, and tearfully pleaded for her husband’s life, I had already anticipated this outcome; yet upon learning of Shizuko’s earnestness, Shundei must have been consumed by intensified jealousy while simultaneously perceiving his own peril. He likely thought: “Very well—if you love your husband so dearly, I shan’t prolong your wait. I’ll dispose of him for you posthaste.” Be that as it may, Mr. Koyamada Rokuro’s mysterious death was discovered under most extraordinary circumstances.

I had rushed to the Koyamada residence that evening upon receiving word from Shizuko and learned all the circumstances for the first time; however, Mr. Rokuro had shown no particular signs of change the previous day—having returned home from work a bit earlier than usual and finished his evening drink, he announced he was going across the river to a friend’s house in Koumé to play Go, and on that warm evening, dressed only in an Oshima crepe-lined undergarment and shioze haori without an overcoat, he strolled out. That was around seven o’clock in the evening. Since it wasn’t far, he walked along the Mukojima embankment as usual—detouring around Azuma Bridge while taking a stroll. And it was clearly established that he had been at the friend’s house in Koumé until around twelve o’clock and had left there on foot as well. But everything beyond that point was completely unknown.

After waiting through the night with no sign of his return—and given that this coincided precisely with when she had received that terrifying threat from Oe Shundei—Shizuko was deeply distressed. Unable to wait until morning, she made inquiries by telephone and messenger to every place she could think of where he might have gone, but there was no trace of him having visited anywhere. Of course she had also called my lodgings, but given that I had been away since the previous night and only returned around evening, I knew nothing of this commotion. Even when the usual time for going to work arrived, Mr. Rokuro did not show up at the company either. The company also tried every possible means to search for him, but his whereabouts remained unknown. In the midst of all this, it had already approached noon. Just then, a call came from Kashiwagi Police informing them of Mr. Rokuro’s mysterious death.

At the western end of Azuma Bridge, slightly north of the Kaminarimon tram stop where one descended the embankment, there existed a commuter steamer terminal that shuttled between Azuma Bridge and Senju Ohashi. A famous attraction on the Sumida River since the days of the one-sen steamers, I often found myself boarding that motorboat for no particular reason, making round trips to places like Kototoi and Shirahige just for the sake of it. Steamship merchants would bring picture books and toys into the boats, and in time with the churning screw propellers' rhythm, they would hawk their wares in hoarse voices reminiscent of silent film narrators. It was because I found that quintessentially rustic, old-fashioned charm utterly irresistible. The steamer terminal was a square, boat-like structure floating on the Sumida River’s surface, with all its passenger benches and restrooms installed upon that unsteadily bobbing vessel. I had used that restroom myself and knew it well—though referred to as a restroom, it was merely a single box-like structure for women, with a rectangular hole cut into the wooden floor, beneath which, just about a foot below, the Ōkawa’s waters flowed with a gurgling sound. Just like the toilets on trains or ships, there was no accumulation of filth—one might even call it clean—but if you stared down through that rectangular hole, the bluish-black water below appeared fathomless and stagnant. Occasionally, bits of debris would emerge from one edge of the hole like microorganisms under a microscope, drifting languidly to vanish at the opposite end. It had an indescribably eerie quality.

Around eight o'clock in the morning on March 20th, a young shop girl from Asakusa Nakamise came to the Azuma Bridge steamer terminal while heading to Senju on an errand. As she waited for the boat, she entered the restroom mentioned earlier. The moment she went in, she suddenly let out a shriek and came rushing back out. When the elderly ticket collector went to investigate, he heard that beneath the restroom's rectangular hole, a man's face had been gazing up at her from within the bluish water. The old ticket collector initially thought it might be some boatman's prank—(such underwater peeping incidents weren't entirely unheard of)—but when he entered the restroom to check regardless, there indeed floated a human face shockingly close beneath the hole, barely a foot below. With each ripple of water, the face would seem half-concealed one moment before abruptly reappearing the next. It moved exactly like a wind-up toy, the old man later recounted with palpable horror.

When he realized it was a human corpse, the elderly ticket collector suddenly panicked and called out loudly to the young workers at the terminal. Among the passengers waiting for the boat was a dashing fishmonger who joined forces with the workers to retrieve the body, but being inside the restroom made lifting impossible, so they pushed the corpse out into open water using poles from outside—only to discover, strangely enough, that it wore nothing but a loincloth, completely naked. The man appeared around forty years old and of fine stature, making it unthinkable he had been swimming in the Sumida River in this weather. Finding this odd, they looked closer and noticed what seemed to be a stab wound on his back. Moreover, the body showed no signs of water intake—unusual for a drowning victim. When they realized this wasn’t merely an accidental death but a murder case, the commotion intensified—but then, as they began retrieving the body from the water, yet another strange discovery emerged.

At the direction of the police officer from Hanakawado Police Box who had rushed over upon receiving word, when a young man from the terminal grabbed the corpse’s tangled hair and tried to pull it up, the hair began slipping off the scalp with a sickening ease. The young man, revolted by the grotesqueness, yelled “Wah!” and let go—but despite the corpse not having been submerged for long, he found it strange that the hair kept slipping off so easily. Upon closer inspection, he realized what he’d thought was hair was actually a wig, revealing a gleaming bald scalp underneath.

This was the tragic death of Mr. Koyamada Rokuro—Shizuko’s husband and a director of Roku-Roku Trading Company. In other words, Mr. Rokuro’s corpse had been stripped naked, fitted with a thick wig over his bald head, and thrown beneath Azuma Bridge. Moreover, though discovered in water, there were no signs of drowning—the fatal wound being a sharp blade’s stab to the left lung area of his back. Given several shallow stab wounds on his back alongside the fatal injury, it was clear the assailant had made multiple attempts. According to the police doctor’s examination, the fatal wound had likely been inflicted around one o’clock the previous night. However, with no clothing or belongings on the corpse, the police remained baffled—until around noon when someone recognized Mr. Koyamada and promptly contacted both his residence and Roku-Roku Trading Company by telephone.

When I visited the Koyamada residence that evening, relatives from Rokuro’s side, employees of Roku-Roku Trading Company, and friends of the deceased had gathered, making the house extremely crowded. Having just returned from the police station, Shizuko sat surrounded by those visitors, staring blankly into space. Since Mr. Rokuro’s body might require an autopsy depending on circumstances, it had not yet been released by the police, and before the Buddhist altar, upon a stand draped in white cloth, only a hastily prepared mortuary tablet had been placed, with solemn offerings of incense and flowers laid before it.

There, I heard from Shizuko and company employees about the aforementioned details of the corpse’s discovery. However, having despised Shundei and stopped Shizuko’s attempt to report to the police just two or three days prior—thereby causing this disgraceful incident—I felt such shame and regret that I could hardly remain seated. I became convinced the culprit could only be Oe Shundei. Shundei must have lured him into the shadows of the steamer terminal when Mr. Rokuro, having left his Go friend’s house in Koumé, passed by Azuma Bridge on his way home—there perpetrated the heinous act and discarded the corpse into the river—this could not have been otherwise. From the timing alone, from Honda’s testimony about Shundei loitering around Asakusa—indeed, from the fact that he had even forewarned of Mr. Rokuro’s murder—there remained no room for doubt that the culprit was Shundei. But even so—why had Mr. Rokuro been stripped completely naked? Why had he been made to wear that strange wig? And if even that was Shundei’s doing, why would he resort to such an outrageous act? There was truly nothing else to call it but mysterious.

I seized an opportunity and, saying "A moment," had her come to a separate room to discuss the secret only she and I knew. Shizuko, as if she had been waiting for this, bowed to the gathered guests and hurriedly followed after me. But once we were out of others’ sight, she cried out “Master” in a small voice, suddenly clung to me. She stared fixedly at my chest—then her long eyelashes glistened fiercely, her eyelids swelled in an instant before those glimmers soon became large teardrops that trickled smoothly, smoothly down her pale cheeks. Tears welled up one after another, swelling and flowing without end.

“I don’t know what to say to apologize to you. “It’s entirely my negligence. “I truly never imagined that man possessed such capacity for action. “It’s my fault. “It’s my fault……” I too became sentimental and took Shizuko’s hand as she sank into tears; gripping it as if to encourage her, I repeated my apologies over and over. (That was the first time I touched Shizuko’s body.) (Though this occurred amidst such circumstances, I remained distinctly aware of—and would long remember—the strange sensation of her fingertips: pale and fragile in appearance yet burning with feverish resilience at their core.)

“So, did you tell the police about those threatening letters?”

After composing myself, I waited for Shizuko to stop crying and spoke. "No, because I didn't know what to do." "You haven't told them yet, have you?"

“Yes, I thought to consult with Master…”

Looking back now, it seems strange, but at that time, I was still holding Shizuko’s hand. Shizuko also kept holding it and stood clinging to me.

“You also, without a doubt, believe it’s that man’s doing, don’t you?”

“Yes, and last night something strange occurred.” “You mean something strange?”

“Due to your advice, Master, we moved the bedroom to the second floor of the Western-style house. With this, I thought there was no longer any worry of being watched and felt relieved, but it seems that person was peeping after all.” “From where?”

“From outside the glass window.” And then, as if recalling the terror of that moment, Shizuko opened her eyes wide and spoke haltingly. “Last night around midnight, I did go to bed, but since my husband hadn’t returned, I was so terribly worried. And being alone in that high-ceilinged Western-style room made me grow frightened—I found myself strangely able to see every corner of the room.” “The window blinds weren’t fully drawn, leaving about a foot open at the bottom. Seeing the pitch-black outside through that gap was terrifying—and the more I feared it, the more my eyes were drawn there, until finally, beyond the glass, a dimly visible human face appeared—don’t you see?”

“Wasn’t it a hallucination?” “It only lasted a moment and vanished immediately, but even now, I still believe it wasn’t a misperception or anything of the sort.” “The image of tangled hair pressed tightly against the glass—the head slightly bowed, glaring up at me with those upturned eyes—it still seems visible to me.” “Was it Hirata?” “Yes, but there couldn’t possibly be anyone else outside who would do such a thing.”

At that time, after exchanging this sort of conversation, Shizuko and I resolved to go together to the police to formally report that Rokuro’s murderer was undoubtedly Oe Shundei—Hirata Ichiro—and that he now plotted to kill Shizuko next, thereby requesting protection. The prosecutor in charge of this case was Itosaki, a Bachelor of Laws and—fortunately—a member of the Ryokikai society composed of us detective novelists, medical professionals, and legal experts. When I appeared with Shizuko at Kizakata Police Station—the so-called investigation headquarters—he treated us not with the stiff formality typical between a prosecutor and victims’ families but instead listened kindly to our account through friendly connections. He appeared profoundly shocked by this bizarre incident and seemed deeply intrigued by it as well. In any case, he promised to spare no effort in tracking Oe Shundei’s whereabouts—stationing detectives at the Koyamada residence specifically, increasing patrol officers’ rounds—to ensure Shizuko’s full protection. Regarding Oe Shundei’s physical appearance—acting on my observation that publicly circulated photographs bore little resemblance—I summoned Honda from Hakubunkan Publishing and obtained a detailed description of his known features.

Seven

For approximately one month, the police had been conducting an all-out search for Oe Shundei, and I too had been endeavoring—through Honda and other newspaper and magazine reporters I encountered—to uncover any fact that might lead to his whereabouts. Yet despite all this, as if privy to some sort of magic, Shundei’s location remained utterly unknown. If he were alone, that would be one thing—but how on earth did he manage to hide with his encumbering wife in tow? Had he indeed, as Prosecutor Itosaki imagined, plotted to stow away and fled far overseas?

Even so, what struck me as strange was how the threatening letters had abruptly ceased coming since Mr. Rokuro’s mysterious death. Had Shundei, frightened by the police investigation, abandoned his original objective of killing Shizuko and become solely engrossed in hiding himself? No—no, there’s no way a man like him wouldn’t have anticipated something so obvious beforehand. If that’s the case, isn’t it possible that he was still hiding somewhere in Tokyo, patiently biding his time for an opportunity to kill Shizuko?

The Superintendent of Kizakata Police Station ordered his subordinate detective to investigate around Ueno Sakuragi-cho 32, Shundei's last residence—just as I had done before. True to his expertise as a professional, after considerable effort, the detective discovered the transport company that had moved Shundei's belongings (a small company located in Kuromon-cho, a distant part of Ueno), then traced his subsequent moves from one location to another. The findings revealed that after vacating Sakuragi-cho, Shundei had moved to increasingly disreputable areas—Honjo Ward’s Yanagishima-cho, then Mukojima Suzaki-cho. His final residence in Suzaki-cho was a grimy single-story rental house, little more than a shack wedged between factories. He had rented it with several months’ advance rent, and when the detective arrived, the landlord still listed him as a tenant. Yet upon inspecting the interior, they found no furnishings, only layers of dust—the place had fallen into such disrepair that its abandonment could have begun at any unknown time. Even when making inquiries in the neighborhood, since both adjacent buildings were factories—with no nosy old ladies or the like around—they could obtain no useful information whatsoever.

As for Honda of Hakubunkan—being a man who inherently relished such matters—he grew increasingly enthused as the situation clarified; using his single encounter with Shundei in Asakusa Park as a foundation, he zealously began dabbling in detective work during breaks from his manuscript-collecting duties. He first investigated two or three advertising agencies near Asakusa—since Shundei had once distributed flyers—to see if any had hired a man resembling him. The problem was that these agencies, during busy periods, would temporarily hire vagrants from places like Asakusa Park, dress them in outfits, and use them for a single day. Even when describing his appearance, none could recall such a man—it seemed certain that the person you were searching for must have been one of those vagrants. That was how it stood.

Thus, Honda now wandered through Asakusa Park late at night, peering at each dark bench beneath the trees one by one; he even deliberately lodged at flophouses around Honjo where vagrants typically stayed, befriending the lodgers there to ask if they had seen any man resembling Shundei. He truly went to great lengths, but no matter how long he persisted, he couldn’t grasp even a single clue. Honda would stop by my lodgings about once a week to recount his trials, but on one occasion, he grinned with that round, Daikoku-sama-like face of his and told the following story.

“Mr. Samukawa. “The other day, it suddenly hit me—something about sideshows.” “And then, you know, I came up with a brilliant idea!” “You know how lately there have been sideshows popping up all over the place—like the Spider Woman or the Headless Woman?” “Similar to those, there’s a sideshow featuring not a head but rather just the torso of a person.” “There’s a long horizontal box divided into three sections. In two of them—usually women—the torso and legs lie there.” “And the section above the torso is hollow space—where the head and upper body should be visible, but there’s absolutely nothing there.” “In other words, a headless female corpse lies inside a long box, and as proof that it’s alive, it occasionally moves its limbs.” “It’s a truly eerie and also erotic attraction.” “The trick was to place mirrors at angles to make the space behind appear hollow—crude but effective.” “However, I once went to Edogawabashi in Ushigome.” “At that vacant lot on the corner past Gokoku-ji Temple’s bridge, I saw that headless sideshow act—but the torso-only person there wasn’t a woman like in other shows. It was a corpulent man wearing a clown costume blackened with grime.”

Honda, having spoken this far, put on a suggestive look and fell silent for a moment with feigned tension. When he confirmed I was sufficiently curious, he began speaking again. “You understand my idea, don’t you?” “This is what I thought.” “What a brilliant scheme—for a man to completely conceal his whereabouts while exposing his body to the public through employment as this sideshow’s headless man! Wouldn’t you agree?” “He’d simply need to hide his identifiable head and upper body while lying there all day.” “Doesn’t this reek of Oe Shundei’s signature style—that ghostly concealment tactic he’d devise?” “Especially since Shundei frequently wrote about sideshows and adored this sort of thing.”

“So?” While thinking Honda seemed too calm for someone who had actually found Shundei, I urged him on.

“So I immediately went to check Edogawabashi, and fortunately that sideshow was still there. I paid the entrance fee and went inside. Standing before that fat headless man, I tried thinking of various ways to get a look at his face. Then I realized—even this guy would need to use the restroom several times a day. I patiently waited for him to go. After a while, the few spectators all left, leaving just me there. Still, I kept standing my ground. Then the headless man started clapping rhythmically. As I wondered what was happening, the announcer came over and asked me to step outside for a break. That’s when I figured it out—after leaving, I quietly circled around to the back of the tent and peered through a tear in the fabric. With help from the announcer, the headless man climbed out of the box—of course he had a head—then rushed to a corner of the spectator area and started making splashing sounds. That clapping earlier? Ridiculous—it was his signal to piss! Ha ha…”

“Is this the punchline? You’re making fun of me.” When I showed a hint of anger, Honda’s expression turned solemn. “No—it was a complete case of mistaken identity and a failure...but it’s part of my investigative efforts. I was giving you one example of how diligently I’ve been searching for Shundei.” He explained. This may be a digression, but our search for Shundei continued in this manner, showing no sign of progress no matter how much time passed.

However, I must record here that just one single strange fact came to light—one that seemed to hold the key to solving the case. The reason was that I had focused on the wig adorning Mr. Rokuro's corpse—the aforementioned wig—and surmised its origin likely lay near Asakusa. After scouring wig makers in the area, I finally located a plausible match at Matsui's wig shop in Senzoku-chō. However, according to the proprietor's account, while the wig itself perfectly matched the one found on the corpse, the person who had ordered it—contrary to my expectations, no, to my utter astonishment—was not Oe Shundei, but Koyamada Rokuro himself. Not only did the wig perfectly match his appearance, but the man had openly stated the name "Koyamada" when placing the order and, once it was completed (around the end of last year), had come in person to retrieve it himself. At that time, it was stated that Mr. Rokuro had said he would hide his baldness, yet despite this, how could it be that no one—not even his wife Shizuko—had ever seen him wearing a wig during his lifetime? No matter how much I thought, I could not unravel this inexplicable mystery.

Meanwhile, the relationship between Shizuko (now a widow) and myself had grown rapidly more intimate following Mr. Rokuro's suspicious death incident as its turning point. On the surface, I served as Shizuko's confidant and occupied a guardian-like role. When Mr. Rokuro's relatives became aware of my dedicated efforts since the attic investigation, they found themselves unable to outright reject me; moreover, Prosecutor Itosaki—for whom this situation proved rather convenient—even went so far as to occasionally visit the Koyamada residence and urged me to look after the widow's well-being, allowing me to come and go from her house openly.

As I had previously noted, Shizuko had held no small measure of goodwill toward me as an avid reader of my novels since our first meeting; but now that this complex relationship had developed between us, it was only natural that she came to rely on me as her sole refuge. As we met so frequently—and especially now that she had become a widow—the pale passion of hers and the allure of her body, which had until then seemed to exist in some distant realm, delicate yet mysteriously resilient, suddenly took on a vivid reality and pressed in upon me. Above all, from the moment I happened to discover a small, foreign-made whip in her bedroom, my tormenting desire blazed up with terrifying intensity, as though oil had been poured on it.

Without thinking, I pointed at the whip and asked, “Did your husband practice horseback riding?” But when she saw it, she seemed to gasp—turning deathly pale for an instant—then flushed crimson as if on fire. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she answered, “No.” Foolishly, it was only then that I solved the enigma of that keloid scar on her neck. When I recalled it now, that scar appeared to have shifted its position and altered its shape slightly each time I had seen it. At the time I’d thought it strange, but it never occurred to me that her seemingly gentle bald-headed husband could have been such an abominable sexual deviant. But that wasn’t all. Now, one month after Mr. Rokuro’s death, no matter how closely I looked, that ugly keloid scar was nowhere to be seen on her neck. Putting this all together, even without hearing her explicit confession, it became undeniably clear my suspicions weren’t mistaken. But even so—what was I to do about this unbearable torment in my heart since learning this truth? Could it be that I too—though it shames me deeply—was one of the same deviants as the late Mr. Rokuro?

VIII

On April 20th, the anniversary of the deceased's passing, Shizuko attended Buddhist prayers and then hosted a memorial service from evening onward, inviting relatives and others close to the departed. I too attended this gathering; yet two new facts that emerged that night—though matters of entirely different natures—nonetheless shared a mysteriously fateful connection between them, as I shall later explain—imparted to me a profound emotion I will likely never forget throughout my life.

At that moment, I was walking alongside Shizuko down the dimly lit corridor. Even after all the guests had left, I stayed to discuss matters concerning only Shizuko and myself—the search for Shundei—until around eleven o'clock, when I bid farewell to avoid overstaying in front of the servants and rode home in the car she had called from the front office. As I departed, Shizuko walked shoulder-to-shoulder with me down the corridor to see me off at the entrance. The corridor had several glass windows facing the garden, but as we passed one of them, Shizuko suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream and clung to me.

“What’s wrong?” “What did you see?” When I asked in surprise, Shizuko—still clinging tightly to me with one hand—pointed outside the glass window with her other hand. For a moment, I too was reminded of Shundei and gasped—but it soon became clear that it was nothing of consequence. When I looked, through the trees in the garden outside the window, a white dog disappeared into the darkness, rustling the leaves as it went. “It’s a dog.” “It’s a dog.” “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

I—through some inexplicable impulse—had spoken those comforting words while patting Shizuko's shoulder. Yet even after realizing there was no danger, with her arm still clinging to my back and the tepid warmth of her body seeping into me, ah—I finally drew her close in that decisive moment and stole a kiss from those Mona Lisa lips of hers, swollen with prominent canines. And whether this brought me happiness or misfortune, not only did she refrain from pushing me away, but in the hands that held me tight, I even detected a strength tempered by restraint.

Precisely because it was the anniversary of the deceased's passing, we felt our guilt all the more deeply. I remember that the two of us did not exchange a single word and even averted our eyes until I got into the car. Even as the car started moving, my mind remained filled with thoughts of Shizuko from whom I had just parted. On my heated lips lingered the sensation of hers, and in my throbbing chest there seemed to remain traces of her body warmth. Within my heart, soaring joy and profound self-reproach intertwined like some intricate woven pattern. The car moved through unknown streets toward some uncertain destination, yet none of the passing scenery registered in my vision.

But strange as it was, even under such circumstances, a certain small object had been burning itself uncannily into my retinas since earlier. Jostled by the car’s motion while lost in thoughts of Shizuko, I found myself staring fixedly at the space directly ahead—when there, precisely at the center of my vision, an object began trembling in a way that refused to be ignored. At first I watched it indifferently, but gradually my nerves began tightening toward it.

"Why? "Why am I staring at this so intently?"

As I absentmindedly pondered such things, the course of events gradually became clear. I had been puzzling over the alignment of two items that seemed far too coincidental to be mere chance. In front of me sat a hulking driver in a worn-out navy spring coat, hunched over and staring straight ahead as he drove. Beyond his stout shoulders, his hands on the steering wheel twitched restlessly, their elegant gloves incongruous against his rough, workman’s fingers. Moreover, being an out-of-season winter item, it may have caught my eye all the more—but more than that, it was the clasp of the glove’s hook… It was only at this moment that I finally came to realize. The round metal object I had once picked up in the attic of the Koyamada residence was none other than the ornamental clasp of a glove. I had briefly mentioned that metal object to Prosecutor Itosaki as well, but I did not have it on hand at the time; moreover, since the culprit had been clearly identified as Oe Shundei, neither the prosecutor nor I regarded such an item as significant—and so that object should still be stored in the pocket of my winter vest to this day. It had never even crossed my mind that that could be the clasp of a glove. When I thought about it, wasn’t it entirely plausible that the criminal had worn gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and failed to notice that one of their clasps had come loose?

However, the clasp on the driver’s glove contained implications far more startling than merely identifying the item I had found in the attic. Not only were they excessively similar in shape, hue, and dimensions—the ornamental clasp on the glove adorning the driver’s right hand had detached entirely, leaving only the hook’s base plate behind. What could this signify? If the metal fragment I had retrieved from my attic were to align perfectly with that base plate—what on earth would that mean?

“Hey, you!” I abruptly called out to the driver. “Could you let me take a look at your gloves?” The driver looked dumbfounded by my strange request, but even so, while slowing the car, he obediently removed both gloves and handed them to me. When I looked, even the engraving “R.K.Bros.Co.” appeared on the surface of the intact clasp of one glove, without the slightest discrepancy. I grew increasingly astonished and even began to feel a grotesque kind of fear.

The driver handed me the gloves and left them with me, proceeding to drive without so much as a glance in my direction. As I gazed at his stout back, I was suddenly struck by a wild delusion.

“Oe Shundei…” I uttered in a voice just loud enough for the driver to hear, as if muttering to myself. My gaze fixed on his face reflected in the small mirror above the driver’s seat. But needless to say, this proved nothing more than my own absurd delusion. The driver’s expression in the mirror remained utterly unchanged—and above all, Oe Shundei was not the sort of man to engage in such Ryupan-like theatrics. Yet when the car reached my lodgings, I pressed extra fare into the driver’s palm and began my interrogation.

“Do you remember when the clasp came off these gloves?” “It had been missing from the start.” The driver answered with a peculiar expression. “They were castoffs—the clasp had come off making them unusable, but though still new, the late Mr. Koyamada gave them to me.” “Mr. Koyamada?” I gulped audibly and pressed urgently. “The same Mr. Koyamada I just left?” “Yes, sir.” “When the master was alive, I mostly handled his commutes to the company—he favored me greatly, you see.”

“Since when have you been wearing them?” “I received them during the cold season, but since they were such fine gloves that it felt wasteful to use them carelessly, I kept them stored away. However, my old pair tore, so today was the first time I brought them out for driving.” “If I don’t wear these, the steering wheel slips, you see.” “Why do you ask such a thing?”

“Well, there’s a bit of a reason.” “Could you let me have those?” In this way, I ultimately acquired those gloves at a considerable price. Upon entering my room and taking out the metal piece I had retrieved earlier from the attic to compare them, they proved identical down to the last detail—moreover, that metal fragment fit perfectly into the base plate of the glove’s hook.

As I had mentioned earlier, wasn't this alignment of two items far too coincidental to be mere chance? Is it conceivable that Oe Shundei and Mr. Koyamada Rokuro had been wearing gloves identical down to the clasp design—and moreover, that the detached metal piece and the hook's base plate aligned so perfectly? This was something I would later learn: I took those gloves to Ginza's Izumiya Western Goods Store—one of the finest establishments in the city—and had them appraised. The result showed a construction rarely seen domestically; they were likely British-made. It turned out there wasn't a single brothers' company called R.K.Bros.Co. anywhere in mainland Japan. When I considered the words of this Western goods store owner together with the fact that Mr. Rokuro had been overseas until September of the year before last, didn't it mean that Mr. Rokuro himself was the owner of those gloves—and consequently, that it was he who had dropped the detached clasp? The idea that Oe Shundei could have owned gloves identical to Mr. Rokuro's—gloves unobtainable in mainland Japan—was simply unthinkable.

“Then what does this mean?” I cradled my head in my hands, leaning over the desk as I kept muttering “In other words… in other words…”—this peculiar soliloquy—while kneading my concentration deeper into the core of my mind, desperate to extract some interpretation from within. Before long, a bizarre notion suddenly struck me. The matter was this: Yama no Yado formed a long, narrow town along the Sumida River’s banks, meaning the Koyamada residence—situated near that riverside—must naturally border the great river’s flow. Though I had often gazed upon Ōkawa from the windows of the Koyamada family’s Western-style mansion without giving it particular thought, for some reason that realization now pierced me with fresh significance, as though I were discovering it for the first time.

A large U-shape emerged from the haze in my mind. In the upper left end of the U-shape lay Yama no Yado. In the upper right end was Koume-cho—the location of Mr. Rokuro’s Go friend’s residence. The bottom curve of the U corresponded precisely to Azumabashi. Until that moment, we had believed Mr. Rokuro left Koume-cho that night, traveled to the left side of the U’s base near Azumabashi, and there met his end at Shundei’s hands. But had we overlooked the river’s current? The Ōkawa flows from the upper to lower reaches of this U. Rather than assuming the corpse lay at its murder site, wouldn’t it be more natural to conclude it had drifted downstream from upstream—colliding with Azumabashi’s steamship terminal before stagnating in its eddies?

The corpse drifted downstream. The corpse drifted downstream. Then where did it drift from? Where was the crime perpetrated? And so, I sank deeper and deeper into the muddy swamp of delusion.

IX

I thought of nothing but that night after night. Had even Shizuko’s charms proven insufficient against this bizarre suspicion? As though inexplicably forgetting her entirely, I sank ever deeper into strange delusions. During that time, I did visit Shizuko twice to confirm a certain matter, but each time I concluded my business, I would bid her an exceedingly curt farewell and hurry home—she must have found it most peculiar. Her face as she saw me off at the entrance looked so lonely it bordered on sorrowful.

And within about five days, I had constructed a truly preposterous delusion. To spare myself the trouble of recounting it here, I shall instead make some additions to the written opinion I had prepared at the time for Prosecutor Itosaki and transcribe it on the left—for this deduction was of a nature that could likely not have been constructed without the imaginative power of us detective novelists. And though it would later become clear that there existed a deeper significance to this.

And so, when I came to understand that the metal clasp I had retrieved from the attic above Shizuko's living room in the Koyamada residence could only have fallen from the fastener of Mr. Koyamada Rokuro's glove, various facts that had lingered uneasily in the corners of my mind came flooding back one after another, as if to corroborate this discovery of mine. The fact that Mr. Rokuro's corpse had been wearing a wig. The fact that this wig was one Mr. Rokuro himself had ordered and commissioned. (The corpse's nudity posed little concern to me, for reasons I would later explain.) The abrupt cessation of Shundei's threatening letters precisely coinciding with Mr. Rokuro's mysterious death; the fact that Mr. Rokuro, contrary to appearances—as is often the case with such matters—had been a terrifying sadist... These facts might appear as mere coincidental anomalies converging, yet upon thorough examination, they all pointed unmistakably to a single underlying truth.

When I noticed that, I set out to gather as much material as possible to further solidify my deduction. First, I visited the Koyamada residence, obtained Ms. Shizuko’s permission, and was allowed to investigate the late Mr. Rokuro’s study. For there is nothing that reveals its protagonist’s character and secrets as vividly as a study. I proceeded to search every last bookshelf and drawer for nearly half a day, unconcerned even if Ms. Shizuko found it suspicious, and before long, among the numerous bookshelves, I discovered a single section that was securely locked. When I inquired about the key, it became clear that Mr. Rokuro had kept it attached to his watch chain during his lifetime and always carried it with him; even on the day of his mysterious death, he had left home with it still wrapped in his sash. As there was no other way, I persuaded Ms. Shizuko and finally obtained permission to destroy the bookshelf door.

When we opened it, inside were several years’ worth of Mr. Rokuro’s diaries, documents in envelopes, bundles of letters, books, and more, all packed tightly. I meticulously examined each one and discovered three volumes of books relevant to this case. The first was a diary from the year of Mr. Rokuro and Ms. Shizuko’s marriage, in which—on the margin of the entry dated three days before their wedding—the following notable phrase had been written in red ink.

"(Omitted) I have learned of the relationship between Hirata Ichiro and Shizuko." "However, Shizuko began to take a dislike to the young man midway through their association, and despite whatever measures he might have taken, she refused to comply with his wishes—until finally, seizing upon her father's bankruptcy as an opportunity, she vanished from his presence." "Let that suffice." "I have no intention of investigating past matters, et cetera." In other words, from the very beginning of their marriage, Mr. Rokuro had been fully aware of his wife's secret through certain circumstances. And he had never spoken a single word of it to his wife.

The second item was Oe Shundei’s short story collection Attic Games. What a shock it had been to discover such a book in the study of Mr. Koyamada Rokuro, the businessman! Until I heard from Ms. Shizuko that Mr. Rokuro had been quite an avid reader of novels during his lifetime, I had doubted my own eyes to such an extent. Now, it was worth noting that this short story collection featured a collotype portrait of Shundei at the front and had printed in its colophon the author’s real name: Hirata Ichiro.

Third was the magazine Shin Seinen published by Hakubunkan. It was Volume 6, Issue 12. Though this issue did not contain any of Shundei’s works, the frontispiece instead featured a photographic reproduction of his manuscript at actual size—spanning roughly half a sheet of manuscript paper—prominently displayed with an explanatory note in the margin: “Handwriting of Mr. Oe Shundei.” The strange thing was that when I held the photographic plate up to the light and examined it closely, there were claw-like marks crisscrossing the thick art paper. This could only mean someone had placed thin paper over the photograph and traced Shundei’s handwriting with a pencil repeatedly. The fact that my conjectures were proving correct one after another filled me with dread.

That same day, I asked Ms. Shizuko to search for the gloves Mr. Rokuro had brought back from abroad. It took considerable effort to find them, but finally emerged a single pair identical in every detail to those I had purchased from the driver. When Ms. Shizuko handed them to me, she wore a puzzled expression, certain there should have been another matching pair. These pieces of evidence—the diary, short story collection, magazine, gloves, and metal piece retrieved from the attic—may be submitted at any time upon your instruction.

Now, while the facts I had investigated were numerous beyond those outlined here, even if we considered only the aforementioned points, it was evident that Mr. Koyamada Rokuro had been a man of truly sinister disposition—one who, beneath a mask of gentleness and sincerity, had engaged in schemes of an almost spectral nature. Were we not too obsessed with the name Oe Shundei? Was it not that his blood-soaked works and our knowledge of his aberrant daily life had compelled us—from the very outset—to conclusively determine that no one but Shundei could have committed this crime? How could he have vanished so utterly without a trace? If he were the culprit, would that not seem somewhat strange? If he were indeed innocent, then precisely because he withdrew from society due to his inherent misanthropic tendencies (and the more famous he became, the more intensely this misanthropy would escalate against his own name), would that not explain why he had proven so difficult to locate? He might have fled abroad, as you once suggested. He might be hiding in some corner of Shanghai’s Chinese quarter even now, disguised as a Chinese man and smoking a water pipe. If Shundei were not [abroad] but indeed the culprit, how could one possibly explain that his meticulously crafted, relentlessly pursued revenge plan—conceived over many long years—would have abruptly ceased as though he had forgotten his true objective, having accomplished only what would be for him the mere detour of Mr. Rokuro’s murder? To those who had read his novels and were familiar with his daily life, this seemed far too unnatural—utterly implausible.

But beyond that, there was an even more obvious fact. How could he have dropped the clasp from Mr. Koyamada Rokuro’s glove into that attic? Considering the gloves were foreign-made and unobtainable domestically, and that the ornamental clasp had come off the pair Mr. Rokuro gave to the driver—could one possibly entertain such an absurd notion that the individual lurking in that attic was Oe Shundei rather than Mr. Koyamada Rokuro himself? (Now, if that were Mr. Rokuro, Your Honor might counter by asking why he would so carelessly give such crucial evidence to his driver. However, as I will explain later, this was because he had committed no legal crime—he was merely engaging in a perverse sort of game. Therefore, even if the glove’s clasp had come off and remained in the attic, it meant nothing to him. Like a criminal, might this clasp not have detached while someone was walking in the attic? Could this not become evidence? There was not the slightest need to worry about such things.)

The materials that should negate Shundei’s crime were not limited to those alone. The fact that the aforementioned evidence items—the diary, Shundei’s short story collection, Shin Seinen magazine, and others—had been present in the locked bookshelf of Mr. Rokuro’s study; the fact that this lock had only one key, which Mr. Rokuro had kept in his possession at all times—these circumstances not only attested to Mr. Rokuro’s insidious schemes but rendered it utterly impossible to even entertain the notion that Shundei might have forged these items and placed them in Mr. Rokuro’s bookshelf to cast suspicion upon him. Not only would forging the first diary have been impossible, but that bookshelf could neither have been opened nor closed by anyone other than Mr. Rokuro.

Having examined these points, we have no choice but to conclude that Oe Shundei—also known as Hirata Ichiro—whom we had until now firmly believed to be the culprit, had in fact never been involved in this case from the very beginning. What compelled such belief can only be attributed to the astonishing deception orchestrated by Mr. Koyamada Rokuro. That this wealthy gentleman possessed such meticulous yet sinister immaturity; that while maintaining a facade of gentleness and sincerity in public, he transformed into a demon of terrifying countenance within his bedroom, perpetually beating the pitiable Ms. Shizuko with a foreign-made riding crop—these facts strike us as profoundly startling, yet examples of benevolent gentlemen harboring malevolent demons within their psyche are far from uncommon in this world. Might it not be said that the more kind-hearted and trusting a person appears, the more susceptible they become to apprenticing under the devil?

Now, I have come to think as follows. Mr. Koyamada Rokuro traveled to Europe on business approximately four years ago, residing primarily in London and two or three other cities for a period of two years; his vice likely took root and developed in one of those cities. (I heard rumors from employees of Roku-Roku Trading Company about his romantic affairs in London.) And upon returning to Japan in September of the year before last, his incurable vice likely began to wreak havoc upon Ms. Shizuko, the very object of his adoration. I had already noticed that eerie scar on her nape when I first met Ms. Shizuko in October last year.

This type of vice, much like morphine addiction, not only becomes impossible to abandon once acquired but progresses with terrifying momentum day by day and month by month. It ceaselessly pursues ever more intense and novel stimuli. What sufficed yesterday fails to satisfy today, and today’s efforts will prove inadequate tomorrow. Is it not easy to imagine that Mr. Koyamada, too, had come to find merely beating Ms. Shizuko insufficient? Therefore, he must have had to frantically seek new stimuli.

At that very moment, perhaps through some trigger, he learned of the existence of Oe Shundei’s novel Attic Games and, upon hearing of its bizarre contents, became inclined to read it. Be that as it may, he discovered a strange kindred spirit there. He had discovered a bizarre fellow sufferer. How fervently he must have loved reading Shundei’s short story collection—could we not imagine this even from the worn traces left on the book? In that short story collection, Shundei repeatedly expounded on the otherworldly pleasure of secretly observing solitary individuals—particularly women—without ever being noticed; it was not difficult to imagine that Mr. Rokuro found himself resonating with this new fascination, which likely represented a fresh discovery for him. He ultimately imitated the protagonist of Shundei’s novel and, of his own volition, became an attic gamester—sneaking into the ceiling space of his own home in an attempt to secretly observe Ms. Shizuko in her solitude.

Given the considerable distance from the gate to the entrance of the Koyamada residence, it would have been simple for him—upon returning from outings—to slip unnoticed into the storage area beside the entrance and make his way along the ceiling to reach above Shizuko’s living quarters. I even suspect that Mr. Rokuro’s frequent evening visits to play go at Koume’s friend’s residence were nothing but a ruse to conceal the time spent on these attic games.

On the other hand, was it not only natural that Mr. Koyamada Rokuro—who so avidly read *Attic Games*—would come to discover the author’s real name listed in the colophon and begin to suspect that this person was none other than Hirata Ichiro: Shizuko’s former lover who had betrayed her and who surely harbored deep resentment toward her? Thereupon, he scoured all articles and gossip concerning Oe Shundei, ultimately coming to know thoroughly that Shundei was indeed Shizuko’s former lover, and that his daily life was profoundly misanthropic—having already abandoned writing and vanished from public view by that time. In other words, through a single copy of *Attic Games*, Mr. Rokuro had simultaneously discovered both a peerless confidant for his morbid proclivities and, for him, a loathsome romantic nemesis from her past. And based on that knowledge, he conceived a truly astonishing devious scheme.

The act of secretly observing Shizuko in her solitude undoubtedly greatly aroused his curiosity, but he—being a sadistic pervert—could never have been satisfied with merely that, with such tepid interest alone. He must have exercised his sickly, abnormally sharp imagination, wondering if there wasn’t some newer, more cruel method to replace the whip’s beatings. And thus, he ultimately conceived the unprecedented theatrical scheme of Hirata Ichiro’s threatening letters. For this purpose, he had already obtained Shin Seinen’s He had obtained the photographic plate exemplar from the front of Volume 6, Issue 12 of Shin Seinen. To make the performance all the more engrossing and convincing, he began meticulously practicing Shundei’s handwriting using that photographic plate. The pencil marks on that photographic plate attest to this.

After creating the threatening letters in Hirata Ichiro’s name, Mr. Rokuro would wait a suitable interval each time before mailing those envelopes from different post offices. While driving on business, having them dropped into the nearest postbox was a simple matter. As for the contents of the threatening letters, he had acquired a general understanding of Shundei’s background through newspaper and magazine articles. Moreover, while Shizuko’s subtle mannerisms were observed from the attic, whatever gaps remained in his knowledge were effortlessly filled by his position as her husband—thus enabling him to write such material without difficulty. In other words, he would lie beside Shizuko, committing her words and gestures to memory during their pillow talk, then write them down as though Shundei had secretly observed her. What a demon he was. Thus, he was able to combine the criminal-like fascination of forging threatening letters under another’s name and sending them to his own wife with the devilish joy of secretly observing from the attic, his heart pounding as he watched her tremble in fear while reading them. Moreover, there was reason to believe that during those intervals, he had continued the aforementioned whipping. The reason being that the scar on Shizuko’s nape only became invisible after Mr. Rokuro’s death. Needless to say, while he tormented his wife Shizuko in this manner, it was never out of hatred for her; rather, it was precisely because he doted on her so excessively that he committed these acts of cruelty. I presume you are already fully acquainted with the psychology of this type of pervert with abnormal sexual desires.

Now, my reasoning that Mr. Koyamada Rokuro had been the creator of those threatening letters had been fully laid out above. Yet how could what was merely the mischief of a sexual deviant culminate in such a murder case? Not only was the victim none other than Mr. Rokuro himself, but why had he been found wearing that bizarre wig, completely naked, drifting beneath Azumabashi? Whose handiwork had created the stab wound on his back? If Oe Shundei held no presence in this case—did another criminal exist entirely? Such questions would inevitably arise. Regarding these matters, I must now further expound upon my observations and deductions.

To put it simply, Mr. Koyamada Rokuro suffered divine punishment—perhaps his excessively demonic deeds had incurred the wrath of the gods. There was no crime or culprit whatsoever—only Mr. Rokuro’s accidental death. Now, you may inquire about the fatal wound on his back. However, I must set aside that explanation for later and first relate, in proper order, the logical path that led me to hold such thoughts.

The starting point of my reasoning was none other than his wig. You will likely recall that from the day after March 17th—when I explored the attic—Shizuko moved her bedroom to the second floor of the Western-style building to avoid being spied upon. Though it remains unclear how skillfully Shizuko persuaded her husband or why Mr. Rokuro came to agree to her proposal, be that as it may, from that day onward Mr. Rokuro became unable to conduct his attic surveillance. However, if one were to boldly imagine, Mr. Rokuro may have already grown somewhat tired of his attic surveillance by that time. And taking advantage of the bedroom having been moved to the Western-style building, it cannot be said that he did not devise another prank. The reason being that there is the wig. There is the luxuriant wig which he himself ordered. Since he had ordered that wig at the end of last year—naturally not with this intention from the outset but likely for some other purpose—it has now quite unexpectedly served its purpose.

He was looking at a photograph of Shundei in the frontispiece of *Attic Games*. The photograph was said to be from Shundei’s younger days, so naturally—unlike Mr. Rokuro, who was bald—it showed a luxuriant head of black hair. Therefore, had Mr. Rokuro sought to progress beyond frightening Shizuko through letters and attic concealment—impersonating Oe Shundei himself, biding his time until she was present before revealing his face in a fleeting glimpse outside the Western-style building’s window to savor an uncanny thrill—he would undoubtedly have been compelled above all to conceal his baldness, that foremost identifying trait. And precisely for this purpose, there existed the wig ideally suited to that role. So long as he wore the wig, his face—visible only through dark glass and needing merely a momentary flash (all the more effective for its brevity)—would not risk detection by Shizuko, who trembled in fear.

On that night (March 19th), Mr. Rokuro returned from visiting Koume’s go companion and, finding the gate still open, quietly circled through the garden to avoid detection by the servants and entered the study on the first floor of the Western-style building. (This I heard from Shizuko—he had kept the key there on the same chain as the bookcase key.) Then, careful not to alert Shizuko—who had already retired to the second-floor bedroom—he donned the wig in the darkness, slipped outside, climbed up the building’s eaves via a tree, made his way around to her window, and peered inside through a gap in the blinds. Later, when Shizuko told me she had seen a person’s face outside the window, it was referring to this occasion.

Now then, before explaining how Mr. Rokuro came to die, I must first describe my observations during my second visit to the Koyamada residence—after having begun suspecting him—when I peered outside from the Western-style building's problematic window. Since you would understand this upon seeing it yourself, I shall omit tedious descriptions, but that window faced the Sumida River, with scarcely any open space beneath the eaves outside—immediately enclosed by the same concrete wall as the front facade, which continued directly into a steep stone cliff. To conserve ground space, the wall had been erected at the very edge of the stone cliff. From the water's surface to the wall's top measured approximately two *ken*, while from the wall's top to the second-floor window was about one *ken*. Now, supposing Mr. Rokuro lost his footing on the eaves trough—extremely narrow in width—it would not have been entirely impossible for him to land inside the wall with considerable luck (a cramped open space barely permitting passage). Otherwise, he would inevitably have collided with the wall's top and plummeted directly into the outer river. And in Mr. Rokuro's case, it was unquestionably the latter.

From the moment I first considered the Sumida River’s current, I had recognized that interpreting the corpse as having drifted downstream from upstream was more natural than assuming it had remained at the site of disposal. I also knew that the Western-style building of the Koyamada residence stood directly beside the Sumida River—a location upstream from Azumabashi Bridge. Thus, while I did entertain the possibility that Mr. Rokuro had fallen from that window, his cause of death being not drowning but a stab wound to the back left me perplexed for a considerable time.

However, one day, I suddenly recalled a real-life example resembling this case from *The Newest Methods of Criminal Investigation* by Mr. Nanba Mokusaburo, a work I had consulted previously. As I frequently reference this book when devising detective novels, I had retained memory of its contents, and the relevant case example reads as follows: "Around mid-May 1917, authorities discovered a male drowning victim washed ashore near the breakwater of Lake Biwa Steamship Company in Ōtsu City, Shiga Prefecture. The corpse presented an incised wound to the head resembling that inflicted by a sharp implement. The examining physician concluded this ante-mortem laceration constituted the cause of death, while the minimal water content in the abdomen indicated post-mortem submersion—prompting investigators to treat this as a major criminal case. Though exhaustive efforts to identify the victim initially proved fruitless, several days later Ōtsu Police Station received correspondence regarding a missing persons report filed by Saitō, a gold-leaf artisan of Jōfukuji Street in Kyoto's Kamigyō Ward, concerning his employee Kobayashi Shigezō (23). Noting correspondences in physical characteristics and attire between the missing man and the deceased, authorities summoned Saitō for identification—whereupon he confirmed the corpse as his employee while simultaneously establishing the death as suicide rather than homicide. This conclusion followed revelations that the drowned man had embezzled substantial funds from his employer's household before absconding with a suicide note. Subsequent analysis clarified that the cranial injury resulted from contact with a steamship's rotating propeller when Kobayashi leapt from the vessel's stern into Lake Biwa waters."

Had I not recalled this real-life example, I might never have conceived such an outlandish notion. However, in many cases, facts surpass a novelist's imagination. And utterly preposterous absurdities are in fact easily perpetrated in reality. That said, I am not suggesting Mr. Rokuro sustained injuries from a screw propeller. In this case, it differs slightly from the aforementioned example in that the corpse had not ingested any water whatsoever, and furthermore, steamships seldom traverse the Sumida River around one o'clock at night.

What had caused the severe stab wound on Mr. Rokuro’s back that reached his lungs? What could possibly have inflicted a wound so resembling one from a blade? It was none other than fragments of beer bottles that had been embedded into the upper part of the concrete wall surrounding the Koyamada residence. They had been embedded similarly at the front gate as well, so you have likely seen them before. Those thief-deterring glass shards included some particularly large pieces in places—depending on circumstances, they could certainly create stab wounds deep enough to reach the lungs. Mr. Rokuro collided with them due to the momentum from his fall from the eaves trough. It was no wonder he suffered such severe injuries. Furthermore, this interpretation accounts for the numerous shallow stab wounds surrounding that fatal wound.

Thus, through his own doing and due to his depraved obsession, Mr. Rokuro lost his footing on the eaves gutter, collided with the wall to sustain a fatal wound, then plummeted into the Sumida River—ultimately drifting with the current to lodge beneath the restroom of Azumabashi Steamship Terminal, thereby exposing himself to posthumous disgrace through this absurd demise. With this, I have presented the general outline of my new interpretation regarding this case. To supplement one or two remaining points concerning why Mr. Rokuro’s corpse was found nude: the Azumabashi vicinity being a den of vagrants, beggars, and ex-convicts—had the drowned body been clad in expensive garments (that night, Mr. Rokuro wore an Ōshima crepe undergarment layered with a Shioze silk haori and carried a platinum pocket watch)—it suffices to state that reckless individuals daring enough to strip them under cover of midnight darkness were plentiful. (Note: This conjecture of mine later materialized as fact when a vagrant was identified.) Furthermore, regarding why Shizuko—present in her bedroom—failed to notice the sound of Mr. Rokuro’s fall: I would ask you to consider that her mind was in turmoil from extreme terror; that the glass windows of the concrete Western-style building were tightly sealed; that the distance from window to water’s surface was considerable; and that even had she heard a splash, the Sumida River’s occasional all-night mud boats might have led her to mistake it for oar sounds. Moreover, it must be emphasized that this incident contained no criminal intent whatsoever and—though inducing an unfortunate accidental death—remained entirely within the realm of a prank. For otherwise, there would be no explaining Mr. Rokuro’s preposterously negligent acts: giving evidentiary gloves to the driver, ordering a wig under his real name, or storing crucial evidence in a locked bookcase at home—actions so foolishly careless as to defy reason. (The rest is omitted.)

I had transcribed my written opinion at excessive length above, but inserted it here because, unless I first clarified my aforementioned reasoning, my subsequent accounts would become extremely difficult to comprehend. In this document, I stated that Oe Shundei had never existed from the very beginning. But was this truly the case? If so, then my having described his character in such exhaustive detail in the earlier sections of this record would be made utterly meaningless—and yet.

10 According to the date on it, I had completed the written opinion for submission to Prosecutor Itosaki on April 28th; however, wishing first to show this document to Shizuko and inform her she no longer needed to fear Oe Shundei's phantom—thereby reassuring her—I visited the Koyamada residence the very next day after finishing it. Even after beginning to suspect Rokuro, I had visited Shizuko twice and conducted what amounted to a house search, yet in truth still had not disclosed anything to her.

At the time, relatives had been gathering around Shizuko daily regarding the disposition of Mr. Rokuro’s estate, and all manner of troublesome issues seemed to be arising; yet Shizuko, nearly isolated, relied on me all the more, and whenever I visited, she would welcome me with great commotion. As usual, when I was shown into Shizuko’s parlor, I abruptly—

“Ms. Shizuko. There’s no need to worry anymore. Oe Shundei never existed in the first place.”

Having said this, I surprised Shizuko. Of course, she did not understand what it meant. So, with the same mindset I had when finishing a detective novel to read aloud to friends, I recited the draft of my written opinion that I had brought for Shizuko's sake. This was partly to inform her of the details and provide reassurance, and partly because I wanted to hear her views, find deficiencies in the draft myself, and make thorough revisions.

The section detailing Mr. Rokuro’s sadistic perversions proved excruciatingly brutal. Shizuko flushed crimson, her demeanor suggesting she wished to disappear into nothingness. When reaching the passage about the gloves, she broke in with, “I too had noticed another pair was missing—how peculiar, how very peculiar.” At the revelation of Mr. Rokuro’s accidental death, she grew deathly pale, struck dumb with shock. Yet after I finished reading, she merely uttered “Oh” and sat dazed awhile before faint relief surfaced in her features. She must have sighed in quiet reassurance upon learning Oe Shundei’s threatening letters were counterfeit—that no peril remained to her person. If my presumptuous speculation holds merit, hearing of Rokuro’s grotesque self-inflicted demise likely eased some measure of self-reproach over our illicit entanglement. Doubtless she took comfort in this newfound rationale: “If he tormented me so cruelly, then surely I…”

Since it was exactly dinnertime—perhaps owing to the circumstances—she bustled about eagerly, bringing out Western spirits to treat me. For my part, delighted that she had approved of the written opinion and urged on by her encouragement, I ended up drinking more than I should have. Being weak with alcohol, I quickly turned crimson red; yet as always, this only made me grow melancholy. I spoke little and simply gazed at Shizuko’s face. Though Shizuko looked rather haggard, her pallor was natural to her complexion; her entire body retained a supple resilience, and that mysterious charm—like banked embers smoldering at her core—had not diminished in the slightest. Not only that, but with winter now favoring woolens, the lines of her figure clad in antique flannel appeared more alluring than ever before. As I gazed at the curves of her limbs making the woolen fabric quiver and writhe, I found myself tormentingly envisioning those parts of her flesh still concealed by kimono—those yet unknown to me.

As we continued talking for some time, the intoxication from alcohol inspired me with a brilliant plan. It was a plan to rent a house in some inconspicuous location, designate it as a place for Shizuko and me to conduct our secret rendezvous, and enjoy clandestine meetings known only to the two of us. At that moment—having confirmed the maid’s departure, and though I must confess this shameful act—I abruptly pulled Shizuko close. While exchanging a second kiss with her, and while my hands reveled in the texture of her flannel-clad back, I whispered this idea into her ear. Not only did she not refuse this bold gesture of mine, but she even gave a slight nod and accepted my proposal.

How should I record those twenty-odd days of ours—those frequent illicit trysts, those festering, nightmarish days? I rented an old house with an earthen storehouse near the pine trees at Negishi Goyō, entrusting its care during my absence to an elderly woman from a nearby sweets shop, and by prior arrangement with Shizuko, would meet her there mostly during daylight hours. For perhaps the first time, I came to understand in my bones the fierceness—the sheer ferocity—of a woman’s passion. At times, Shizuko and I reverted to childhood, dashing entangled through that vast house like hunting dogs—tongues lolling, shoulders heaving with panting breaths—as though it were some dilapidated haunted mansion. When I tried to seize her, she’d wriggle like an eel, slipping through my grasp to dart away again. We ran until breath failed us, collapsing in a heap as limp as corpses. Other times we’d shut ourselves in the dim storehouse for hours on end, utterly motionless. Had anyone pressed an ear to that storehouse door, they might have heard—beneath what seemed a woman’s mournful sobs—the raw weeping of a deep-voiced man continuing in wretched duet for what felt an eternity.

But one day, when Shizuko brought that foreign-made riding crop Mr. Rokuro always used—hidden within a large bouquet of peonies—I found myself feeling strangely afraid. She forced it into my hand and pressed me to strike her naked body as Mr. Rokuro had done. Undoubtedly, Mr. Rokuro’s prolonged cruelty had finally transferred his morbid proclivity to her, leaving her tormented by the unbearable desires of a masochist. And I too—had our trysts continued like this for half a year—would surely have succumbed to the same affliction as Mr. Rokuro. For when I found myself unable to refuse her pleas and brought the crop down upon her delicate flesh; when I saw those venomous worm-like welts abruptly rising across her pallid skin; even as I shuddered, I felt an uncanny pleasure take hold of me.

However, I did not begin writing this record to describe such amorous affairs between a man and woman. I would reserve those matters for more detailed documentation when later structuring this incident into a novel; here I would limit myself to appending one fact I learned from Shizuko during our liaison. This concerned that notorious wig of Mr. Rokuro’s—it had indeed been specially ordered and commissioned by Mr. Rokuro himself. Being neurotically fastidious about such matters, he had gone to place the order with childlike seriousness to conceal his unsightly baldness during their bedroom activities, despite Shizuko’s laughter-filled attempts to dissuade him. When I asked “Why did you hide this until now?”, Shizuko replied “Because it was so shameful—I couldn’t bring myself to speak of it.”

Now, after about twenty days of such circumstances had passed, thinking it odd to stay away too conspicuously, I wiped my mouth clean and visited the Koyamada residence. After meeting with Shizuko and engaging in an hour of stiff conversation, I was seen off by the household’s regular car and returned home. However, the fact that the driver happened to be Aoki Tamizō—the very man from whom I had previously acquired the gloves—once again became the trigger that drew me back into that bizarre waking dream.

The gloves were different, but everything else remained exactly as it had been about a month prior—the shape of his hands on the steering wheel, the old-fashioned navy spring coat (which he wore immediately over his dress shirt), the tense set of his shoulders, the front windshield, and the small mirror above it. That left me with a strange feeling. I remembered how I had called out "Oe Shundei" to this driver before. Then my mind became filled with memories of Oe Shundei’s face in photographs, the bizarre plots of his works, and his peculiar way of life. Eventually I began to feel him so near that I imagined Shundei might be sitting right beside me on the car seat. And then—in a daze—I blurted out something odd.

“You—you, Mr. Aoki. About those gloves from before—when exactly did you receive them from Mr. Koyamada?” “Huh?” The driver turned his face just as he had a month prior, wearing the same dumbfounded expression. “Well... That was last year of course—November... I remember it was the day I received my salary from the office, a day when I often got things given to me. So it was November 28th.” “There’s no mistake about it.”

“Huh… November… the 28th, you say?” Still in a dazed state, I repeated his response like a delirious mutter. "But sir, why are you so fixated on those gloves?" “Was there something about those gloves?” The driver grinned slyly as he said this, but I didn’t respond and kept staring at a small speck of dust stuck to the windshield. I kept at it while the car drove four or five blocks. But suddenly, I stood up in the car, abruptly grabbed the driver’s shoulder, and shouted.

“You’re certain about that? That it was November 28th?” “Can you assert that even in front of a judge?” As the car swayed unsteadily, the driver adjusted the steering wheel while,

“In front of a judge? You can’t be serious.” “But there’s no mistake about November 28th.” “There are witnesses, you know.” “Because my assistant saw it too.” Aoki, taken aback by my excessive seriousness, nevertheless answered earnestly. “Then you’re turning back again.” “Turn back to the Koyamadas’.” The driver grew increasingly flustered and somewhat apprehensive, but even so, he turned the car around as I instructed and arrived at the Koyamadas’ gate. I leapt out of the car, rushed to the entrance, grabbed the maid who was there, and abruptly began questioning her about this matter.

“During last year’s year-end soot cleaning, this house had all the ceiling boards in the Japanese-style rooms completely removed and given a lye wash, I believe.” “That’s true, right?” As I mentioned earlier, I had learned about this from Shizuko when I once climbed into the attic. The maid might have thought I had lost my mind. She stared fixedly at my face for some time, “Yes, that is correct.” “It wasn’t a lye wash—we only had them rinsed with plain water—but the lye service did indeed come.” “That was on December 25th last year.”

“Every ceiling in every room?” “Yes, every ceiling in every room.” Perhaps having overheard this, Shizuko emerged from the back as well. With a worried look, she gazed at my face. “What has happened?” she inquired. I repeated my earlier questions once more. Upon hearing the same response from Shizuko as from the maid, I dove back into the automobile with only a cursory farewell, ordered the driver to take me to my lodgings, sank deeply into the cushions, and was swallowed by my habitual delusions thick as mud.

The ceiling boards of the Japanese-style rooms at the Koyamada residence had been completely removed and washed on December 25th of last year. This meant the decorative clasp must have fallen into the attic after that date. Yet on November 28th, those very gloves had already been given to the driver. That this clasp found in the attic had come off those gloves was—as I had repeatedly emphasized—an irrefutable fact. Thus, it followed that the clasp from those gloves had vanished before ever falling there. This paradox resembling an Einsteinian physics problem—what it truly signified—I had finally grasped. To verify, I visited Aoki Tamizō at his garage and questioned his assistant—November 28th remained confirmed—then sought out the contractor responsible for the Koyamadas’ attic cleaning, who affirmed December 25th without discrepancy. He guaranteed that with all ceiling boards removed, not even the smallest object could have remained behind.

Even so, to stubbornly insist that Mr. Rokuro had dropped that clasp required considering it in this manner—that the clasp from the glove had remained in his pocket. Unaware of this, Mr. Rokuro had given the gloves to the driver since they couldn’t be used without the clasp. Then at least a month later—likely three months later (the threatening letters had begun arriving around February)—when he ascended into the attic, it was claimed the clasp had coincidentally fallen from his pocket in this convoluted sequence. It seemed strange that the glove clasp remained in his suit pocket rather than his overcoat (gloves are typically stored in overcoat pockets), and it was unthinkable that Mr. Rokuro would have gone up to the attic wearing an overcoat—no, even considering he ascended wearing Western clothes felt quite unnatural. Moreover, could a wealthy gentleman like him have spent spring still wearing the same suit from year’s end?

This became the trigger, and once again the shadow of Oe Shundei—that fiend—fell over my mind. Had those modern detective story-like materials claiming Mr. Rokuro was a sadistic pervert caused me to fall into some preposterous delusion? (That he had beaten Shizuko with a foreign-made riding crop remained undeniable,) but could it be he had actually been murdered by someone after all? Oe Shundei—ah!—the lingering specter of that monster Oe Shundei clung tenaciously to my mind.

Once such a thought took root, every single thing began to seem strangely suspicious. That I, a mere mystery novelist, could have constructed such reasoning as I had outlined in my report so effortlessly—when I thought about it, it was absurd. In fact, I had felt that some outrageous error lay hidden somewhere in that report of mine, and though part of it was due to being engrossed in my affair with Shizuko, I had left it as a rough draft without making a clean copy. In fact, I somehow couldn’t bring myself to do it. And now, I had even come to think that this had actually been for the best.

When I thought about it, the evidence in this case was too perfectly aligned. At every place I went, evidence perfectly suited to my investigation lay scattered about as if lying in wait. As Oe Shundei himself had written in his works, a detective must be most vigilant precisely when confronted with an overabundance of evidence. First, that the handwriting of those authentic-seeming threatening letters was a forgery by Mr. Rokuro—as I had delusionally imagined—isn't that exceedingly difficult to believe? As Honda had once remarked, even if one could imitate Shundei's handwriting, how could Mr. Rokuro—a businessman from an entirely different sphere—have replicated those distinctive passages? Until that moment, I had completely forgotten—but in Shundei's story *A Single Stamp*, there is a tale about the hysterical wife of a medical doctor who, out of hatred for her husband, practiced imitating his handwriting, fabricated evidence such as a forged suicide note, and plotted to frame him for murder. Could it be that Shundei had plotted to frame Mr. Rokuro in this incident as well, using the same method?

Depending on one’s perspective, this incident was like a collection of Oe Shundei’s greatest works. For example, the attic peeping was *The Attic Game*; the clasp among the evidence also originated from that same novel’s premise; the practice of imitating Shundei’s handwriting was *A Single Stamp*; and the raw wound on Shizuko’s neck, which implied a sadistic pervert, followed the method of *The Murder on B Slope*. From the glass fragments that created puncture wounds to the naked corpse that had drifted beneath the toilet—every aspect of the incident reeked of Oe Shundei’s presence. Wasn’t this too strange a coincidence to be mere chance? Hadn’t Shundei’s immense shadow loomed over this incident from beginning to end? I felt as though I had been following Oe Shundei’s directions and constructing the deductions exactly as he desired. I even began to think that Shundei had possessed me.

Shundei was out there somewhere. And without doubt, he had been lurking in the incident's depths, his serpentine eyes gleaming. I couldn't help but feel this way - not through logic, but instinctively. But where was he?

I was lying on the futon in my boarding house room, thinking about it, but even someone as thick-skinned as I was wearied by these endless delusions. While thinking, I grew utterly exhausted and dozed off fitfully. And then, when I startled awake from a strange dream, I recalled a certain curious thing.

Though it was late at night, I called his boarding house and had Honda summoned. “Honda, you said Oe Shundei’s wife had a round face, right?” When Honda answered the phone, I asked such a thing without any preamble and surprised him. “Yes, that’s right.” After a moment, perhaps realizing it was me, Honda answered in a sleepy voice. “She always wore her hair in a Western style, didn’t she?” “Yes, that’s right.” “She was wearing near-sighted glasses, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, that’s right.” “She had gold fillings, didn’t she?” “Yeah, that’s right.” “Her teeth were bad, weren’t they? And didn’t you say she often had a toothache plaster on her cheek?” “You know a lot about her. Have you met Shundei’s wife?” “No, I heard it from people in Sakuramachi’s neighborhood. But when you met her, was she still suffering from toothaches?” “Yeah, always. She must’ve had terrible teeth.”

“Was that on the right cheek?”

“I don’t remember clearly, but I believe it was the right side.” “But don’t you find it odd? A young woman with Western-style hair using an old-fashioned toothache plaster like that.” “Nobody uses those things nowadays.” “True enough.” “But really—what’s this about?” “Have you found some lead in the case?”

“Well… yeah,” I said evasively. “I’ll explain everything properly later.”

So, in this way, I had asked Honda again about things I already knew from prior inquiries, just to be certain. And then, on the manuscript paper atop my desk, as if solving a geometry problem, I spent nearly until morning writing and erasing, writing and erasing various shapes, characters, and formula-like things.

Eleven

Given that the letters I usually sent to coordinate our liaison arrangements had stopped for about three days—perhaps because she could no longer bear waiting—an express letter arrived from Shizuko urging me to come to the usual hideout tomorrow around three in the afternoon. In it, she lamented: “Now that you know the shameless truth of a woman like me, haven’t you grown to despise me? Aren’t you frightened of me?”

Even after receiving this letter, I felt strangely reluctant. I found seeing her face utterly unbearable. Yet despite this, I went to that monster house beneath the Goyō pine at the appointed time. It was already June, but the gloomy pre-rainy season sky hung oppressively low overhead, creating a sweltering day that felt almost maddening. After getting off the train, within three or four blocks of walking, my underarms and back grew clammy with sweat; when I touched it, my Fuji silk shirt clung damply to my skin.

Shizuko had arrived one step ahead of me and was waiting, seated on the bed in the cool storehouse. On the second floor of the storehouse, we had laid out carpets, placed beds and sofas, arranged several large mirrors, and decorated the stage for games as effectively as possible—but Shizuko ignored my attempts to stop her and purchased absurdly expensive items without hesitation, whether carpets or beds, even though they were merely ready-made.

Shizuko sat perched on the bed’s pristine white sheets, wearing a garish hitoe kimono of Yūki tsumugi silk fastened with a black satin obi embroidered with paulownia leaves, her usual glossy marumage coiffure swept low—yet the Western furnishings and her Edo-esque appearance created a starkly incongruous contrast, all the more jarring in the dim light of the storehouse’s second floor. Whenever I saw how her beloved marumage coiffure—unchanged even after losing her husband—gleamed with fragrant luster, I could not help but visualize that indecent sight: the bun sagging heavily, her forelocks crushed into disarray, clinging stray hairs coiled about her neck. When returning from that hideout, it was her custom to spend thirty minutes before the mirror tidying her disheveled hair.

“The other day, you specifically came back to ask about the lye washer—what was that about? You were positively flustered, weren’t you? I’ve tried to figure out why, but I simply can’t understand.”

When I entered, Shizuko immediately asked that question. “You don’t understand? To you?” I answered while taking off my suit jacket: “It’s a serious matter. I’ve made a terrible mistake, I tell you. The ceiling was washed at the end of December, and the button from Mr. Koyamada’s glove came off more than a month before that. Because that driver said he was given the gloves on November 28th, the button must have come off before then. The order of events is completely backwards.”

“Oh!” Shizuko looked utterly astonished but still didn’t seem to fully grasp the situation. “But the button fell into the attic after it came off, didn’t it?” “Later is later, but the time in between is the problem.” “In other words, unless the button came off right when Mr. Koyamada went up into the attic, it doesn’t make sense.” “To be precise, yes—it was later, but it fell into the attic the moment it came off and stayed there.” “For it to take over a month from coming off to falling—that can’t be explained by the laws of physics, can it?”

"I suppose so." She turned slightly pale and was still deep in thought. "If the button had come off into Mr. Koyamada's coat pocket and then accidentally fallen into the attic a month later, that might explain things—but even so, would Mr. Koyamada really have worn the same clothes from last November all through spring?"

“No. He was quite particular about his appearance, so by year’s end he’d already switched to much thicker winter clothes.” “There—you see? That makes it impossible, doesn’t it?” “Then—” She drew a sharp breath. “It was Hirata after all…” Her voice trailed into silence.

“That’s right. In this case, the stench of Oe Shundei is far too strong. And so, I’ve had to completely revise my previous report.” I then briefly explained to her, as recorded in the previous chapter, how this case resembled a collection of Oe Shundei’s masterpieces, how the evidence aligned too perfectly, and how the forged handwriting had been unnervingly realistic.

“You probably aren’t aware, but Shundei’s way of living was truly bizarre. Why did he refuse to meet visitors? Why did he move so often, travel constantly, feign illness—all to avoid people? And finally, why waste money renting that house in Mukōjima Suzaki-chō indefinitely? However reclusive a novelist might be, isn’t that just too strange? If they weren’t preparatory acts for committing murder, then it’s just too strange, don’t you think?”

I was sitting on the bed next to Shizuko, talking, when she—apparently struck by the realization that it had indeed been Shundei’s doing—suddenly seemed overcome with fear. She pressed her body tightly against mine and grasped my left wrist with a ticklish intensity. “When I think about it, I’ve been turned into his puppet.” “It’s as if I’ve been forced to rehearse his pre-prepared fabricated evidence exactly as he laid out in his own reasoning.” “Ha ha ha…” I laughed self-mockingly. “He’s a terrifying man.” “He had thoroughly grasped my way of thinking and fabricated the evidence exactly according to it.” “Ordinary detectives or the like are no good.” “Only a mystery-loving novelist like myself could conjure up such a convoluted and outlandish imagination.” “But if the culprit were Shundei, all sorts of contradictions would arise.” “The fact that these contradictions arise is precisely what makes this case so inscrutable—and why Shundei proves to be a villain of unfathomable depths.” “By ‘contradictions,’ to put it plainly, there are two matters: first, how those threatening letters stopped coming entirely after Mr. Koyamada’s death, and second, why items like the diary, Shundei’s works, and *Shin Seinen* were placed in Mr. Koyamada’s bookcase.” “These two points alone just don’t add up if Shundei were the culprit.” “Even if we grant that the marginal notes in the diary were written by mimicking Mr. Koyamada’s handwriting, and that the pencil marks on *Shin Seinen*’s frontispiece were also prepared by that man to fabricate evidence—the truly impossible thing is how Shundei obtained the key to that bookcase, which only Mr. Koyamada possessed.” “And then there’s the matter of how he managed to sneak into that study.” “For these three days, I’ve thought through that point until my head ached.” “As a result, I believe I’ve found a single solution—though.”

As I mentioned earlier, since this case was thoroughly saturated with the essence of Shundei’s works, I thought studying his novels more closely might yield some key to solving it—so I retrieved his books and began reading them. “Now, about this—though I haven’t told you yet—according to a man named Honda from Hakubunkan, Shundei was spotted loitering in Asakusa Park wearing an absurd outfit: a pointed hat and clown’s costume.” “Moreover, when they checked with the advertising agencies, they concluded he could only have been one of the park vagrants.” “The notion of Shundei blending in among Asakusa’s vagrants—isn’t that straight out of Stevenson’s *Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde*?” “When I realized this, I combed through Shundei’s works for similar patterns and found two—you must know them—the novel *Panorama Country*, written just before his disappearance, and an earlier short story titled *One Actor, Two Roles*.” “Reading these makes perfectly clear how enthralled he was with that Jekyll-and-Hyde approach.” “In essence—how a single person could masquerade as two distinct individuals.”

“I’m scared.” Shizuko tightly gripped my hand and said, “Your way of talking gives me chills.” “Let’s stop this talk.” “I can’t stand being in this dim storehouse.” “Save that talk for later—let’s enjoy ourselves today.” “When I’m with you like this, I don’t even remember Hirata exists.”

“Now, listen.” “It’s a matter of life and death for you.” “If Shundei is still targeting you…” I was in no state for romantic games.

"I’ve discovered just two peculiar coincidences within this case." "If I were to put it in scholarly terms—one spatial coincidence and one temporal coincidence—but here’s a map of Tokyo." I took out a simplified Tokyo map from my pocket and pointed as I spoke. "From what I heard and memorized through Honda and the Kisagata Police Station chief—Oe Shundei’s addresses were Ikebukuro, Ushigome-Kikuichō, Negishi, Yanaka-Hatsunechō, Nippori-Kanesugi, Kanda-Suehirochō, Ueno-Sakuragichō, Honjo-Yanagishimachō, and Mukōjima-Suzakichō." "Of these, only Ikebukuro and Ushigome-Kikuichō lie far apart—the remaining seven cluster tightly within Tokyo’s northeastern quadrant when mapped." "This was Shundei’s critical error." The separation between Ikebukuro and Ushigome made sense when considering journalists began swarming during his Negishi period—after his literary fame had risen. "Meaning until his Kikuichō days, he’d conducted all manuscript business solely through letters." "Now—" I traced arcs across the map between her restless hands "—connecting these seven locations from Negishi onward forms an irregular perimeter." My finger stabbed unmarked paper. "Determine its centerpoint...and there lies this case’s solution." "The reasoning behind this—I’ll explain now."

At that moment—what had Shizuko been thinking?—she released my hand and suddenly wrapped both arms around my neck. With those Mona Lisa lips of hers baring white overlapping teeth, she screamed “I’m scared!” as she pressed her cheek against mine, her lips firmly against my lips. After lingering like that briefly, she pulled her lips away. Then, skillfully tickling my ear with her index finger, she brought her mouth close to it and whispered in a sweet, lullaby-like tone.

“I can’t bear to waste our precious time on such frightening talk.” “You, you don’t understand these fiery lips of mine? You don’t hear this throbbing heart?” “Come on, hold me. Hey, hold me.”

“Just a little more.” “Just a little longer—please bear with me and hear my thoughts.” “Moreover, I came here today precisely to consult thoroughly with you about this.”

“Now, regarding the temporal coincidence—” I continued speaking without regard. “The abrupt disappearance of Shundei’s name from magazines—I remember it clearly—dates back to the end of the year before last. And then, regarding when Mr. Koyamada returned from abroad—you did say that was also at the end of the year before last, didn’t you? How is it that these two align so perfectly? Could this be mere coincidence? What do you think?”

Before I could finish saying that, Shizuko brought the foreign-made riding crop from the corner of the room, forced it into my right hand, suddenly took off her kimono, collapsed face-down onto the bed, and from beneath her exposed, smooth shoulders, turned only her face toward me— “What does that matter—such things, such things!” she babbled something incomprehensible, like a madwoman, then cried, “Come on, hit me! Hit me!” while undulating her upper body like a wave.

Through the small storehouse window, a mouse-gray sky was visible. Was it the rumble of a streetcar? From far away, something like thunder—mingling with my own tinnitus—came rumbling in with ominous reverberations. It felt precisely like war drums heralding a demonic army descending from the heavens, an eeriness that crawled under the skin. Likely that weather and the storehouse’s oppressive air had driven us both mad. When we later reflected, neither Shizuko nor I had been in our right minds. As I gazed at her sweat-drenched, pallid body writhing there, I doggedly pressed on with my deductions.

“On one hand, Oe Shundei’s involvement in this case is as clear as day,” I continued relentlessly while staring at her undulating form beneath me. “But on the other hand—despite two full months of Japan’s police force combing every corner—that famous novelist has vanished like mist! Not a single trace remains!” Ah—even contemplating this filled me with terror. How could such madness not be nightmare? Why wouldn’t he kill Koyamada Shizuko? Why had those threatening letters ceased so abruptly? What ninja trickery let that bastard infiltrate Mr Koyamada’s study? And how had he opened that locked bookcase? My thoughts raced uncontrollably toward another figure—none other than Hirayama Hideko, that celebrated female detective novelist. The world believes her woman. Even fellow writers and journalists take her femininity as fact. Daily love letters pour into her home from besotted young readers. Yet truth reveals him male. More—a government official of standing! We detective writers—myself included—Shundei too—Hideko—we’re all monsters. Men masquerading women—women playing men—when grotesque obsessions fester... One writer nightly donned women’s garb—roamed Asakusa’s alleys— Even conducted mock love affairs with men.

I became so engrossed that I kept rambling on like a madman. Sweat beaded all over my face, and it unpleasantly flowed into my mouth.

“Now, Ms. Shizuko.” “Listen closely.” “Is my reasoning wrong or not?” “Where lies the center of the circle connecting Shundei’s addresses?” “Look at this map.” “It’s your house.” “Asakusayama Inn.” “All are within ten minutes by car from your home... Why did Shundei disappear precisely when Mr.Koyamada returned from abroad?” “Because you could no longer attend tea ceremony and music lessons.” “Do you understand?” “During Mr.Koyamada’s absence, you attended those lessons daily from afternoon till night.” “...Who meticulously arranged everything to make me form those deductions?” “It was you who trapped me at the museum and manipulated me freely... Being who you are, you could freely add phrases to the diary, plant evidence in Mr.Koyamada’s bookcase, even drop a button on the ceiling.” “I’ve reasoned this far.” “Is there any other conclusion?” “Answer me.” “Answer me!”

“It’s too much. “It’s too much.” The naked Shizuko let out a sudden scream and clung to me. And pressing her face against my white shirt, she wept so bitterly that I could feel her hot tears soaking through to my skin. “Why are you crying? Why have you been trying to stop my deductions since earlier? If this were straightforward—a matter of life and death for you—shouldn’t you be eager to hear it? With just this much, I can’t help but suspect you. Listen. My deductions aren’t finished yet. Why was Oe Shundei’s wife wearing glasses? Fitted with gold teeth? Applying a toothache patch? Styling her hair Western-style to make her round face appear oval? Isn’t that exactly like the disguise methods in Shundei’s *Panorama Island*? In that novel, Shundei expounds the essence of Japanese disguise. Changing hairstyles, wearing glasses, stuffing cotton in cheeks—and in *A One-Sen Copper Coin*, there’s the idea of fitting gold-plated false teeth from night stalls over healthy teeth. You have a conspicuous double tooth. To hide it, you covered it with a gold-plated false tooth. Your right cheek has a large mole. To hide it, you applied a toothache patch. Tying your hair Western-style to make your oval face appear round was child’s play. And then you transformed into Shundei’s wife.”

“The day before yesterday, I had Honda secretly observe you to confirm whether you resembled Shundei’s wife.” “Didn’t Honda say that if we changed your traditional chignon to a Western hairstyle, put on glasses, and inserted gold teeth, you’d look exactly like Shundei’s wife?” “Come now—out with it.” “I’ve figured it all out.” “Even now, after all this—you still try to deceive me?” I shoved Shizuko away. She collapsed limply onto the bed, weeping violently yet refusing to answer no matter how long I waited. Overcome by agitation, I instinctively swung the riding crop in my hand and struck her bare back with a crack. In my frenzy, I kept striking her—again and again—blow after merciless blow. Her pale skin flushed crimson before my eyes, until bright red blood seeped out in creeping patterns like earthworms. Beneath my whip, she thrashed her limbs and twisted her body in that same indecent pose she always assumed. Then, between gasps that seemed ready to stop altogether, she whispered in a thin voice: “Hirata... Hirata...”

“Hirata?” “Ah, you’re still trying to deceive me!” “If you were disguised as Shundei’s wife, are you saying there must be another person named Shundei?” “There’s no such person as Shundei!” “He’s entirely a fictional character.” “To hide that fact, you disguised yourself as his wife and met with magazine reporters.” “And you changed your address so frequently.” “But for certain people who couldn’t be fooled by a mere fictional character, you hired a vagrant from Asakusa Park and had him stay in the room.” “It wasn’t that Shundei disguised himself as the man in the clown costume—it was the man in the clown costume who disguised himself as Shundei!”

Shizuko lay on the bed like a corpse and remained silent. Only the red, earthworm-like welts on her back wriggled as though alive with each breath she took. Because she had fallen silent, my excitement also began to subside.

“Ms. Shizuko. I hadn’t intended to treat you so harshly. I could have spoken more calmly. But since you kept trying to evade my questions—and then tried to deceive me with those coquettish antics—I ended up losing control. Please forgive me. Now then, you needn’t speak. I will lay out everything you’ve done in proper order. If I make any mistakes, just say ‘No’ with a single word.”

And so, I laid out my reasoning in a way that would be easily understood. “You were blessed with intellect and literary talent rare for a woman.” “That much becomes abundantly clear just from reading the letters you gave me.” “That you would attempt writing detective novels anonymously under a male pen name—this was not at all unreasonable.” “But your novel was unexpectedly well-received.” “And just when you were on the verge of fame, Mr.Koyamada had to depart for abroad—two whole years.” “To soothe that loneliness and satisfy your taste for the grotesque, you conceived that terrifying trick of playing three roles alone.” “You had written a novel called One Person, Two Roles—but surpassing that, you devised this brilliant scheme of one person performing three roles.” “You rented a house in Negishi under the name Hirata Ichiro.” “The previous addresses in Ikebukuro and Ushigome were merely letter-receiving fronts, weren’t they?” “Through claims of misanthropy and fabricated travels, you kept this ‘Hirata’ hidden from public view while disguising yourself as Mrs.Hirata to handle all manuscript negotiations in his stead.” “When writing manuscripts, you became Hirata of Oe Shundei; when meeting magazine reporters or securing lodgings, Mrs.Hirata; at the Koyamada mountain villa, Mrs.Koyamada.” “Three roles from one body.” “For this purpose, you had to leave home nearly every afternoon under pretexts of tea ceremony lessons or music instruction.” “Half your day as Mrs.Koyamada, half as Mrs.Hirata—partitioning your single form between these guises.” “This required redoing your hair, changing kimonos—time-consuming disguises making distant locations impractical.” “Hence when changing residences, you selected places all within ten minutes by car from the mountain villa.” “Being a fellow devotee of the grotesque, I understand your mindset perfectly.” “An arduous endeavor indeed—yet what game in this world could rival such allure?” “A thought occurs to me.”

“Once, a certain critic remarked that Shundei’s works overflowed with suspicion so unpleasant it could only belong to a woman—I recall him saying it was like a beast squirming in darkness. That critic spoke truth, didn’t he?”

In time, those brief two years passed, and Mr. Koyamada returned. You could no longer maintain your former dual roles as before. Thus came the report of Oe Shundei's disappearance. Yet knowing Shundei to be an extreme misanthrope, the public scarcely questioned this unnatural vanishing. "But why you resolved to commit such a terrible crime—though as a man I cannot fully grasp your psychology—books on abnormal psychology state that hysterical women often send threatening letters addressed to themselves." "There are numerous such cases both in Japan and abroad." "In other words—you wanted to frighten yourself while making others pity you. That was your state of mind." "I believe you must surely be such a case." "You received threats from the very famous male novelist whose identity you'd appropriated." "What magnificent allure!"

“At the same time, you had grown dissatisfied with your aging husband. And you came to harbor an irrepressible longing for the perverse freedom you experienced during your husband’s absence. No—to delve deeper, as you once wrote in Shundei’s novels, you felt an indescribable allure to crime itself, to murder itself. For that purpose, there was the perfect fictional character—Shundei—who had completely vanished without a trace. If you pinned suspicion on this man, you could remain safe forever, part with your unpleasant husband, inherit a vast fortune, and spend the rest of your life doing exactly as you pleased.”

“But you weren’t satisfied with just that. You conceived the idea of laying a double line of defense to leave nothing to chance. And I was the one chosen. You intended to cleverly use me—the one who always criticized Shundei’s works—as your puppet to strike at your enemy. So when I showed you that written opinion, how amusing it must have been for you. Deceiving me was no trouble at all for you, was it? ‘The glove button, the diary, Shin Seinen magazine, “The Attic Game”’—that was more than sufficient, you see. But as you always write in your novels, criminals inevitably leave behind some trivial blunder somewhere, isn’t that right? You picked up the button that had come off Mr. Koyamada’s glove and used it as crucial evidence, but you failed to properly investigate when it had come off. You were completely unaware that those gloves had been given to the chauffeur long ago. What a trivial blunder that was. I believe Mr. Koyamada’s fatal wound was indeed exactly as I previously deduced. The only difference is that instead of Mr. Koyamada peering in from outside the window, it was you who pushed him out from inside during your obsessive dalliance—hence why he was wearing that wig.”

“Well, Ms. Shizuko.” “Was my reasoning mistaken?” “Please give me some kind of answer.” “If you can, please refute my reasoning.” “Hey, Ms. Shizuko.”

I placed my hand on the shoulder of the exhausted Shizuko and gave her a light shake. But perhaps out of shame and regret, she couldn't raise her face; she remained motionless and didn't utter a single word.

After saying everything I wanted to say, I felt deflated and stood there in a daze. Before me lay the woman who until yesterday had been my one and only lover, collapsed and exposing the true nature of a wounded beast. As I stared fixedly at this sight, my eyes gradually grew hot.

“Then I’ll take my leave now.” I pulled myself together and said. “You must consider this carefully later.” “And choose the right path.” “Thanks to you, over this past month or so, I’ve been able to glimpse a world of obsessive passion I had never experienced before.” “And even now, when I think of that, I find it hard to part from you.” “However, my conscience does not permit me to continue this relationship with you as it is.” “I am a man of exceptional moral sensitivity.” “……Well then, goodbye.”

I left a heartfelt kiss on Shizuko's earthworm-like keloid scar and departed our monster mansion, which had served as the stage for our obsessive passion these past weeks. The sky loomed even lower now, the air growing thicker with heat. Drenched in an uncanny sweat, I clattered my teeth and staggered forward like a madman.

Twelve And in the evening paper the next day, I learned of Shizuko's suicide. She had likely thrown herself from the second floor of that Western-style mansion into the same Sumida River as Mr. Koyamada Rokuro and resolved to meet her death by drowning. The terribleness of fate may have arisen from the Sumida River’s unchanging flow, but her corpse had nevertheless drifted to that same spot near the Azumabashi steamship terminal and was discovered by morning passersby. The clueless newspaper reporter appended to his article: "It is likely that Mrs. Koyamada met her untimely end at the hands of the same culprit as her husband, Mr. Rokuro."

When I read this article, I mourned the pitiful death of my former lover and felt profound sorrow, but setting that aside, I believed Shizuko's death was tantamount to a confession of her terrible crimes—a perfectly inevitable outcome. For about a month, I remained utterly convinced of this.

But before long, as the fever of my delusions gradually cooled, terrible doubts began to rise in my mind. I had not heard a single word of direct confession from Shizuko. Though various pieces of evidence had been gathered, their interpretation stemmed entirely from my own imaginings. This couldn't claim the ironclad certainty of two plus two equaling four. Hadn't I in fact—using only the chauffeur's testimony and the laundry worker's account—managed to completely reinterpret all evidence from that once-plausible deduction into its exact opposite? How could I assert the same reversal wouldn't occur with another line of reasoning? In truth, even when confronting Shizuko on that storehouse's second floor, I'd never initially intended to go so far. My plan had been to calmly present the facts and hear her defense. Yet midway through my explanation, her peculiar demeanor inflamed my groundless suspicions until I found myself speaking with brutal finality. And when repeated demands for response met only obstinate silence, I'd taken her mute compliance as tacit admission of guilt. But might this have been nothing more than self-deception from start to finish?

Indeed, she had committed suicide. (But was it truly a suicide?) Murder! If it was murder, then who was the perpetrator? How terrible) Just because she had committed suicide, did that truly prove her guilt? Could there not have been some other reason altogether? For example—if she, who had thought me her sole reliance, had found herself so harshly accused and interrogated by me, realizing she had no means to vindicate herself, might not a woman of narrow sensibilities, in a moment of intense agitation, have resolved to end her life? If so, then even though I never laid a hand on her, was it not clearly I who had killed her? I had just said it wasn’t murder, but what else could this be if not murder?

But if it were merely the suspicion that I might have killed a single woman, I could still endure it. However, my unfortunate tendency to delude myself even considered more and more terrifying things. She was clearly in love with me. I had to consider the heart of a woman who was suspected by the one she loved and tormented as a terrible criminal. Could it not be that precisely because she loved me, precisely because she grieved over the unbearable suspicions from her lover, she ultimately resolved to take her own life? Even if my terrifying reasoning had been correct— Why had she come to want to kill the husband she had been with for so many years? Could freedom or wealth—could such things truly possess enough power to drive a woman to commit murder? Could it not have been love? And could that lover have been none other than myself?

Ah, what am I to do with this most terrible doubt in all the world? Whether Shizuko was a murderer or not, I had killed that pitiful woman who had been so deeply in love with me. I cannot help but curse my petty sense of morality. Is there anything in this world as strong and beautiful as love? Did I not cruelly shatter that pure and beautiful love with a moralist’s stubborn heart?

But if she were indeed Oe Shundei himself, just as I had imagined, and had committed that terrible murder, I might still find some measure of peace. Even so, how could that be confirmed now? Mr. Koyamada Rokuro was dead. Koyamada Shizuko was dead too. And could it not be concluded that Oe Shundei had vanished from this world forever? Honda had said Shizuko resembled Shundei's wife. But what proof lay in mere resemblance? I visited Prosecutor Itosaki many times to inquire about developments, but he would only give vague replies, with no apparent progress in locating Oe Shundei. I also arranged for someone to investigate Hirata Ichiro's hometown of Shizuoka, but my futile hope that he might prove fictional came to nothing—they reported a missing man named Hirata Ichiro did exist. But even if this Hirata existed, even if he had truly been Shizuko's former lover, how could one definitively conclude he was both Oe Shundei and Rokuro's killer? He remained unfindable now, and one couldn't deny Shizuko might have simply borrowed an old lover's name for one persona in her triple role. Furthermore, with her relatives' permission, I had all of Shizuko's belongings and letters thoroughly examined. Then I tried to uncover some concrete fact. Yet this attempt too yielded nothing.

I regretted my deductive compulsion, my delusional tendencies, with such intensity that no amount of remorse could ever suffice. And if it were possible—even knowing full well the futility—I had resolved to spend my entire life on a pilgrimage searching for the whereabouts of Hirata Ichiro, that Oe Shundei, traversing not just all of Japan but to the very ends of the earth. (Yet should Shundei be found—whether proven guilty or innocent—my anguish would only deepen in different ways...)

It had already been half a year since Shizuko met her tragic end. But Hirata Ichiro never appeared, no matter how much time passed. And my irreparable, terrible doubt only deepened further with each passing day and month.