Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue: The Fruits of Grotesquery

Preface

He was far too much of a boredom-prone individual and a grotesquery enthusiast.

A certain detective novelist—he too was a man who, driven by excessive boredom, had begun writing detective stories as the sole remaining stimulus in this world—was said to have feared that someone might progress from one bloody crime to another until they could no longer be satisfied with fiction and would end up committing actual crimes, such as murder; yet the protagonist of this story went and did precisely what that detective novelist had feared. Grotesquery escalated, and he finally committed a terrible crime.

O devotees of grotesquery, ye must not become too grotesque. This tale itself shall serve as an apt admonition.

How dreadfully terrifying are the fruits of grotesquery?

The protagonist of this story was a young man just shy of thirty years old, the second son of a wealthy family in Nagoya City, by the name of Aoki Ainosuke. With no need to labor for his bread, overflowing with pocket money and vigor, and love—having married his beautiful beloved three years prior only to grow numb to her charms—it was precisely this state of lacking nothing that bred his boredom. And thus, he ended up becoming what one might call a devotee of grotesquery.

He began dabbling in the bizarre in every conceivable sphere. Things to see, things to hear, things to eat—and even women. But nothing had the power to heal his deep-seated boredom. Given that he was such a man, he naturally devoured the bizarre elements found within detective fiction. He developed an interest in crime. And then, he even began that bizarre game known as the Grotesque Club—a venture that devotees of grotesquery favored attempting as a stimulus just short of crime. But even this, in the end, only served to render his boredom all the more incurable. The stronger the stimulus becomes, the more the nerves perceiving it grow numb on the other hand.

Even so, as a stimulant other than crime, this Grotesque Club was the last resort. There, all conceivable bizarre games were performed. Blood-soaked and obscene short plays modeled after Paris’s Grand Guignol; various test-of-courage-style events; crime stories; etc., etc. For each meeting, a designated member was assigned, and this member had to devise a scheme—such as declaring with feigned seriousness something like “I’ve just killed someone”—to make the other members shudder, astonish them, and elicit cries of “Ah!”

As ideas gradually ran out, they even went so far as to agree to attach substantial reward money to those schemes that made the members shudder from the depths of their souls. Aoki Ainosuke provided nearly all of the funds himself.

However, such contrivances had their limits. No matter how starved for stimulation Aoki Ainosuke might have been, no matter how exorbitant a reward he dangled, this was not something that could be compelled through mere wealth. At last, as the Grotesque Club's wellspring of ideas ran dry—members slipping away first singly, then in pairs—it dissolved without ceremony, its disbandment scarcely noted. And what remained in its wake? A boredom more intolerable still than what had preceded it.

The author thought this was only natural. As long as a grotesquer remained a grotesquer, his grotesque curiosity could never be satisfied. This was because he remained ultimately a third party and bystander. Merely discussing or listening to crime stories could not let one taste terror and shuddering from the very depths. If he wanted to taste that, there had been no other way but for him to become party to the crime himself. To take an extreme example, there was no alternative but to either be killed by someone or kill someone.

That was the fruit of grotesquery. But no matter how devoted to grotesquery one might be—even our own Aoki Ainosuke—no degree of starvation for stimulation would grant them the courage to willingly stoop to becoming true criminals and fully realize “the fruits of grotesquery.”

Shinagawa Shiro’s Bear Girl Spectacle Captivates

Aoki Ainosuke maintained a second residence in Tokyo, and it was his custom to travel there about once a month for social engagements, theater, and horse racing, staying for a week or ten days at a time. His beloved wife Yoshie would sometimes accompany him and sometimes not.

First, this is an event that took place in Tokyo. Among his friends from university days—Ainosuke had graduated from Tokyo Imperial University—was a man named Shinagawa Shiro. As he was the son of a poor family, upon graduating from university he immediately sought employment and joined a certain popular science magazine company, but before long had made the magazine his own and began publishing it under his own management. Considerable profits seemed to be accruing. Given the nature of his business, he was not averse to grotesquery, but being more of a conventional man, he criticized Aoki’s reckless lifestyle. He was particularly opposed to ventures like the Grotesque Club, scorning the very notion that such absurdities could ever alleviate boredom. He was a practical man.

His grotesquery consisted of factual accounts, and when dining with Aoki at restaurants, he would often recount well-researched recent crime stories.

On Ainosuke’s part, he despised that practical aspect of Shinagawa. “True crime stories are boring—spare me,” he said. And he would proceed to recount his favorite absurd and bizarre dreams. In other words, while they held mutual contempt for each other, they shared some common ground and thus continued their unchanging association.

However, here occurred a bizarre incident that plunged both of them—given their respective dispositions—into states of intense excitement and obsession. Aoki delighted in its mysterious and grotesque qualities. Shinagawa found himself captivated precisely because it was a vivid actual occurrence. How astonishingly strange it was that this incident proved both thoroughly realistic yet simultaneously something utterly grotesque—surpassing even the wildest imaginings of detective novelists.

First, let me recount the events in order.

It was one autumn afternoon during the Spirit-Inviting Festival when Kudan’s Yasukuni Shrine was filled with tent-covered spectacles. Aoki Ainosuke, being that devotee of grotesquery who could not rest without visiting Kudan whenever the Spirit-Inviting Festival was mentioned—(he had even included this spectacle-viewing at Kudan in his schedule during his monthly visits to the capital)—descended from the streetcar dressed in a light inverness and carrying a cane, then sauntered up Kudanzaka Slope despite the muggy, dusty, unpleasant weather.

To digress for a moment, he harbored a peculiar fascination with this Kudanzaka Slope. The reason was this: there existed a deceased painter named Murayama Kaita, whom he greatly admired, and this Kaita had written about three detective novels. In one such detective novel, the protagonist was a bizarre man with a tongue serrated like a carnivore's—a man who hid a will or something of the sort behind a stone in the stone wall of this very Kudanzaka Slope, wrote the location in code, and passed it to someone, such was the story's plot.

And so, every time Aoki ascended Kudanzaka Slope, he would recall Kaita’s novel and—though now it had completely changed from those days—could not help gazing at the stone wall beside the road with a strange feeling. "The shape of that stone seems slightly different from the others—I wonder if there’s still something hidden under there even now."

Ainosuke was a man of such a constitution that he conflated fact and fiction, delighting in such delusions. The spectacle scenes of Kudan are something everyone knows, so there’s no need to elaborate on them in detail, but they had now fallen into decline, giving the impression that old-fashioned spectacles—the kind barely lingering on in some remote countryside—had been scoured from every corner of Japan and gathered here. Mechanical dioramas of hell and paradise; electric automatons of Shuten-dōji of Mount Ōe; female sword dances; ball juggling; monkey shows; trick horseback riding; morality plays; Bear Girls; Cow Girls; Horned Men—between these grand tent spectacles swarmed clusters of oden stalls, ice vendors, orangeade and peppermint water stands, 10-sen uniform-price toy shops, and balloon sellers, all crammed densely together. Through this, for some reason, the people of Tokyo—inhaling dust and becoming flushed—were swarming about restlessly.

In front of a morality play tent—which occasionally lifted its curtain to offer a fleeting glimpse inside—a veritable mountain of people had gathered. The rearmost row of the crowd swelled until it nearly brushed against the food stalls on the opposite side, leaving the path there with barely enough space for a single person to squeeze through. With people ceaselessly streaming through that gap—jostling each other shoulder to shoulder from right and left—it was truly unpleasant. It was when Aoki Ainosuke attempted to navigate through that narrow, treacherous alleyway.

To his utter astonishment, amidst that dusty throng, there was Shinagawa Shiro in his suit—his face flushed crimson and glistening with sweat beneath a black winter fedora perched askew—being jostled by the crowd. The reason this was so strange was that Shinagawa Shiro was by no means a connoisseur of the bizarre like Ainosuke, but rather a man who took no interest in old-fashioned spectacles. Since he was a single man, it wasn’t as though he had been brought here by a child. Even if he had come to gather material for his commercial magazine, he didn’t seem to have brought any editorial staff with him. There’s simply no way the president himself would be out gathering material.

What truly startled him was this: Shinagawa Shiro, seemingly entranced by the spectacle of the Bear Girl, stood utterly absorbed in listening to the disheveled female barker—her hair tied in a topknot, clad in a striped cotton workcoat, veins bulging at her throat as she barked her spiel with a crimson face—her vulgar eloquence holding him spellbound. There are indeed strange things in this world.

He scrutinized him once more, but it was unmistakably not a case of mistaken identity.

The President of the Science Magazine Commits Pickpocketing Aoki Ainosuke was not the sort of man to guilelessly call out someone’s name in such situations. He decided he would stealthily observe what Shinagawa was doing within this crowd—a profoundly sinful act born of grotesque curiosity. Then, after squandering nearly half a day, he trailed Shinagawa like a detective. Though it demanded immense perseverance, this connoisseur of the bizarre possessed patience in abundance.

Shinagawa Shiro, unaware of anything, walked, weaving from crowd to crowd. In front of the electric automatons, in front of the Hell and Paradise diorama, in front of the female sword dancers—no matter where—he stood for long periods, gaping dumbfounded like a country bumpkin.

"This guy’s sneaking around to indulge his taste for the bizarre," he thought. "Since it’s such an embarrassing hobby, he kept it secret even from me. Talking big, but you’re one of us after all, aren’t you?" Ainosuke, feeling as though he had grasped his friend’s weakness, became delighted.

Shinagawa passed by most spectacles after merely listening to their spiels, but he paid the entrance fee and entered the largest tent—the one housing the girl’s trick horseback riding troupe. There, on the mat-covered seats, he endured the discomfort of being jostled by country bumpkins’ shins and young women’s behinds as he watched a full round of trick horseback riding and acrobatic feats. Needless to say, Aoki Ainosuke also covertly accompanied him to avoid detection.

It was already evening when they left that place. At the spectacles, acetylene gas lamps were lit with a sweet-smelling odor—a boundary between day and night where the illuminations of the shows and the lingering sunlight flickered and intermingled. The faces of the crowd blurred hazily into the distance, creating a moment as beautiful as a dream. Shinagawa Shiro descended Kudanzaka Slope, his body utterly exhausted from witnessing those bizarre spectacles. Halfway up the slope, a telescope shop—in what was called the Dutch-import style—was conducting business, offering glimpses of the moon’s face. They had set up cheap astronomical telescopes and were enticing customers with ten-sen peeks. When he looked up—before he knew it—the moon had revealed itself in mid-sky as an ellipse.

Shinagawa stopped in his tracks at the crowd and listened for a while to the telescope shop’s spiel, but suddenly began doing something peculiar. Immediately behind the eyeglass shop was a stone wall. It was the stone wall where the protagonist of Kaita’s novel had hidden his will. At that spot—a place made particularly dim by the surrounding crowd—Shinagawa turned toward the stone wall and nimbly crouched down. “Oh ho, is he crouching down to take a piss or something? What an increasingly vulgar man.” As I thought this and watched stealthily, Shinagawa—still crouching—looked around restlessly. But since the spot lay hidden by the crowd, with no passersby or onlookers, he must have felt reassured. He gripped one of the stones in the wall with both hands and slowly pulled it out. In its place now gaped a pitch-black hole about fifteen or sixteen centimeters square—so starkly visible even in the dimness that it stood out unmistakably.

He wondered if he might be seeing some bizarre dream. This was Shinagawa Shiro—the respected president of a scientific magazine. Yet here stood Shinagawa Shiro, hidden by twilight and crowds, glancing about like a thief while extracting stones from Kudanzaka Slope's wall. An impossible scene.

"Ah! So that's it. That's what was happening." Aoki muttered a strange soliloquy to himself. "Kaita’s novel was true. He’s hidden something behind that stone there. Shinagawa discovered that hiding spot and is now trying to retrieve what’s inside." But of course, that was merely his momentary madness—there’s no reason such a ridiculous thing could exist. Moreover, Shinagawa was not extracting something but, on the contrary, inserting something into the hole in the stone wall he had just opened. After quickly replacing the stone as it had been, he feigned nonchalance and once more began briskly descending the slope.

A seething curiosity welled up and overcame his malicious urge to tail. Moreover, the other party was already preparing to leave. Aoki Ainosuke trotted down the slope, caught up with Shinagawa Shiro, and tapped his back. "Why, Mr. Shinagawa!"

he called out. The man started and turned around. Even at close range, there was no mistaking him—it was unmistakably Shinagawa Shiro. But he put on a clueless face and did not immediately respond. “Hey, what’s wrong?” “Checking out the spectacles, huh?” Ainosuke spoke again.

However, on Shinagawa’s part, he still looked around blankly with an uncomprehending expression. And then, he proceeded to say something strange. “Who are you? You just mentioned ‘Shinagawa’ or something, but I am not such a person.”

Ainosuke was left dumbfounded. In that moment of distraction, the man— “You must have mistaken me for someone else. Excuse me.”

With that parting remark, he stomped off into the distance. Aoki was so startled he thought he might be dreaming—it was the first mysterious experience of his life. This was absolutely no case of mistaken identity. Having tailed him that extensively, I would have noticed if he were merely a lookalike. Yet at the same time, nothing could be more certain than that he wasn’t Shinagawa Shiro himself—the man had declared it outright. Strange.

Ainosuke found his heart inexplicably pounding at this bizarre turn of events.

“That’s it. I’ll investigate that stone wall. I might find out something.”

The grotesquer now took a step into the world of grotesquery he had long yearned for.

He hurried back to the rear of the telescope shop and, taking care not to be seen by anyone, tried moving the stones in the wall this way and that. Only one of them moved. He pulled out the stone with both hands and timidly reached into the pitch-black hole. Sure enough, something brushed against his hand.

He pulled it out. One, two, three... To his astonishment, there were six folded purses inside. He opened each one, but they were all empty. Ainosuke hurriedly put them back in their place and covered it with the stone. And, as if he himself were a thief, he nervously glanced around. Since the man from earlier—the one who looked exactly like Shinagawa Shiro—had hidden such things here, he must have been a pickpocket. Moreover, he was quite the skilled professional. He was so meticulous in disposing of the empty wallets—not carelessly discarding them in a public toilet but going so far as to hide them behind a stone wall where there was absolutely no risk of discovery—that this couldn’t possibly be some amateur’s spur-of-the-moment act. Moreover, though he didn’t know if it amounted to hundreds of yen in gains, there were six wallets.

No wonder that guy kept choosing crowded places to walk through, I thought. Putting on an air of being engrossed in the spectacle, he was in reality targeting the wallets of people nearby. “How utterly ridiculous.” “I simply must give that Shinagawa fellow a hard time.” “The fellow I mistook for you was a pickpocket.” “From his face to his build, he was a pickpocket who didn’t differ an inch from you.” “Take care not to get yourself mistakenly arrested, I say.” Ainosuke walked toward the bus stop while taking delight in an unexpected bounty beyond the spectacle.

“But wait.”

He suddenly noticed something and stopped.

“This is absurd—it’s not like some MacCarthy novel. How could there be two people in this world who are completely identical? Moreover, I’ve never heard any talk of Shinagawa Shiro being a twin. This guy—could it be...” And there he let slip a mischievous smile, taking pleasure in his friend’s wrongdoing.

“After all, that man must have been Shinagawa Shiro. Even a magazine company president isn’t necessarily above pickpocketing. That bastard Shinagawa puts on a saintly act, but in reality, he might have such a disease. After all, there’s even a princess who drank lamp oil in the dead of night. When I thought about it that way, it was odd that Shinagawa—a poor man—had taken over the current magazine. Perhaps the funds are coming from some outrageous source. He might not only be a pickpocket but also be committing far more misdeeds elsewhere.”

Exactly. Because he thought I had discovered his sickness, that bastard pretended to be clueless and acted as though there existed a perfect lookalike of himself. "Since he's the kind of man who would resort to theft, his acting must be superb."

Ainosuke reached that conclusion. But for that very reason, he found himself unable to condemn Shinagawa. The man he had once despised as an ordinary conformist now even seemed like a remarkable figure unlike before.

Aoki and Shinagawa both went to see a motion picture in the outskirts. About a month then passed without any particular incident occurring.

Needless to say, Aoki did not tell Shinagawa about the incident at Kudanzaka Slope, but even after reaching that conclusion, some lingering doubts remained; thus before returning to Nagoya, he decided to pay Shinagawa another visit.

It was three days after the Kudanzaka Slope incident.

“So, are you still bored these days, huh?”

Shinagawa spoke in a cheerful tone, free of any guardedness.

Something’s off. When I thought that this cheerful, ordinary man was committing such misdeeds behind the scenes, the sheer skill of his acting was so unnerving it terrified me.

After talking for a while, Ainosuke suddenly tried saying such a thing.

“Last Sunday, you know, I went to see the Kudan festival. And I watched a girls’ acrobatic troupe.”

As he spoke, he stared intently at the other’s expression.

However, astonishingly, Shinagawa answered without moving a single muscle in his face, with remarkable composure.

“Ah yes, the Shokonsai Festival was the other day.” “That ‘freak eater’ thing, right?” “It’s been ages.”

In the end, Aoki’s suspicions remained unresolved. Amid the unresolved ambiguity, he took his leave and soon returned to Nagoya.

Now, it was a day one month after the Kudanzaka Slope incident. It was late November. Aoki Ainosuke had come to Tokyo and, on his second day there, went out to a certain department store for shopping. The store was bustling with its Christmas sale. After arranging for his purchases to be delivered home, he boarded the elevator descending to the first floor. This was the department store’s pride—an enormous elevator three or four times larger than an ordinary box. “It’s crowded today—please wait your turn,”

The elevator was so packed that one couldn’t move an inch—so much so that the elevator boy had to push back the surging passengers as he made his announcement. When he suddenly noticed, there was Shinagawa Shiro again amidst the crowd.

He was wedged between an obese gentleman and a fashionable young woman in the far corner of the elevator car, shrinking into himself. Ainosuke's eyes went wide like Inspector Craddock's when he'd caught sight of Sam in the subway.

He hid his face behind someone’s back to avoid being noticed by the other party while intently observing Shinagawa’s movements. He couldn’t help thinking how pitiful it was—the obese gentleman was being targeted.

When he reached the first floor, he was pushed out of the elevator car by the crowd. Turning around but out of consideration that if he were to meet Shinagawa’s gaze, the other party might feel awkward, Ainosuke nonchalantly walked toward the exit. Then, someone called his name from behind.

“Isn’t that Mr. Aoki? Hey, Mr. Aoki!”

When he turned around—ah, what an impudent fellow! Shinagawa Shiro was standing there grinning. "Oh, Mr. Shinagawa?" Aoki feigned having just noticed him and said with sarcasm lacing his voice, "It's dreadfully crowded." "What a perfect place to meet. There's something I absolutely want you to see—something from your field of interest. To tell the truth, I'd meant to call on you about it, but I didn't know whether you were in town."

As Shinagawa walked side by side with Aoki toward the exit, he suddenly broached the subject. “Hoh—what on earth is this about?” Ainosuke was utterly appalled by his companion’s presumptuous demeanor. “You’ll understand when you see it,” Shinagawa replied. “It’s truly an astonishing affair.” “If matters stand as I suspect, this would be an unprecedented scandal.” “Though it may well be my own misunderstanding. That’s precisely why I need your confirmation.” “Will you come?” “It’s somewhat out of the way.”

At first, Aoki thought he was making an excuse out of embarrassment. But the other’s tone was quite serious. Moreover, the content was exceedingly grotesque and curious, intensely stimulating his grotesque curiosity.

“I don’t know what this is about, but when you say ‘a bit far,’ where exactly do you mean?” Ainosuke couldn’t help but ask in return.

“Well, it’s still Tokyo, but… a bit of a seedy part.” “It’s a moving picture shack called Horakukan in Honjo.” The reply was even more unexpected.

“Huh—does that moving-picture shack have something going on?” “What else would? It’s pictures.” Shinagawa laughed quietly. “Pictures they may be—but strange ones.” “A production from Nikkatsu’s modern drama division—some trifling chase flick called *The Mysterious Gentleman*.”

“The Mysterious Gentleman—hmph. A detective drama, then? What about it?” “You’ll understand once you see it. It’s better if you watch without prior knowledge. That way, you can judge accurately. You’ll come, won’t you? After all, there’s no one but you I can consult about this.” “How oddly intriguing. But since I’ve no pressing matters, I might as well go.” In truth, Aoki Ainosuke—the grotesque enthusiast—was already fidgeting with impatience to go.

So the two of them boarded the taxi Shinagawa had called and headed toward Horakukan in Honjo, but during the ride, the following conversation took place. “I didn’t know you had an interest in motion pictures,” Aoki said quizzically. For in truth, Shinagawa Shiro was a man who had little connection to novels or plays. “No—someone told me about it, and I saw it for the first time in ages,” “You often say real-life events are dull, but this one will surely astonish even you.” “It’s an incident that corroborates my long-held argument—that truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Is it about the plot of the motion picture?”

“Well, you’ll understand once you see it. By the way, before we see that film, I want to confirm your memory—you were supposed to be in Tokyo on August 23rd this year, correct?” Shinagawa kept bringing up one strange thing after another. “As for August—in August, I was on Bentenjima Island until the 20th. I came to Tokyo immediately after leaving Bentenjima Island. And since I was there for about ten days, on the 23rd, I was undoubtedly in Tokyo.”

Ainosuke didn’t understand the other’s meaning but answered nonetheless. “Moreover, you met me exactly on the 23rd.” “I checked my diary and found out.” “We had dinner at the Imperial Hotel’s grill room that day.” “It was you who dragged me off to that theater.” “That’s right.” “Did that really happen?” “We listened to a cello performance, didn’t we?” “That’s right.” “Just to be thorough, I even checked with the hotel to confirm it was indeed the 23rd—no mistake about this point.”

Aoki Ainosuke’s curiosity grew even more intense.

What on earth could Shinagawa’s reason be for placing such grave importance on August 23rd?

“Now then, please read this.” Shinagawa took a letter out from his pocket and handed it to Ainosuke. When he opened it, he found the following text: In reply, The scene you inquired about is Kyoto’s Shijō Street. The filming date is August 23rd. As I am replying based on the filming diary, there can be absolutely no mistake.

The above is my reply. Saitō Kurao Mr. Shinagawa Shiro

“Saitō Kurao—he’s a Nikkatsu director, isn’t he?” “Do you know him?” Ainosuke returned the letter to Shinagawa and said.

“That’s right. “He’s the director who made *The Mysterious Gentleman*. “It’s not like I know him personally. “I suddenly wrote a letter to inquire. “He was kind enough to reply promptly. “Now, this letter constitutes Piece of Evidence No. 2. “In other words, through this letter, it has been definitively established that a certain scene from *The Mysterious Gentleman* was filmed on August 23rd on Kyoto’s Shijō Street.” Shinagawa spoke in a manner reminiscent of a judge or detective. He was now scrutinizing August 23rd from every possible angle, striving to render it irrefutable. But for what purpose on earth was that?

“Oh, this is getting interesting!” Ainosuke began to vaguely grasp the situation. Indeed, I thought this was unquestionably a major incident, just as Shinagawa had said. His curiosity swelled up to the bursting point. “By the way, when we went out to the hotel on August 23rd, it was just past noon, right?” “I believe it was around two o'clock.”

Shinagawa was still fixated on August 23rd.

“Yes, that was around then.” “Since we had dinner together afterward, I parted with you at dusk.” “Yeah, it was getting dark by then.” “Please commit these facts firmly to memory.” “This temporal relationship is of utmost importance.” “Ah, and just to be thorough—the fastest train between Kyoto and Tokyo is the limited express, which takes over ten hours.” To Aoki, who had already grasped the intricacies of the matter, Shinagawa’s tedious explanation felt grating. More than anything, he was dying to see the photograph from *The Mysterious Gentleman* in question as soon as possible.

“Ah, here it is! Here!” Shinagawa stopped the car. When they got off, there stood a truly rustic, crude makeshift movie theater on the wide, deserted main street.

The two bought first-class tickets and sat on the tatami mats in the second-floor seats, having a damp zabuton cushion laid out for them. Fortunately, *The Mysterious Gentleman* in question was just about to begin.

The film began to play. It was a film past its prime, having been released at Asakusa’s main venue over two weeks earlier. There were no decent detective dramas. The protagonist’s so-called Mysterious Gentleman—in other words, Lupin—was a man in a tailcoat who looked like a student. He and the detective acted out their climactic showdown. Of course, Ainosuke made no attempt to follow the film’s plot. He looked at the screen without following the story. He held his breath, waiting for Kyoto’s Shijō Street to appear.

“Now, do watch closely.” The Shinagawa next to him pressed against Ainosuke’s knee and signaled.

It was the scene of Lupin’s pursuit. Two automobiles raced through the streets of Kyoto. Lupin leaped from the automobile and attempted to evade the detective. Lupin in a tailcoat dashed through the town in broad daylight, cane in hand. Behind them appeared the familiar Minamiza. Shijō Street. The automobile raced. The errand boy’s bicycle raced. On the pavement, citizens were passing by as usual. Through their midst dashed a grotesque man. And suddenly, in the right corner of the screen, a large figure facing away appeared. One of the citizens watching the action must have carelessly stuck their head in front of the camera.

Ainosuke’s heart pounded with a certain premonition. Sure enough, the giant figure turned around and looked at the camera. Occupying about a quarter of the screen, only a man’s face stared wide-eyed in our direction. It lasted only an instant. Perhaps having been warned that he was in the way, the face had no sooner glanced in this direction than it vanished from the screen. At that instant, Ainosuke started and his breath stopped. He had mostly anticipated it, yet the sensation of Shinagawa Shiro’s face—sitting in the spectator seat next to him—appearing on the screen before them at the size of a tatami mat was truly uncanny.

The spectator who had accidentally appeared in *The Mysterious Gentleman*'s frame was none other than Shinagawa Shiro himself. That there existed two Shinagawa Shiro in this world.

It was known that this scene had been filmed on August 23rd on Shijō Street in Kyoto. At the same time, on that very day, Shinagawa and Ainosuke had lunch together at the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo. Both were undoubtedly true. Thus, Shinagawa Shiro had been in both Tokyo and Kyoto on the same day. But between the two capitals lay a ten-hour journey by limited express. It was utterly impossible to have watched the filming in Kyoto city and then eaten lunch in Tokyo on the same day.

Thus, the conclusion was reached that in Japan there existed another separate individual—a man who was the exact double of Shinagawa Shiro. The one who had committed the pickpocketing in Kudan was undoubtedly that other Shinagawa Shiro.

“What do you think?” “Ever since I saw that, this world has come to seem like a terribly bizarre place to me.”

After leaving the makeshift movie theater and walking through an unnamed outskirt town, Shinagawa Shiro, in a state of bewilderment, addressed Ainosuke. “Regarding that matter, I have a thought—but you didn’t go to see the Kudan festival this autumn, did you?” Ainosuke checked just to be sure. “No, I don’t have much interest in things like that, you see.”

Sure enough, the man from Kudan the other day had not been Shinagawa. Thereupon, Ainosuke explained the pickpocket incident in detail and added at the end:

“Since he looked exactly like you no matter what, to tell the truth, I was suspecting you.” “I thought you might be secretly working as a pickpocket.” “Hahahaha, how absurd! So out of hesitation, even when we met afterward, I deliberately didn’t bring it up.”

“Huh, so that’s what happened?” “So indeed, there must be another me.”

Shinagawa appeared somewhat frightened. “He might be a twin. Even if you don’t know about it, isn’t it possible you have a twin who was separated from you in infancy?”

“No, that’s impossible.” “My family isn’t that secretive.” “If there were twins, we would have known long ago.” “And even if they were twins, could there really be such an exact double?”

“If they aren’t twins, then the question becomes whether two completely unrelated people who resemble each other more closely than twins could possibly exist in this world, don’t you think?”

"But I can't believe such a thing." "Just as there are no two identical fingerprints, there cannot be two identical human beings."

Shinagawa Shiro was, above all, a practical man.

“But you see, no matter how much you say you can’t believe it, there’s irrefutable evidence—there’s nothing to be done about it.” “It’s the pickpocket incident and this motion picture.” “Moreover, I don’t think such a thing is entirely impossible.” “It may sound like something out of a dream, but I’ve had such an experience from my student days.” Aoki Ainosuke, who had now attained the grotesquery he had been craving, was utterly ecstatic. “There was this place called Wakadatsu-tei—a vaudeville theater—near the university. Back in my student days, I used to drop by now and then, and every time I went, there was this one gentleman I’d invariably see.” “He always sat properly in the same corner and listened.” “He had no companions; he was all alone.” “The gentleman’s face and figure were… were… exactly like the photograph.” “From his haircut to the shape of his mustache and even the slight hollows of his cheeks—it was an exact replica.” “And you know, I’ve often thought… people’s lives are utterly beyond our comprehension. Yet even in Japan, there might unexpectedly exist phenomena akin to Stevenson’s *The Suicide Club* or Mark Twain’s *The Prince and the Pauper*.” “That gentleman might just be the very truth… in its incognito form, you know.” “And rather than the stage, I found myself fixated on that gentleman’s every movement.” “Of course, this is just my delusion—it must be a different person who merely resembles him. But given that there are people who are exact replicas like that… I don’t think we can assert that there are no two people in this world with completely identical faces.”

“Now that you mention it… I actually do have some experience with that myself.”

Shinagawa Shiro spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice, his slightly pallid cheeks twitching with a prickling intensity. “It must have been about three years ago now—in Osaka’s Dotonbori. As I was walking through the crowd, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind.” “And then he said, ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. So-and-so! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’” “Of course, it wasn’t my name.” “Even when I told him it was a case of mistaken identity, he wouldn’t accept it.” “Then he pressed, ‘Look, don’t you remember working together at such-and-such company?’ trying to jog my memory—but I’d never even heard of that company.” “We ended up parting without resolving anything, but that might have been about another me existing somewhere in this world.”

“Oh, so that happened.” “If that’s the case, then that man must have felt the same strange sensation I experienced at Kudanzaka, no doubt.”

Contrary to Shinagawa himself looking dejected, Aoki Ainosuke appeared extremely delighted.

“You speak so carelessly, but from my perspective, it’s utterly disagreeable.” “Just consider—there exists somewhere in this world another me, a perfect replica of myself.” “It’s a truly repulsive feeling.” “If I ever encounter that wretch, I’d want to bludgeon him dead on the spot.” “That’s not all—there’s something far more dreadful.” “By your account, that rogue appears thoroughly villainous.” “Pickpocketing would be tolerable, but should graver crimes occur—murder, say—being his spitting image means I might face suspicion through sheer happenstance.” “I can neither prevent his crimes nor foresee them.” “Thus there may arise situations where I cannot furnish an alibi.” “When contemplated properly, it becomes profoundly horrifying.” “The terror lies precisely in not knowing who or where he might be.”

Moreover, he also had to consider such cases. In other words, while I don't know that man, there may be cases where that man knows me. Since my photo appears in magazines, he is in a much more easily noticeable position than I am. Moreover, that guy is a criminal. When a criminal discovers a man who is his exact duplicate, what things—what terrifying things—might he be thinking? Do you understand this? "If I had a wife, he could even steal her away."

The two men, forgetting even to call a carriage, continued walking through the outskirts of the city, talking animatedly all the while without any set destination. As Shinagawa Shiro continued conjuring up one eerie scenario after another and voicing them aloud, the ineffable grotesquery of “two Shinagawa Shiros” gradually began to seem profoundly terrifying to him, until his eyes took on a strange gleam—like those of someone listening to a ghost story.

Ainosuke Encounters a Mysterious Rogue Gentleman

Both Aoki and Shinagawa were utterly captivated by this bizarre incident. As I mentioned before—for Aoki Ainosuke—the grotesquery enthusiast—it was precisely because this offered a raw grotesquery unattainable through ventures like his Grotesque Club. As for Shinagawa Shiro—ever practical—his captivation stemmed from confronting a real-world enigma that directly implicated him personally.

They wanted to find that other Shinagawa Shiro if they could. But that was an utterly impossible thing. They considered placing a reward-based missing person ad in the newspaper, but since the other party was a criminal who engaged in pickpocketing, seeing the advertisement would only serve to make him more cautious. “If you happen to come across him this time, please tail him and track down his address.” “I certainly intend to keep an eye out as well, though.”

“Absolutely. Not for your sake, but I’ll certainly do it purely to satisfy my own curiosity.”

And so, in the end, whenever the two of them walked through the entertainment districts, never neglecting to scrutinize those they passed, their only recourse was to patiently track down that man.

It was like grasping at clouds.

However, dear readers, as they say: "The world seems vast but is small." Then, on a day about two months later, not only did they finally locate that other Shinagawa Shiro, but in a most bizarre scene, the two Shinagawas came to have an uncanny encounter (Ah, how utterly grotesque that encounter was!) of sorts.

But before I recount that, I must beg your indulgence to digress momentarily—for the sake of narrative order—and devote some pages to a certain bizarre experience of Aoki Ainosuke’s (since it is by no means uninteresting).

The incident began in December—the month following their viewing of *The Mysterious Gentleman* at Hōraikan Theater—when Aoki Ainosuke happened to stop by a gloomy café in Ginza's backstreets.

Since the season for escaping the cold was approaching, he had hesitated to make the trip to Tokyo—but whether due to some sixth sense or an inexplicable longing for Tokyo’s sky, he ended up going there after all. It was an incident that occurred during his stay in the capital. Having taken a full circuit through Ginza Street’s night aglow with resplendent year-end decorations, So there really are young ladies and gentlemen who come out for nightly strolls in this dull town, he mused with belated wonder, yet Aoki Ainosuke—the grotesquery enthusiast—lingered restlessly, drifting down back alleys toward ever-darker corners as though sensing some secret lurking in those dim recesses.

As he was walking through a certain back alley, what suddenly caught his eye was a small café. Even though it had caught his eye, it was not because the house was grand or lively or possessed any other striking features. In stark contrast to the renowned cafés lining the main street, it was simply too desolate, gloomy, and insubstantial. Feeling pity for its utterly dejected appearance, Ainosuke entered the house without a second thought, striding briskly. In a dimly lit earthen-floored space of about ten tsubo, three or four tables stood scattered about, with large potted evergreens arranged here and there between them like Yawata’s impenetrable bamboo thicket. Though not adorned in gaudy shades of fashionable red or purple, the electric lights were dimmed like candles—or rather, in the manner of paper lanterns—casting a feeble glow. The place was deathly silent, with not a single customer in sight nor any waitstaff visible behind the counter. It was a café like a graveyard. Despite this, perhaps due to some heating system, a faint warmth permeated the space, making it not unpleasantly cold.

Aoki, thinking it would be uncouth to call out loudly for a waiter, first made his way into the shade of a potted plant in the corner to take a seat. When he settled heavily into the chair, he discovered—to his surprise—that another customer already occupied the same table. Partly because it was the murkiest corner of an already dim room, and partly because this patron sat as motionless as a statue, he had failed to notice him at first. “Excuse me,” he said, beginning to rise to change seats, when the customer stopped him with a hand gesture and countered, “No, please remain as you are.” “I was just wishing for some company myself,” the man added smoothly. Aoki looked properly now—a middle-aged gentleman in Western attire sat before him, exuding an oddly congenial air. His suit showed meticulous tailoring of no small expense. With bourgeois instinct, Aoki mentally catalogued these clues about the man’s station and, reassured by this assessment, decided to indulge his company.

Before long, the waiter—whom he had thought absent—emerged from somewhere like a shadow and brought the ordered items. The food was by no means bad. The liquor was also top-shelf and well-stocked. Add to that, a sociable conversationalist. Ainosuke ended up in thoroughly high spirits. "This is quite a comfortable place, isn't it?" “Isn’t it? I’ve grown quite fond of this place myself.”

From such exchanges, the conversation between the two men gradually grew more animated. Since Ainosuke wasn’t much of a drinker, the two whiskeys he’d sipped little by little had already left him pleasantly tipsy and in a daze. There, as was his custom, he began to speak about “boredom.” The gentleman across from him—appearing to share his sentiments—listened with repeated nods of “I see, I see,” but after a while inquired about Ainosuke’s background in an exceedingly roundabout manner. Since Aoki was drunk, he unwittingly let himself be swept along by his companion’s prompting and recounted his personal history, but even he eventually noticed this and—with a peculiar expression—inquired:

“Oh my, I’ve been talking about nothing but myself.” “By the way, now it’s your turn.” “Ha ha ha ha ha! And your line of work…” Then the gentleman opposite him assumed a slightly dignified air and said something wholly unexpected. “I am, you see, a sort of sandwichman.” “I’m about to distribute handbills to you, so to speak.” What an impressive sandwichman he was. “No, this is absolutely no joke,” the gentleman continued. “In truth, my duty is to seek out individuals of rich curiosity—someone like you, a grotesquery enthusiast, shall we say—by frequenting cafés and such places.” “Simply by doing that, I receive a proper monthly salary.” “A respectable sandwichman—or to put it another way—” he lowered his voice, “it boils down to being a procurer.”

Aoki stared fixedly at the gentleman’s face with a bewildered expression, finding his words utterly bizarre. “There exists a secret house,” the gentleman explained. “To this place come people from high society—wealthy individuals, high-ranking officials, even... (both gentlemen and ladies, mind you)—slipping in and out unnoticed.” “Put that way, I trust you grasp the situation.” “Ordinarily, such arrangements would be facilitated by gold-spectacled old women or rickshaw pullers lingering at crossroads—but you see, our counterpart here is no professional, but rather a lady of standing.” “Hence this procurer’s presentable appearance.” “Ha ha ha ha! While said secret house merely offers its premises and collects fees in return, rest assured our guarantee of absolute safety doesn’t come cheap.” “This explains why such meticulous care goes into selecting our clientele.” “Do you follow?” “With all due respect—if it concerns yourself—you meet every qualification admirably.” “Your distinguished bearing, your social position, and above all, your being such an exceptional connoisseur of grotesquery—I must emphasize.”

As he listened, Ainosuke’s drunkenness completely wore off—not from any fear of society’s underbelly, but from sheer exhilaration at having encountered that most extraordinary Rogue Gentleman. Thereupon growing serious, he leaned forward and embarked on meticulous negotiations. A single-story house with a second-floor tatami room. One could never know in advance what manner of person the other party might be. Neither name nor age nor social standing was disclosed; those who chanced to meet that very night formed a pair. Moreover, they strictly avoided hosting more than one pairing per day. The room fee stood at fifty yen per night, split equally between both parties. (Herein lay the value of this equal burden—for the other party too expended no small sum.) From the second encounter onward, whether to choose the same partner or draw new lots rested entirely within each participant’s discretion. Such were what the Rogue Gentleman called the “secret house’s” fundamental regulations.

In that house, there was another Rogue Noblewoman, and it was said that this woman solicited clientele of the same sex. “Then allow me to show you the way.”

Ainosuke, using his drunkenness as a cover, ventured out boldly. “Understood.” “Now, though I must insist—the room fee must be paid upfront.” “This is by no means because we doubt you, but rather to prevent detectives from cleverly disguising themselves and conducting probes.” “When it comes to upfront room fees—you see, that’s from the detectives’ own pockets.” “It’d prove rather troublesome for them.” “I see, I see—you’re leaving nothing to chance, then.”

Ainosuke paid the specified amount there.

Now, after driving by automobile for about twenty minutes from the café, they had already reached their destination. Surprisingly enough, it was a certain quiet residential area in Kōjimachi Ward. They got out of the automobile a full two blocks before their destination and walked through a lonely, deserted town with no passersby.

“Here we are.”

When he looked where the gentleman was pointing, it was a middle-class house with a modest gate, appearing to be a rental residence where one lived upstairs. The distance from the gate to the entrance was scarcely a ken, and the house was an old-fashioned Heike-style building. The Rogue Gentleman stood before the gate, furtively glancing left and right. Having confirmed there were no passersby, he urged, “Now hurry,” and practically pushed Ainosuke into the entrance. “Please do come in.”

The one who greeted him with a three-fingered bow on the entrance platform was a refined woman in her forties with a traditional chignon—likely both housewife and madam of the establishment. Strangely enough, this matron held a whitewood box resembling stacked lacquerware; when Aoki mounted the platform, she briskly deposited his wooden clogs into it and led onward while cradling the container under one arm.

Then, after passing through about two rooms, they came to a room that appeared to be a tearoom. The madam silently opened the sliding door of the closet there. *Hmm—could there be a secret room inside the closet?* he wondered, peering in—but no, it remained an ordinary closet containing a trunk and other items.

The madam left the sliding door open—that must have been the signal. She gave a peculiar sort of cough. Then, what do you know? A gaping hole opened in the closet ceiling, and from it shone a bright red electric light. Disguised as a ceiling board, it was in fact a liftable lid.

"But this house is a single-story Heike-style building. "There shouldn’t be a second floor, but—" As he was thinking this, a rope ladder slithered down smoothly from the ceiling, and climbing down it came a young woman—likely a maid. She bowed to him and left the spot.

“It’s rather perilous, but please do take hold of this.”

As the madam instructed, Aoki climbed the rope ladder. When he reached the top, there was a strange room. The floor consisted of tatami mats, but the ceiling and all four walls were uniformly new wooden planks—like an overturned box with no windows, alcoves, or closets. Yet at the room’s center lay something new………………………; in a large cylindrical paulownia brazier, cherry charcoal burned crimson, and a silver kettle boiled. From the ceiling hung a small yet opulent decorative electric lamp. Was there some reason its light shone as red as blood?

Understood, understood. In the attic of a Heike-style house, they had newly created such a secret room. What a truly brilliant idea. Since, viewed from outside, it was an ordinary Heike-style single-story building, if there were no abnormalities in each of the lower rooms, no one would likely question it. Who could possibly imagine there being a windowless room in the attic? Moreover, the passage to the second floor had been crafted with utmost caution, as previously described.

“With this, it’s perfectly safe, isn’t it?”

When Aoki paid the compliment, the housewife who had followed him up smiled amiably and, in a whisper,

“But just in case something were to happen, we’ve installed a secret door here, you see.” With that, when one pressed a certain spot on one of the wooden walls, it creaked open like a hidden door swinging inward. “In here, we’ve installed a low-tone buzzer, you see. In the event that something were to happen, we will ring it from below. Should you hear a low buzzing sound, please take your belongings and conceal yourself within here. Not that such an occurrence is at all likely—this is merely a precaution against the absolute worst contingency, you see.”

Aoki was thoroughly impressed by the degree of caution that seemed unnecessary.

“Please wait a moment; they should arrive shortly. Then, please pull up this rope ladder from above and restore the lid to its original state. Once they arrive, I will give a cough from below as before.”

After preparing tea, the madam left those words behind and went downstairs. Aoki restored the lid to its original state as instructed and sat down on the ……… zabuton cushion. ……… was all there was. Aoki had considerable experience as a connoisseur of curiosities when it came to women. Foreign women in port towns, amateur girls in tobacco shop attics, amateur disciples of flower arrangement masters—their introducers all lured worldly enthusiasts with smooth-talking blandishments, but no matter how primly they comported themselves on the surface, most were merely disreputable professionals.

"Will tonight be another one of those routine affairs?" he wondered, yet the secret room’s mechanisms were so meticulously crafted that he found himself almost believing the Rogue Gentleman’s claims. At the very least, for him, something as ceremonious as tonight was a first. Whether it was the Rogue Gentleman’s imposing demeanor, this house’s refined structure, or the painstakingly devised secret room’s contrivance—there was something indefinably different from anything he had experienced before.

“The Rogue Gentleman had said that their clientele consisted of ‘wealthy individuals and high-ranking officials and……’.” That must also mean wealthy wives, daughters of high-ranking officials, and so on. As he came to consider this, Ainosuke—despite his age—could not suppress a naive shudder.

It wasn’t long before that peculiar cough sounded again. When the thought struck him—They’re here—a gust of timidity swept through him, chilling his heart. But having come this far, he couldn’t afford to hesitate. Ainosuke hesitantly approached the lid, quietly opened it, and, squeezing his eyes shut, lowered the rope ladder. Below, too, there was a sense of hesitation. It seemed the madam was whispering encouragement from behind to whoever was below. After a short while, the rope ladder pulled taut. She climbed up. A woman of her stature, using a rope ladder. However, he later heard that among the upper classes—those accustomed to luxury—both men and women found this barbaric rope ladder, as if symbolizing amorous adventures, quite to their liking.

The first thing that came into view was an elaborate round chignon, its comb marks neatly arranged. Then came a glossy crimson face—owing to the red electric lamp—the bosom of a mature middle-aged woman, and so on, and so on…

Ainosuke Makes a Strange Discovery in the Dark Secret Room

As for what sort of character she was, her social standing, what they discussed upon their first meeting, how the red electric light……………… compared to that mirrored wall—all these matters bear no relation to this story’s main thread and are too delicate to recount; thus all shall be omitted. Suffice it to say that on that night, Aoki Ainosuke was not disappointed as usual. However, regarding the low-tone buzzer incident that fortuitously occurred late that night—for the sake of narrative sequence—it must indeed be recorded here.

...When they... had just begun to drift into slumber, suddenly, the usual low-tone buzzer installed behind the wooden wall rang out ominously—zzzzz...—as if rising from the depths of water. Danger signal.

Ainosuke was startled and suddenly shot upright. It was the shock of a criminal subjected to a police raid.

“This is bad! “Take your kimono… leave nothing behind… hide in here.”

He roughly shook the other person awake.

Even if she was bold in matters of amorous play, a well-bred woman unaccustomed to such situations made an utterly pitiful spectacle. …………………………, …………………………, ……………, …………………. In her panicked state, she couldn’t remember where she had discarded her kimono. Had he witnessed such a scene under ordinary circumstances, he might have laughed aloud at its absurdity—or perhaps felt his desires stirred—but now was no time for such indulgences. He swiftly gathered up her garments along with his own, seized her hand, dragged her toward the secret door, flung it open, and plunged them both into the darkness beyond.

Inside, there was no ceiling, with thick beams crawling with spiderwebs slanting low across the space. It was utterly impossible to stand upright. Moreover, the floor consisted solely of roughly sawn planks nailed down, upon which rat droppings and dust lay piled high. He thought it a dreadful place, but being preferable to danger, he closed the hidden door properly, crawled as far back as possible, and curled up.

It was true darkness. Both of them lacked even the energy to whisper to each other. The violent pounding of each other’s hearts was audible enough to hear. The terror of waiting—wondering if a demon would burst in at any moment—was truly unbearable. One minute, two minutes—time pressed on in darkness and silence. Though they trembled, thinking *Now? Now?* with every second, a faint cough sounded by their ears—undoubtedly a signal meaning *Be cautious; they’re ascending.* Both of them drew themselves in even more tightly. He could clearly perceive the woman trembling.

Then, two or three more times, the same coughing sound made the pair in hiding shrink back, yet strangely, there was still no sign of anyone approaching. Ah, it was because the rope ladder had been pulled up. But even without that, there were plenty of ways to climb up from outside. As he was thinking this, a clattering sound came from the vicinity of the lid. They were poking it from below with a stick. It seemed the lid had opened. Then, that sound might have been them pulling down the rope ladder from below. As expected, there soon came the creaking sound of someone climbing the rope ladder.

Ainosuke could no longer bear the agony. His heart was about to burst. Like a cornered beast, he darted his gaze about in the darkness. Then, within the ink-like blackness, he discovered a thin streak of light resembling a crimson thread; upon closer inspection—*Hmm?*—he realized there was a small knothole in the wooden wall leaking the familiar glow of the red electric lamp.

Ainosuke instinctively crawled toward it and pressed his eye to the knothole. It was to observe whoever was now ascending. Meanwhile, from the direction of the lid, the creaking sound ceased. They must have finished climbing the ladder. That fellow was already on the other side of a single wooden wall. However, the knothole was small, so his gaze couldn’t reach that area. Only the opposite wooden wall, confined in a circular frame, was visible.

The sense of someone approaching, an eerie shadow cast on the wooden wall, the shoulder of a kimono, finally a close-up view of a woman’s upper body—the face of this house’s mistress. “Dear guest, you may come out now.” “I am truly at a loss for words to apologize.” “I was momentarily worried it might be that matter, but it turned out to be someone of no consequence.” “Please rest assured.”

“What are you talking about?” “Ridiculous.” “So that cough earlier was just a signal to lower the rope ladder?”

Now, discomfited by this anticlimactic turn of events, the two of them—after some time had passed—could hardly wait for night to end before parting ways.

It was nothing more than a single episode of failure, yet when one considers how cause and effect might connect in unexpected places, it becomes truly mysterious. This ridiculous mistake had in fact become the thread that led to the meeting of the two Shinagawas. Had Aoki Ainosuke not encountered his Rogue Gentleman and come to this secret house—and had the low-pitched buzzer incident not occurred by chance—he would certainly never have discovered the other Shinagawa Shiro so quickly. For it was precisely because the buzzer incident occurred that he crawled into the dark room beyond the hidden door. And having entered that dark room was what allowed him to discover the small knothole and develop such a peculiar fascination with it.

However, it was three days after the aforementioned incident that he discovered that bizarre notion. It was utterly absurd. However, when he thought about it—this was an unprecedented gain in recent times! Even just the experience of trembling with cold sweat from fear in that darkness was worth twenty-five yen. And then, what about the meticulously prepared structure of that house? While he was happily ruminating on how it was just like a detective novel, he suddenly noticed it. And he became utterly ecstatic over that strange idea.

"Fantastic, fantastic! This was becoming truly fascinating!"

So, promptly preparing to go out, he had the car take him to that secret house. Out of caution—imitating the Rogue Gentleman’s methods—he got out of the car about two blocks from the destination and waited for a lull in foot traffic before slipping through the gate.

The housewife exclaimed in surprise when she saw him.

"Oh my, you've already made an arrangement—" meaning whether he had managed to arrange a meeting here today with the lady from the previous night.

“No, that’s not it. Today I have a small matter to consult with you.” Ainosuke said this and smirked.

He was led to the inner room; someone closed the sliding doors, and they faced each other. “Madam, you’re doing this to make money, aren’t you?” said Ainosuke, transitioning from casual conversation to the main topic. “I suppose so.” “If that’s the case, I have a brilliant scheme to multiply the current room rates here several times over.” “What do you think?” “Would you care to hear my brilliant scheme?” “Oh my, that sounds most welcome indeed.” “But since you’re selling absolute secrecy and charging higher room rates than usual—if you get too greedy and let even a hint of it leak out—”

The madam grew guarded.

“No, it has nothing to do with secrecy,” he explained. “Actually, I’m thinking of monetizing the darkness beyond that hidden door. Don’t misunderstand—I’m not asking for a single cent in return for bestowing this brilliant scheme upon you.” “Oh? Making money in the dark?”

“Don’t you understand? Two guests in that secret room, one in the outer darkness—three customers at once. That’s because there’s a knothole in that wooden wall over there—so small it’s practically invisible. You see? You understand now, don’t you?”

“My, such a thing!” exclaimed the housewife in astonishment. “No, there’s no need to be surprised. In foreign countries, there are plenty of houses that make this their business.”

And there, Ainosuke explained in meticulous detail about those foreign examples.

“But if those inside notice, it would be disastrous.” “No need to worry—that knothole is minuscule. Though slightly inconvenient to use, enlarging it would risk exposure, so we’ll keep it as-is. Go ahead and try it out. I’ll be the first patron—this isn’t some jest, mind you. If it proves troublesome after I test it, we’ll simply end the experiment with me alone. To show I’m serious, I’ll pay the darkroom fee upfront—this should suffice for one night. Not an unreasonable arrangement, wouldn’t you agree?”

He said that and threw several banknotes in front of the housewife’s knees.

Ainosuke’s Scheme to Arrange a Meeting Between the Two Shinagawas In the end, the housewife was persuaded by Aoki.

In other words, he was a guest in the darkness outside the knothole, from where he would spy on the mysterious movements of the two other guests inside the red room—those separate from himself.

What astonishing sights Aoki Ainosuke gazed upon there, what unwholesome pleasures he indulged in—these shall remain a shadowed tale for now. The story begins instead from his visit to Shinagawa Shiro, about one month after experiencing that first night in the attic room (during which interval he had returned once to Nagoya), when he drifted listlessly to call upon him. As the reader knows, through the motion picture and various other unforeseen facts, Shinagawa Shiro—president of the popular science magazine—could no longer avoid believing that somewhere in this world existed another man whose features were indistinguishable from his own.

That matter had been kept a secret between Shinagawa and Aoki alone, but the magazine’s editors had lately begun to sense that something about President Shinagawa Shiro’s demeanor was abnormal.

“He isn’t thinking of discontinuing the magazine, is he?” “Boss hasn’t had much fire in him lately, has he?” “He isn’t thinking about the magazine at all.” “Something has taken hold of his mind.” “It might be a woman.” The employees had whispered among themselves to such an extent about such things.

The editorial department had rented several rooms on the third floor of the Toa Building in Kanda Ward, but President Shinagawa once again did not arrive at work until around noon today. As usual, he sullenly fell silent, entered the president’s office, sat down in the swivel chair there, and began intently pondering something.

It was then that Aoki Ainosuke, after a long absence, came to visit. Aoki, with a pale, intensely serious face, took his seat while keeping an anxious eye on the door separating him from the editorial room behind, “Can they hear us over there?” he asked restlessly. When Shinagawa saw Aoki enter, he appeared startled—his lips turning pale—but

“It’s fine. It’s a glass door, and the noise from the trains and cars outside is loud... So, what is this all about?”

He lowered his voice. “Do you remember where you slept on the night of the 15th?” Aoki asked a strange thing.

“Speaking of the 15th—that was last Saturday right? Where could you possibly think I slept? There’s nowhere else! If someone were staying in Tokyo they’d certainly be sleeping at their own house.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t stay somewhere strange, did you?” “I’m certain. But why ask me this?”

“In that case—last night.” “Where were you last night?” “From around eleven to twelve o’clock.” “By eleven o’clock, I was in my futon in the living room.” “And stayed there until this morning.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Aoki asked suspiciously. “Then let me ask—do you know the Miura house in Kōjimachi? The red attic room there—” “I don’t know.” “But are you saying you met *him* there?”

Shinagawa Shiro resolutely said that. Having said it, he turned deathly pale. "That fellow" needless to say referred to the other Shinagawa Shiro. "I met him." "And it was a most bizarre way of meeting." "Please tell me." "Just who the hell is that guy? What was he doing there?"

Shinagawa asked with such fierce intensity that he nearly seized Aoki’s arm. There, Aoki restrained the impatient Shinagawa and briefly explained the strange experience he had from encountering the Rogue Gentleman the previous night up to discovering the peephole, “After persuading Okami, from that night onward, I became a guest in the dark secret room outside the red room.” “And so far, that makes five pairs.” “Since both were a gentleman and lady—not being merchants—meeting for the first time, it had an indescribably uncanny feeling.” “How awkwardly and shyly they fumble with each other at first.” “And in the end, how shamelessly bold they become!” “Observing the shifts in human emotions is far more terrifying than reading any grotesque novel.” “I think that alone makes it well worth dozens of yen.”

“So, when did that guy show up in that red room?”

Shinagawa had no patience to listen to such a story at length.

“Last night, you see.” “It was the fifth night of my voyeurism.” “When your face abruptly loomed into view within that blurred, circular field of vision, I nearly cried out.” “And then, that guy ended up doing the same thing as the others outside, didn’t he?”

Shinagawa turned his grown man’s face—adorned with a thin mustache—as crimson as an innocent child’s and stammered haltingly.

What in the world? A man indistinguishable from him had his bedroom games completely witnessed by his close friend. A man not differing an inch from him— Shinagawa turning red was no wonder. “That’s right. And what’s more, those were no ordinary antics.” Aoki stared meanly at the other man’s face while, “Do you have the courage to witness your own disgrace through the peephole? If you do, we can do that tonight—”

In truth, Aoki had specifically come here because he wanted to say this. It wasn’t malicious. For Grotesquer Aoki, merely imagining this most bizarre confrontation between the two Shinagawa Shiro men was enough to make him squirm with anticipation, his mouth watering as his appetite was whetted.

“Is that guy coming to that house tonight?”

Shinagawa was the person concerned. He couldn’t remain as carefree as Aoki. He licked his lips over and over and said in a hoarse voice. “That’s right. “I couldn’t wait for that guy to return and asked Okami.” “Of course, I don’t know that guy’s address or name.” “It’s because their business policy is structured to keep such things unknown.” “And when I asked when he had started coming, they said the first time was the 15th of this month, last night was the second time, and he’s scheduled to come again tonight.” “Do you have the courage to go there and see it with me?” “I intend to tail that guy tonight and finally confirm his address and name, but…”

Shinagawa did not readily respond. But after a long hesitation, he finally resolved himself and shouted.

“Let’s go. I can’t rest without confirming that guy’s true identity.”

The Two Men Witnessed Bizarre Horseplay

Around eleven o'clock that night, Aoki and Shinagawa were already lying in wait within the darkness outside the red room at Miura's house. Okami had been reluctant to consent, arguing that bringing two people was too risky, but Aoki finally convinced her by brandishing a stack of banknotes. Shinagawa wore tinted glasses and an artificial mustache as disguise. For should two customers bearing completely identical faces arrive, it would surely rouse Okami's suspicions.

Aoki pressed his eye to the sole small peephole, lying in wait for the participants to appear at any moment. Shinagawa lacked the courage to take Aoki’s place and peer through it; he crouched in a corner of the trash-strewn wooden floor, motionless like a black lump.

Before Aoki’s eyes, a section of the room appeared delineated in a perfect circle, like a bright red magic lantern. Against the plank wall on the far side and the thin-patterned wallpaper pasted there as a background, the round-bodied paulownia brazier and the edge of a scarlet satin futon—swollen thickly like a seductress’s lips—came into view. The silver kettle on the brazier was boiling furiously, its white steam blurring the wallpaper’s pattern.

“You mustn’t make any sound that might alert them, no matter what grotesque things you witness.” “At least take care on that point, I beg of you.”

Aoki, concerned about any eventuality, repeatedly emphasized his warning. Shinagawa nodded faintly with a voice so soft it was barely audible.

After a while, the creaking sound of someone climbing that rope ladder reached their ears.

Man or woman? ……Aoki remained utterly still with such intensity he wished he could stop breathing, poised in wait. The pounding of his heart echoed thunderously in his ears. Shinagawa too sensed this, stiffening his body further within the ink-like darkness. What appeared within view was a familiar woman— a large-framed, well-developed physique of a woman in her thirties. A dark gold-weave garment clung slickly to her form. Beneath lustrous Western-style hair lay long eyes, a low nose, and thick lips that glinted garishly—yet by no means was she an ugly woman. Hers was a face bearing some indescribably uncanny allure. She seemed drunk, her features slackened in disarray.

She slumped down there and, despite the cold, made no move to warm her hands over the brazier. Muttering “Oh, it’s hot,” she kept slapping her cheeks with both hands glittering with rings. When Aoki grew tired, he would take his eye from the peephole and stretch his back, but even knowing there was no change, he couldn’t help but soon return to his original position. The interminable time passed by, ten, then twenty minutes.

But finally, the signal cough was heard from downstairs. The woman, startled, vanished from view; the sound of a trapdoor being opened and a rope ladder lowered; then, the creaking presence of someone climbing up.

Aoki extended his left hand into the darkness and gently tapped the crouching Shinagawa’s shoulder—a signal that he was coming now. Shinagawa’s body jerked stiff. Into Aoki’s field of vision, the woman returned first.

“I’ve kept you waiting quite a while, haven’t I?”

“Ah—wasn’t that Shinagawa Shiro’s own voice?” “Oh, it wasn’t so very long.” The woman’s lips moved and spoke like in a talkie. The overcoat was tossed aside, with only its collar entering the field of vision. Then, as an arm in a black suit traced a smooth arc before Aoki, the man’s entire body—perhaps he too was drunk—slumped unsteadily into place. Though facing away, there was no mistaking him—he was unmistakably last night’s man, that is, the other Shinagawa Shiro.

Even Aoki's heart began pounding violently. Now was when the grotesque meeting between the two Shinagawas would occur. He quietly withdrew his eye from the peephole, groped through the darkness for Shinagawa's arm, seized it, and gave a light pull. But Shinagawa only trembled violently without attempting to rise. Aoki scolded him through their connected fingertips—"What are you dithering for?"—and yanked repeatedly. Dragged forward by this force, Shinagawa's face approached the knothole. A crimson beam sliced diagonally across his sweat-beaded forehead. And finally, as though magnetically drawn, his eyes became firmly glued to the tiny aperture.

Aoki fixed his eyes in the darkness and listened with bated breath to Shinagawa’s increasingly erratic breathing, terrified that the other might notice.

On the other side of the plank wall, low whispers and occasional rustling sounds of movement could be heard.

After a while, Shinagawa’s erratic breathing abruptly ceased. Ah, at last he saw the face of Shinagawa across from him. The two Shinagawas came face-to-face head-on.

Shinagawa’s right hand seized Aoki’s shoulder with force. It signaled “I’ve seen him.” When his breath—still as death until then—resumed, his entire body heaved with gasps more violent than before.

Ah—could there ever be another encounter so bizarre in this world? Shinagawa Shiro was now, within the perfectly circular field of vision cast by the crimson-lit magic lantern, gazing intently at his own figure separated from him by a mere six feet. Moreover………… He clung to the peephole as though subjected to unrelenting torment, showing no intention of moving away no matter how much time passed. Through the expression in his fingers gripping the shoulder—through [...]—Aoki could imagine the scene beyond the plank wall more vividly than if he had seen it with his own eyes. Because it was imagination—precisely because it was imagination—it tormented him more intensely than reality ever could. It was then that he discovered for the first time the allure of such indirect glimpses.

It was a long, long time.

In the deepening silence of a winter night, within the darkness of the attic, yet they felt no cold. ………………………………, it had nearly rendered them insensible. Shinagawa finally took his eyes away and pulled Aoki’s shoulder close. It was a signal for him to take over and look. He could no longer bear to witness his own bizarre movements any longer.

Aoki took over, and the bright red circular magic lantern image was before him once more. But what an utterly unexpected sight this was! The noblewoman wore a glittering, scale-like costume reminiscent of those worn by circus performers and was straddling the prone Shinagawa Shiro’s back. The horse—needless to say, clad in a kimono—…………………………. The noblewoman rider’s so-called costume was but a nominal thing, resembling the revue dancers popular these days,…………………. And, to his astonishment, Shinagawa Shiro—now transformed into a horse—was crawling round and round the room with the noblewoman rider on his back, head hung low.

From the horse’s mouth dangled a crimson waist cord that served as reins. The rider vigorously pulled it, swaying her hips rhythmically to the chant of *Hai-shi! Hai-shi!* as they went. A masterful equestrian. Before long, the pitiful lean horse finally exhausted its strength and collapsed flat onto the tatami mats.……………………, ………………. The female rider who had stood up saw this and voiced a laugh of pure delight, but what followed was a cruel dance upon the collapsed lean horse. Trampled and kicked relentlessly, the horse was already gasping its last breath. Since the horse had been facing downward for some time, …………… he couldn’t see its expression, but from the way its limbs feebly thrashed about, he could sense the state of mind of this unfamiliar Shinagawa Shiro.

With a start, the female equestrian performer planted both hands on the man’s shoulders and hips and performed a flawless spread-eagle handstand. And then, just as that posture began to collapse unsteadily, she flipped her body with a light toss and landed atop the head of the prone man,…………………………. A spring-driven mechanism, …………, ……………, …………………………. Thus bathed in crimson light and tinged pink, the two silhouettes continued their dreamlike duet endlessly, exhausting every conceivable posture.

The rogue inside the car vanished like smoke. “When will it be next time?”

The woman, now fully dressed in her kimono and having finished her preparations, asked in a coaxing tone.

“Next Wednesday. Is that acceptable?” Outside the peephole’s field of vision, the man answered while putting on his coat. “Then you’ll keep your word? The time should be around tonight’s hour.”

Having said that, the woman seemed to have already stepped onto the rope ladder, and the familiar peculiar sound could be heard.

The man and woman had descended, and after a short while, the madam’s cough could faintly be heard. It was a notification that since they had already left, it was safe to come down. Aoki and Shinagawa, upon descending to the lower floor, hurried out after a cursory greeting to the madam. Needless to say, it was to tail the other Shinagawa Shiro. At a street corner about half a block away, the two had just parted ways—the man was walking away to the right, the woman to the left. Following him without being noticed, they trailed the man until he emerged onto a nearby streetcar avenue. But it was already past two in the morning, so there shouldn’t be any streetcars running. Only the occasional all-night taxi would speed down the broad avenue as though it owned the road, engines whining. The man caught one of them and got in.

Though he likely hadn’t noticed their pursuit, both Aoki and Shinagawa were startled by this swift maneuver and bolted from their hiding place toward the streetcar avenue. And as if perfectly timed, there stood an empty taxi. The two promptly boarded it,

“That’s the car ahead! Do not lose sight of it—follow that vehicle wherever it goes, I implore you!”

he commanded.

“No problem.” “At this late hour, with no other cars around to blend into, there’s hardly any chance we’ll lose them.”

The driver started off with a knowing look.

Two streaks of white light flew in V-formation along the mirror-smooth late-night avenue. It was a chase. Aoki and Shinagawa were crouched in the car, staring fixedly ahead without a glance to the side. A few dozen meters ahead, the monstrous car raced on. In the rear glass window of that car, a fedora-like hat was swaying. “Ah, damn! He’s noticed us!”

Shinagawa shouted. The fedora in the leading car swiftly glanced back. A white face came dimly into view. The next moment, the car ahead suddenly accelerated. In the blink of an eye, the distance between the two cars grew by five, then ten yards.

“Chase them! Can you keep up?” “No problem. That piece of junk. This one’s a new six-cylinder engine.” On and on they raced. The world became nothing but a deafening engine roar. But after running at full speed for about ten minutes—perhaps realizing they couldn’t keep up—the leading car jerked to a halt. “Where are we?”

“Akasaka Sannō-shita.” “Shall I stop?” “Stop, I implore you! Stop, I implore you!”

As they watched, the man alighted from the car, paid the fare, and slipped into the alley there. Aoki and Shinagawa, needless to say, abandoned the car and pursued the man.

But to their great surprise, when the man entered the alley and they swung around the corner intending to tail him, there he stood facing them at the turn.

The two men recoiled in shock. Seeing this, the man addressed them first. “Do you have some business with me? You seem to have been following me for some time now.” An outrageous, bizarre incident had occurred. Upon closer inspection, it was clearly a case of mistaken identity. The man’s face bore not even a trace of Shinagawa Shiro. Yet despite never having lost sight of him since leaving Miura’s house, when had their quarry changed? They felt utterly bewildered, as if tricked by a fox’s magic. Having no alternative, they apologized and asked—just to confirm—whether he had indeed alighted from that car over there. When pressed for confirmation, he answered affirmatively.

“Strange.” “It’s just like a magician’s trick.” “Even calling it a disguise—a face can’t change that completely.” “…What about his clothes?” “Was that what he was wearing in the red room?” “That’s unclear.” “We saw it under red light through a tiny peephole.” “I do think they looked similar,” he said, “but there could be countless overcoats in that exact shade.”

The two men parted ways with the man and walked back toward the tram line, discussing such matters as they went. The car that had brought the suspicious man had already departed and was driving half a block ahead. “Ah, damn!” Suddenly, Shinagawa Shiro shouted. “Hey, stop that car!” Because Shinagawa started running, Aoki, though he didn’t understand the reason, followed his lead regardless and ran while calling for a car. Even if they tried to pursue using another automobile, the one they had arrived in had long since departed and was already racing far ahead of the vehicle in question.

In the end, they had no choice but to resign themselves after running barely ten ken—a hundred eighty feet—or perhaps not even that. “Why did you chase that car?” Watching the small, receding taillights, Aoki asked. “I wanted to get a look at the driver’s face,” Shinagawa answered. “For the man we never once took our eyes off to have turned into a different person—that’s impossible. It occurred to me that perhaps that man who looks just like me had switched seats and fled by impersonating the current car’s driver. …But surely he wouldn’t resort to such a motion picture-like trick. After all, there’s no reason he’d need to flee out of fear of us.”

In the end, this pursuit came to an inconclusive close. Whether they had mistaken the automobile, or whether that man had intentionally deceived them and given them the slip, they found it impossible to determine either way. In other words, they felt utterly bewildered as if under a fox’s spell. The entire events of that night had even come to seem as if they had witnessed some outlandish illusion.

Shinagawa Shiro Engaging in a Furtive Tryst at the Park of Darkness

Aoki Ainosuke remained in Tokyo for about a week after that, but he had to return home without clarifying the true identity of the other Shinagawa Shiro. He remembered how in the red room, the man had promised the woman “next Wednesday.” After waiting until that Wednesday came, he made a special trip to investigate Miura’s house—yet neither the man nor the woman showed even a shadow of themselves. The housewife remarked suspiciously, “But tonight was the promised evening.”

“After all, that guy must have been in that car.” “Your conjecture that the driver was used as a substitute might be correct.” “That bastard likely has no idea a man with his own face was pursued, but he’s up to no good either way.” “He must have thought it was too risky and decided against coming to that house anymore.”

When Aoki said this, Shinagawa—ever prone to worry—made a deeply concerned face. “If that’s all there is to it, fine… But what if he’s realized we’re onto him? What if he’s figured out that when we chased him last time—that man who looked so much like me you couldn’t tell us apart—we were tracking him? If that’s true, we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest for nothing! That man’s dangerous through and through! Who knows what kind of schemes he might drag me into by using me as his double? Just thinking about it makes me feel this… this indescribable unease creeping up my spine! I tell you—it terrifies me!”

And so such conversation had taken place between them; yet it later became clear that Shinagawa's anxiety was by no means baseless. Be that as it may, about two months passed without particular incident. During that period, Aoki made two week-long trips to Tokyo, but the other Shinagawa Shiro showed no trace of himself anywhere. It reached the point where one might think this grotesque individual's very existence in our world had been nothing but a dream. Yet Shinagawa inverted this logic, tormenting himself with visions of that man even now lurking in some shadowy corner - using "Shinagawa" as his perfect proxy while plotting grand-scale villainy.

And then, one day in March—an incident occurring in Nagoya where Aoki Ainosuke resided—the mysterious figure he had completely forgotten about once again appeared before him.

He had whiled away the night at a café with friends and was on his way home after parting. Aoki’s house was located in what felt like a suburban area behind Tsuruma Park, but as it was an unseasonably warm evening and he was also somewhat drunk, he deliberately took a detour instead of riding in a car and wandered through the tree-filled park.

As he passed by the fountain and ascended the slope toward the depths, there was an area where large trees grew so densely it could be called a forest. At its very center lay a dead end opening into a clearing of fifteen to twenty square meters, where two or three benches had been placed as a rest area for those who had climbed the slope. Being a secret enclave within the park—surrounded on all sides by woods—it made an ideal spot for young citizens’ clandestine trysts. Aoki, the seeker of grotesquery, had once experienced there the sinful pleasure of peeping on such clandestine trysts.

Since it was at the dead end of the cul-de-sac he had just mentioned—a place he had no reason to pass through on his way home—whether the mischievous god of fate had lured him or not, Aoki found himself suddenly inclined to head toward that clearing. It was nearly midnight, and since entering the park he had encountered almost no one, so he assumed the clearing too would be a hollow, empty darkness. Yet the allure of shadows—the possibility that some extraordinary discovery might await—drew him there.

However, upon reaching the top of the slope and glimpsing through the trees—what's this?—there was his quarry. It was said that detectives assigned to such duties could effortlessly catch one or two couples engaged in clandestine trysts any night by simply going to a fixed spot in the park and lying in wait under shrubbery. Thinking how terrifyingly precise experienced hands' words were—Indeed, indeed—Aoki stopped. Just as those detectives would do, he pressed himself against a large tree trunk like a makeshift shield, fixing his gaze on shadowy human forms in the darkness and straining his ears.

Two pale faces floated dimly through the darkness. Yet their clothing and features remained indistinguishable. Only their voices carried with unnatural clarity. They spoke in ordinary tones, secure in their belief of solitude. “Then we must part for a time,” came the man’s voice. “Since I return to Tokyo tonight, I shan’t be able to visit again for quite a while.”

A man’s voice said. “Don’t forget what you mentioned at the inn, won’t you?” The woman’s voice purred. “You’ll send me letters to that house, won’t you? If you don’t at least send me letters often, I simply won’t be able to bear it.” “Yes, I’ll send you heaps of them. And you mustn’t forget either. Well then, let us part here. Because it’s almost time for the train.” Dimly, pale forms approached from both sides and pressed tightly together. They remained pressed together for a long, long time before finally separating.

“I’m somehow afraid to go home…” “You’re feeling guilty toward him, aren’t you?” Here we go again. “It’s perfectly safe.” “He’ll never notice a thing.” “Darling, he doesn’t have the slightest idea that I’ve come to Nagoya.” “Besides, isn’t he supposed to come home late tonight?” “Now, hurry back home.” “It would be bad if you don’t return before he does.” He was no delinquent youth. From his manner of speech, he was a proper gentleman. The woman too was by no means the sort to engage in trysts in such a place. The woman had said “inn”. After meeting there—whether the man had escorted the woman or vice versa (geographically speaking, likely the former)—they must have found it unbearable to part at the “inn.”

"When she said 'I feel guilty toward that person,' did that mean she had a proper husband waiting for her?" The fact that she had said "Please send letters to that house" suggested there must be some problematic circumstances were letters to arrive at her home. By all accounts, it was adultery with a married woman. Moreover, the man had come all the way from Tokyo specifically to meet her. “Well, well—this is no simple matter!”

Aoki, still oblivious to everything, was utterly delighted by this unexpected gain—but… As the couple finally parted and the man began descending toward him, Aoki—startled—involuntarily retreated a dozen steps. Just as he abruptly turned under the glow of a streetlamp at the very moment they came face-to-face, the approaching man’s face was illuminated by the light, becoming clearly visible. How utterly unexpected this was! Wasn’t this the face of Shinagawa Shiro, whom he had believed to be in Tokyo all along?

“Ah, Mr. Shinagawa!” The words escaped his lips before he could stop them. “Huh?”

The man also came to a halt but was staring at Aoki’s face with a peculiar expression. Thinking he must be feeling awkward, he pretended not to know anything, "What’s wrong?" "What are you doing here at such an hour?"

Even when he spoke to him, the man still did not relax his stiffened expression and said something strange.

“Who are you?” “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Me? I am your friend Aoki. Get a hold of yourself.” “Who on earth do you think I am?” “It’s obvious—you’re Shinagawa Shiro.” Having uttered this, Aoki abruptly fell silent. He had recalled a long-forgotten, horrifying truth. “Shinagawa Shiro? Never heard the name. I’m no such person... I must be going.” As he watched the man stride away with a dismissive flick of his sleeve, Aoki stood transfixed in stunned silence.

That was him—the other Shinagawa Shiro who had vanished like a magician from inside an automobile two months prior. What an utterly unexpected place this was for them to meet again.

Aoki chased after the man almost unconsciously. He descended the slope completely, all the way to the vicinity of the fountain. But upon reflection, this man was returning to Tokyo. He was undoubtedly heading to the station. Even someone as daring as a grotesquerie enthusiast lacked the courage to tail him all the way to Tokyo in his current state. Moreover, his pockets were light. When he took out his watch and checked, there remained barely enough time for him to make it to the departure of the Tokyo-bound express that the man was undoubtedly boarding. There was no time at all to return home once and prepare for the journey.

Aoki gave up, abandoned his futile pursuit, and trudged homeward. Exiting the park and walking five or six blocks along the broad new road would bring one to his mansion. As he walked halfway down that path, lost in thought, a terrifying idea suddenly assailed him—he jerked to a halt. Perhaps because their encounter had been too startling, he had until that moment forgotten about the man’s voice—but now that he considered it, even without seeing his form, wasn’t that unmistakably the voice of the other Shinagawa Shiro so familiar from the Red Room? Though bearing an uncanny resemblance to the real Shinagawa’s voice, there had been something undeniably distinct about it—wasn’t that indeed his voice? Why hadn’t he noticed this earlier? As he dwelled on this realization, he abruptly recalled—linked inextricably—the woman’s voice.

“Wait—that voice wasn’t unfamiliar either.” Instantly, like lightning, a horrifying thought gleamed in his mind. “Nonsense! There’s no way such a thing could be true!” “You’ve lost your mind.” “This is nothing but a preposterous delusion straight out of the Arabian Nights!” Even after he tried to dismiss the thought, the lingering memory of that woman’s coaxing voice refused to leave his ears. Even though he dismissed it as impossible, the very Shinagawa Shiro he had deemed unthinkable had emerged from the park’s darkness. In the shadowy world he knew nothing about, what unexpected events might be occurring—it was impossible to tell.

Aoki suddenly began to walk as if running. With his eyes fixed on the second floor of his mansion’s Western-style building visible in the distance, breathing heavily and stumbling over pebbles in the darkness, he began to walk with terrifying momentum.

The matter of Shinagawa Shiro in the evening newspaper’s photograph showing two of him standing side by side.

Aoki Ainosuke had been tormented by nightmares of late. His friend Shinagawa Shiro, president of a science magazine, would blur into spectral doubles as though stricken by soul-splitting disease - existing simultaneously here and there. What’s more, these two men - indistinguishable down to their faces, forms and voices - had even confronted each other in the same room. He would join forces with Shinagawa to pursue this other Shinagawa Shiro, but their quarry - bearing an uncanny monstrousness - would nimbly evade them and melt into shadows. Both Aoki and Shinagawa had ultimately spent months wholly consumed by hunting this detestable creature.

But up until now, he had not caused any particular harm; eerie as it was, it had not been enough to inspire direct terror. However, recently, a startling and outrageous event had occurred. That is, one evening Aoki Ainosuke came upon the other Shinagawa Shiro whispering furtively with a certain married woman in Nagoya’s Tsuruma Park. Moreover, while he couldn’t clearly make out the woman’s face, there was something undeniably familiar about the tone of her voice. As soon as the thought “What if—” struck him, Aoki turned deathly pale and found himself compelled to dash home to verify whether his suspicion held truth.

However, his beautiful wife showed no unusual signs and greeted him cheerfully. He entered the entranceway and stood in the small hall where coats were hung, his heart pounding. Then one of the doors opened, a bright electric light spilled out, and from there Yoshie’s small, well-shaped head peered out. “Oh, what’s the matter?” Rather, it was she who now regarded his strangely pale appearance with suspicion. Aoki silently entered the room and sank into the sofa.

He took his wife along on his monthly trips to Tokyo about once every three times, so his wife and Shinagawa had become close enough to trade jokes. Shinagawa had visited his Nagoya residence on two or three occasions. Therefore, it was not unthinkable that the other Shinagawa Shiro had exploited this—posing as the familiar Shinagawa Shiro—to approach Yoshie and draw her into some unsavory situation. Given that she was his wife, he had grown desensitized to her charms, but by any objective measure, she remained quite beautiful. If that inscrutable Phantom Man, having noticed the existence of a Shinagawa Shiro indistinguishable from himself, were to exploit this fact and plot some evil scheme, then Aoki’s wife would undoubtedly have made the most enticing target.

Even from Yoshie’s perspective, it was not at all an impossible matter. Due to his grotesque obsessions and restless nature, Aoki had lived almost entirely ignoring his wife’s existence. He would spend around ten days each month in Tokyo, and even when he was in Nagoya, he often stayed out late into the night, making opportunities for intimate conversation with his wife exceedingly rare. It was only natural that Yoshie was starving for love. Moreover, she was by no means an old-fashioned, straitlaced woman of the Women’s University mold. In other words, she too had ample vulnerability. The demon only needed to lay a hand.

Ainosuke remained sunk into the sofa, avoiding looking toward Yoshie as much as possible, and tried to consider such things once more. But how could she stay so unperturbed? "Why are you being so quiet?" "Are you angry?"

She was utterly innocent.

“It’s not that…” “Have the maids already gone to bed?”

“Yes, just now.” “Did you go out somewhere tonight?” “No, nowhere.”

She answered and turned her eyes to the red-covered novel lying face down on the table. It was utterly natural. Ainosuke could not believe his wife was a woman capable of such acting. "I must be losing my mind. I'm caught up in an outlandish delusion. Even that man earlier—whether his face had truly been Shinagawa Shiro's—" The more he tried to recall, the vaguer it became. "I met Mr. Shinagawa Shiro at the park just now."

He said that and paid attention to Yoshie’s demeanor. “Mr. Shinagawa Shiro? The one from Tokyo?”

She was truly surprised. “Why didn’t he come over?” Of course, she still knew nothing about the mysterious other Shinagawa Shiro. After talking it over for a while, Ainosuke became completely reassured. What could such an innocent woman possibly be capable of? He felt almost contemptuous enough to look down on her.

About a week passed without incident. During that time, no incidents occurred that would renew suspicions toward Yoshie. Although he had been vigilant, there was no sign of a letter from that man either.

And then one day—a fine, almost oppressively springlike day—Ainosuke boarded the Tokyo-bound limited express with Yoshie. The afternoon train was dusty, muggy and sweltering, and to top it off, tedious. Stereotypical farmhouses, fields, forests, and billboards continued endlessly to the point of tedium. He had nothing in particular to say to his wife.

At Numazu, he bought the Tokyo evening paper. A large photographic plate on the second page. Dr. S, who had arrived at Tokyo Station, and Mr. So-and-so, who had come to greet him. Dr. S was a German scientist famous even among the Japanese; he had arrived in Tokyo that morning via Osaka during his travels from Shanghai. It stated that there would be a lecture that evening. Ainosuke had no particular interest in the white-haired doctor or the others, but when he spotted Shinagawa Shiro, president of the popular science magazine, in morning dress at the very edge of the welcoming party’s Mr. So-and-so and Mr. Such-and-such, he thought, *This is something.* Shinagawa seemed to be serving as the interpreter for the lecture.

"He's quite the activist," he sneered. As he smirked and continued scrutinizing the photographic plate, he discovered something strange. "That greedy Shinagawa is showing two faces!" The realization jolted him. There was no way the same person could appear twice in one photograph. It was that Phantom Man again. In the photograph, beyond Dr. S and the welcoming committee, unrelated faces from the crowd peered in from behind—and among them, another Shinagawa Shiro was clearly laughing.

Indeed, it was the Phantom Man who had noticed Shinagawa Shiro and was now tailing him. He was plotting some misdeed. “Yoshie, take a look at this.” Ainosuke, still harboring some suspicion toward his wife, had suddenly thought of testing her with this photograph in a spiteful manner. “Oh! It’s Mr. Shinagawa. He’s serving as Dr. S’s interpreter, isn’t he?” “That’s all well and good, but take a look at this face peering in from behind.”

With that, he pointed at the Phantom Man with his finger. "Hmm, now that you mention it, he does look exactly like Mr. Shinagawa." "Oh, he looks just like him!"

My, my, how carefree she was.

“The truth is, there’s a man out there who’s not a hair’s breadth different from Shinagawa Shiro—(and he’s a bad one, mind you)—and I’ve run into him plenty of times.”

And taking this opportunity, he related the general outline that the reader already knows. (though the matter of peeping in the Red Room had been omitted for expediency’s sake) Outside, dusk had begun to tinge everything mouse-gray. Giant monk-like trees billowed past outside the window. The ceiling lights mingled with the faint twilight beyond, casting a strangely reddish-brown hue that painted eerie shadows across the passengers’ faces within the carriage. Amidst this atmosphere, he recounted it with all the menace he could muster, periodically fixing his gaze upon her eyes as he spoke.

“Oh, that’s creepy. Is he planning something?”

She appeared somewhat pale. But it was the kind of story that would frighten anyone. Just because she was a little pale was no reason to suspect her. If she had been unknowingly committing adultery with this second Shinagawa Shiro, she should have been unable to conceal any extreme panic. Just as Shizuka Gozen was startled upon discovering Kitsune Tadanobu’s true identity, she should have been jolted with shock. But no such signs were visible.

“So it was just my misunderstanding after all? Well, well.”

And so it was that Ainosuke's relief grew all the deeper—though whether this relief would end as true relief remained to be seen.

Both Aoki and Shinagawa were startled by the actual projection.

Upon arriving in Tokyo, Ainosuke called Dr. S’s lecture venue from the station, informed Shinagawa of the circumstances, confirmed the time when his business would conclude, and visited Shinagawa’s residence late that night.

“I didn’t notice a thing. However, startled by your call, I phoned a journalist acquaintance at the newspaper and have just now managed to obtain a reprint of that photograph. You can’t discern the truth from a photographic plate alone, you see.”

When Ainosuke entered, Shinagawa was lying in wait in the eight-tatami guest room and said. On the rosewood desk lay a strangely shaped device resembling a magic lantern apparatus, and beside it sat a single glossy, unmounted photograph. When he looked, it was the same as the photograph from the evening edition. “What’s this device?” “It’s called an epidiascope—a magic lantern apparatus that projects opaque objects on a large scale.” “With this, I thought I’d enlarge the other fellow in this photograph and take a look.”

It was an actual epidiascope—distributed through agency sales by his magazine due to the nature of his business.

Though there was no need to confirm such things through this act, both men were the sort who felt a certain allure in devices like magic lanterns—and they could not help but harbor an inquisitive interest in each individual wrinkle of the other’s face, now magnified before them.

When the lights were turned off, only the facial portions of both Shinagawas from the photograph were projected onto the plain torinoko-paper fusuma, startlingly enlarged. The real Shinagawa wore a solemn expression, while the other smirked; the unretouched photograph’s mottled shadows, blotched with irregular stains, seemed to creep closer through the darkness toward the two men. “Let me try a smile—compare it with that face in the photograph, if you would.” Shinagawa said this, then brought his face to the rear of the apparatus where light leaked through, and—like a ghost from a rakugo horror tale—bared his teeth in a smirk.

“They’re identical. It’s exactly as if your face right now is being projected straight onto that fusuma over there.” As Ainosuke spoke these words, a creeping chill ran down the nape of his neck. “You. Let’s stop this already. I’ve started feeling... uneasy.”

Ainosuke had always harbored an unusual fear of magic lanterns. There now stood three Shinagawa Shiros—the shadow, the real man, and another—all exact duplicates without a hair’s breadth of difference. It was no wonder he was frightened like a child.

When they turned on the light and looked, Shinagawa himself had also turned pale.

“He’s like my shadow, always hounding me, isn’t he?” “Well, there’s no other way to think about it, is there?” “At first, it feels like it’s approaching from afar—bit by bit, creeping inexorably closer.” “Hey now, don’t go scaring me like that!” Shinagawa involuntarily started and said, “I haven’t actually suffered any harm yet, but I can’t just leave this alone anymore.” “It feels extremely dangerous.” "Not only do we not know what he’s plotting, but since we haven’t the faintest idea who or where this man really is—that makes it all the more terrifying." “I’m thinking of trying to advertise this matter in my magazine, but...”

“An advertisement?” “We’ll include this photograph, you see. “In this way, there exists a person exactly like me. “I feel an extreme sense of danger regarding the existence of this second self. “Please come forward and identify yourself. “Furthermore, we want anyone who knows this person to come forward, and we’ll print that statement in large letters. “I think doing so will serve as some measure of prevention.” “It would make ideal reading material for your magazine as well, wouldn’t it? “But the danger you’re worried about may have already begun, you know. “You see...”

And with that, Ainosuke resolutely recounted the entire incident from the previous night at Tsurumai Park.

“So—are you still suspecting your wife?” When he heard this, Shinagawa inquired with a strange expression caught between bashfulness and terror. “No, I’ve almost stopped suspecting her.” “It was probably another woman.” “But the place was just near my neighborhood, you see.” “It also seems to carry some significance.” Shinagawa suddenly fell silent and seemed to be contemplating something, but— Muttering “Perhaps…” to himself, he abruptly stood and left the room—only to return moments later clutching a sealed letter.

“Here, take a look at this.” Thinking it was a strange thing to say, Ainosuke casually accepted the sealed letter, unfolded the stationery inside, and looked at it. There, written in a feminine hand, was the following. Though I know this path is forbidden, it is precisely why I am beside myself with joy. Each time I recall that night—your every gesture, your every word, down to the smallest detail—replaying them in my heart again and again, my face flushes anew and my heart races uncontrollably. Pray do not laugh at me. I had never even dreamed of such love until that night—that very night—I must confess. Like a young girl—truly, truly—I am utterly infatuated. But when I shall next have the honor of meeting you again—with our dwellings separated east and west, and Your Excellency being a man of such pressing engagements—coupled with the sorrows of this forbidden love—I find myself unable to visit your side, and it pains me so. It seems to me that now, for the first time, I have truly come to understand the pain and torment of love. I beg you to surmise. ………………………

Ainosuke read it with tremendous speed. Finally unable to bear reading any further, he skipped the last three or four lines and looked at the address. To Lord Shiro-sama, Your Lordship || From One Who Knows You it read. Clearly a love letter from a married woman to Shinagawa Shiro. "I have absolutely no idea." "But the name on the envelope is unmistakably mine." "I am committing adultery with someone’s wife." "Since it was such an unexpected occurrence, I thought it might be someone’s malicious prank—but hearing your account now, I fear this letter may carry a far more terrifying implication." "In other words, a letter intended for the fake Shinagawa Shiro from that woman who was talking in Tsurumai Park might have ended up with the real me." “The reason being—look, although the sender’s address and name aren’t written, the postmark is unmistakably Nagoya.” “Oh… What’s the matter with you?”

Ainosuke’s lips lost their color, and goosebumps had risen around his jaw. But he said nothing. “This letter, then.” “…………” “Hey—what’s wrong with you? Ah—are you looking at the handwriting?” “It’s similar.” “To my sorrow, I had come to remember the peculiar way this character for ‘love’ was written.” “Your wife’s?” “But you—when it comes to women’s handwriting, aren’t they mostly all similar anyway? …Because they’re all just copying their girls’ school copybooks, you know.”

“That’s it. Now I understand why that fellow suggested going to Tokyo together this time.” “That fellow planned to meet you—no, another man—here in Tokyo to his heart’s content. That was his ulterior motive all along.”

And beyond that, they found themselves at a loss for words to say to each other. In the late-night eight-tatami sitting room, the two men sat facing each other in hollow silence. “I’m leaving now.” Ainosuke said curtly as he stood up. “I see.”

Shinagawa likewise refrained from offering hollow words of comfort. After stepping down from the entranceway and slipping into his geta, Ainosuke abruptly turned around. Leaning against the entranceway shoji, Shinagawa was seeing him off. “Just one thing I need to ask you.” Ainosuke, with an expressionless face, uttered something outlandish. “You really are Shinagawa Shiro, right?”

The man was startled and instinctively turned to look behind him. And he laughed in an oddly hollow manner. “Ha ha ha ha ha! What are you saying?” “Enough with your jokes.” “Ah... That’s right.” “You are Mr. Shinagawa.” “You weren’t the other man after all.”

Ainosuke, having said that, abruptly went out through the lattice door. As if he were a man gripped by a nightmare, his legs staggered unsteadily.

The chronic boredom was completely blown away.

When he returned to the annex, inside the well-cleaned, compact house, Yoshie was modestly keeping watch with the old maidservant. Since the house was small, their bedroom was separated by nothing more than a single sliding door. In the second-floor eight-tatami guest room lay Ainosuke’s bedding, while in the six-tatami adjacent room lay Yoshie’s. As Ainosuke settled into his bedding, lay on his back, and smoked a cigarette, Yoshie leaned against the mulberry-wood square brazier beneath his pillow and began to chatter about various things.

Her chatter mainly concerned their entertainment plans during their stay in Tokyo—how she looked forward to seeing Kabuki again after so long, how she couldn’t wait to visit Fukusuke dolls, how such-and-such pianist at an upcoming concert would be the highlight, and how, despite being a woman, she was oddly eager to eat Tokyo-style sukiyaki soon—all delivered with remarkable brightness and volubility. She wore a vibrant yellow Hachijō silk haori jacket—so favored that she even brought it on trips as loungewear—its fabric disheveled in waves, her Western-style hair slightly greasy yet maintaining its elegant shape, from beneath which her smooth neckline peeked out.

Since the incident, it was indeed true that Ainosuke's interest in his wife—or rather, his attachment—had been growing stronger with each passing day. But not because of that; having her right before his eyes like this made it impossible to believe such an innocent woman was capable of adultery. "Why don't you bring me a pen and paper real quick?"

Ainosuke suddenly hit upon such an idea. “What are you doing? Writing a letter?” “A letter?” “Oh, just bring it here.” When Yoshie brought the fountain pen and stationery, “Now then, you—try writing the character for ‘love’ here.” Ah, what an innocent woman she was. When Yoshie heard this, she never once dreamed she was being tested; with an air of bashfulness, she reddened around her eyes and laughed that peculiar, indecent laugh shared between married couples.

“Ohohohohoho, how amusing. What’s come over you?” “Anyway, just write it down for now.” “Ohohohohohoho! It’s like practicing penmanship in front of the teacher, isn’t it?” With utmost obedience, she took the pen and wrote “beloved.” Then, setting down the brush, she looked up at Ainosuke, laughed that laugh of hers, and said. “What should I write next?” To Ainosuke, her being so obedient was because she was starved for his love. It seemed he could understand that she was now enjoying the long-awaited playful interactions of married life. But the answer was still spitefully,

“To Lord Shiro,” he declared. “Oh!” Yoshie was startled and her face turned serious. And for an instant, her eyes went vacant, as though she were trying to grasp the meaning of “Lord Shiro,” her mind frantically searching for an answer. “She is undoubtedly innocent. No matter how you look at it, such a skillful act couldn’t be possible.” Ainosuke was completely relieved. The way the character for “love” was written in cursive may indeed look similar, but it was nothing more than a meaningless coincidence—just as Shinagawa had said, they must have coincidentally learned from the same copybook.

“Who on earth are you referring to as Lord Shiro?”

Yoshie paled slightly and asked in a pressing manner. “It’s nothing. It’s completely fine now. Shiro-san? Shiro-san? People like Shiro-san are a dime a dozen. You’ll find them even in elementary school readers.” Ainosuke said in a thoroughly good mood. Then, after a while—strange as it was—Ainosuke found himself riding a streetcar.

The streetcar was packed. Unable to move, he hung from the strap. Human heads—gentlemen, merchants, wives, madams, young ladies—overlapped in a chaotic jumble, pressing forward before his eyes. But when he suddenly looked, from between those heads, Shinagawa Shiro’s face peeked out in a fleeting glimpse. “Mr. Shinagawa! You—you’re Mr. Shinagawa, aren’t you?” Ainosuke shouted in a loud voice.

Instead of responding，the man abruptly pulled his head back and vanished into the crowd. “Ah! That’s him!” “It’s the Phantom Man!” “Everyone，please step aside for a moment!” “I have to catch him!” But he couldn’t move at all.

“Someone catch him!” “Catch that guy!”

Because Ainosuke had bellowed so rudely, every face in the car snapped toward him. Jumbled together chaotically, they stared at Ainosuke. To his horror, every last one of those faces had transformed into Shinagawa Shiro’s. With a yelp, he tried to flee—but something obstructed him, something soft yet heavy that came pressing down on his chest. Even when he tried to push it away, it had a rubber-like elasticity and came pressing back. When he suddenly noticed, he realized it was Yoshie’s warm arm.

“What happened? You looked like you were in pain.”

“I had a bad dream. “…because you had this hand resting on my chest.” And in other words, this meant she had not been sleeping in her own bed in the next room. But after about an hour had passed, in a certain moment, Ainosuke pushed her away and leapt back into the corner of the room. Yoshie could not comprehend her husband’s attitude, which had changed so abruptly, and remained crouched there blankly. In her husband’s ashen face, she detected terrifying hostility. She saw bloodshot eyes burning with anger.

She felt a kind of unbearable insult, prostrated herself, trembled, and began to cry.

Ainosuke made no attempt to comfort her. Suddenly donning his kimono, he left his pitiful wife behind and stepped outside into the near-dawn. He walked blindly through the deserted, ruin-like town. “Truly, truly—women belong to a different race. Servant spirits from some demon realm. When they lie, their very countenance becomes truth itself. When they wish to weep, tears spring forth at will.” He felt this revelation as though discovering it anew.

"But she had carelessly let her tail show." "That act most certainly was not something I taught her." "I am no such masochistic pervert." "She had learned it from the Phantom Man." "And before he knew it, she too had come to love sadism." This was by no means his delusion. There existed irrefutable evidence. He vividly remembered the Phantom Man's play with a certain woman in that Red Room. Hadn't Yoshie's behavior tonight been identical in every detail to that particular scene? Hadn't she mounted him like a horse? Hadn't she tried to wrap that red cord serving as reins around his neck? It was no wonder he had turned deathly pale and recoiled.

Even Ainosuke, the grotesque enthusiast, was far from bored. This made clear that his belief of having grown utterly weary of his wife was a misunderstanding—in truth, he had loved her deeply, deeply in his heart. Yet to him, this change in his heart came as no small surprise. He couldn’t help but find it strange that he had come to detest the partner in adultery—that is, the Phantom Man—so intensely.

“Damn bastard! Damn bastard!” He walked on and on without any destination—like some dissolute rake or street thug—thinking of tearing his opponent into eight pieces while vividly imagining thick streams of blood gushing forth. The self-proclaimed miracle broker: a beautiful youth.

Ainosuke had left home and never returned. After visiting friends, going to the club to play billiards, mingling with the crowds in Asakusa Park, and wandering up and down the entertainment district—all while feeling extreme inner agitation yet outwardly maintaining a thoroughly carefree demeanor—night had fallen before he knew it. And so, from around ten o'clock that night, the next part of the story began.

At that moment, Ainosuke—having walked until he was weary—leaned against a pillar beneath the wisteria trellis facing Asakusa Park's pond and gazed vacantly at the illuminations reflected in the water. Beneath the wisteria trellis stood several benches in a row, where a group of shadow-like vagrants sat quietly and wordlessly. Every one of them appeared desperately starved, having lost even the strength to voice their plight—utterly resigned and listless. Among them mingled a single figure: a young man whose distinguished bearing starkly contrasted with the surrounding vagrants. This demeanor—more suggestive of a Ginza habitué than an Asakusa local—drew Ainosuke's notice. Come to think of it, Ainosuke himself bore no resemblance to an Asakusa denizen. Moreover, for him to stand vacantly beneath such a wisteria trellis seemed profoundly incongruous. Thus these two—Ainosuke and the Ginza-style youth—found themselves unwittingly conscious of each other's presence.

At that, Ainosuke fleetingly recalled a certain thought. This referred to the Asakusa Street Boys, whom he had long known of. Being a connoisseur of the grotesque, he could not possibly have been unaware of such things' existence. Ainosuke had lost the Twelve-Story Tower and lost the Egawa Girls' Ball Performance; he held little interest in an Asakusa that had grown strangely vast and empty. If pressed to say, only the decadent Anraku-bushi ballads, the Carousel Hall, those twin monstrosities on the second floor of the Carousel Hall and Aquarium, the park's vagrant crowds, and these Street Boys retained faint remnants of Asakusa's peculiar allure—it was the atmosphere these elements exuded that, at most once every two months or so, finally drew his footsteps toward Asakusa.

The youth stared fixedly at Ainosuke. Clad in a navy-tinged spring suit and a hunting cap of the same color resembling a student’s cap, a faintly white face with supple contours emerged from beneath the deep visor into the darkness. He was a beautiful young man. Ainosuke was by no means a pederast, so he felt no pleasure, but neither did he find it particularly unpleasant. “I wish I could hibernate like a snake.” Suddenly hearing such a feeble voice right beside him, he looked and saw a young malnourished day laborer on the bench before his eyes, speaking to an older man next to him who resembled a beggar in much the same way.

“What’s hibernation?” The uneducated older man asked in a feeble voice. “They can sleep all winter underground without eating a thing.” “Without eating a thing?” “Yeah, a snake’s body’s made that way.” And they fell silent. Their exchange hung in the air like a pebble dropped into still pond water. From beyond the pond’s wooded shore came the unceasing strains of the Carousel Hall’s nineteenth-century band. The wind carried the music in capricious bursts—now blaringly loud, now fading to whispers that mingled with street vendors’ cries until only the thump-thump of drums remained. Behind them in the vacant lot, a Student Ballad violinist and blind beggar chanting street ballads each drew their own packed crowds, creating an eerie duet. To speak of duets was to admit the whole park throbbed like some vast orchestra. The thumping brass bands, Anraku-bushi drums, shoe-check attendants’ calls from the cattle shop, Student Ballads, beggars’ chants, ice cream vendors’ cries, banana sellers’ bellows, balloon whistles, clattering geta sandals, drunkards’ mutterings, children’s wails, carp leaping in the pond—this cacophony of cheap instruments formed a tawdry yet sweetly nostalgic symphony straight from a boy’s daydreams.

“Pardon me!”

Suddenly, near his ear, a voice called out in an antiquated style, as if whispering. When he turned around, the beautiful youth from earlier had stood up and come over, and before he knew it, had sidled up to his side.

Ainosuke gasped in bewilderment. For he had once been burned by the solicitations of Asakusa Uruning. “What?” Strangely enough, he responded in a feminine intonation— exactly as if he were speaking to a woman of the trade. “Excuse my presumption, but might you not be troubled by something?” “Might there not be something beyond your control that troubles you?” “But that can be managed.” “There exists a place where miracles are fabricated.” “There, we may be able to provide what you require—let’s see—probably for around ten thousand yen.”

The youth whispered something like a strange riddle. Even so, ten thousand yen was a ridiculous amount, Ainosuke thought. Wondering if perhaps the man was pitifully insane, he stared intently at his face. The illumination from the Carousel Hall reflected in the pond faintly brightened the youth’s face from beneath his chin. It was beautiful. But it was a strange beauty. Like a Noh mask, perfectly symmetrical, with an artificial quality—expressionless yet suffused with an eerie intensity seeping from its depths. He really is a madman after all, Ainosuke concluded.

“Ah, I am not one of those,” “I am not a woman.” The youth, sensing Ainosuke’s suspicions, said with a laugh. “I’m engaged in a business of far greater worth—something beyond your wildest imaginings.” “I am a broker of terrifying miracles—the kind only gods could perform since ancient times.” “But are you not in some distress?” “Was it not a miracle your excellency required?” “What’s this ‘miracle’ you’re talking about?”

Although he realized the man wasn’t a street boy and felt relieved, he couldn’t make sense of a word he was saying. However, he didn’t seem to be insane. “Are you inquiring about a miracle, your excellency?” “Then your excellency has no need.” “Those who truly require such services would never speak in that manner. Farewell.” The youth staggered unsteadily back into the midst of the vagrants from which he had come. In amusement quarters like Asakusa, such strange occurrences sometimes happen. Asakusa was a lurid, festering flower of a boil blooming on the skin of the metropolis that was Tokyo. There, everything that was not in its normal state swarmed and teemed.

Yet Ainosuke had never once encountered such a bizarre man before. A face beautiful yet unnervingly eerie, like a Noh mask, lingered stubbornly behind his eyes.

Who was this youth? He was not one to merely appear and vanish here without purpose. Later in this story, he is certain to appear before the readers once more. At that moment, what his so-called miracle truly signifies will become clear to the readers.

Ainosuke became frightened for no particular reason and left the wisteria trellis behind. Then he wandered aimlessly toward the brightly lit entertainment district. Does astonishment summon its own kind? As he walked through the crowd before the glass windows displaying colored film stills, beyond the sea of bobbing heads, he glimpsed a face that made him catch his breath—none other than Shinagawa Shiro. Ainosuke slipped through the human tide unnoticed and gave chase. This couldn’t be the real Shinagawa. He’d never seen the president of the science magazine dressed in such Western clothes. Besides, what would Shinagawa Shiro be doing in Asakusa at this hour? It had to be that impostor. The realization sent a thrill coursing through Ainosuke’s veins. This time, he wouldn’t lose his quarry.

The Phantom Man, laughing boisterously, wove through the crowd, twisted and turned down narrow alleys, and finally emerged onto Kaminarimon’s tram street. A line of one-yen taxis. The man accepted one of those solicitations and vanished into a vehicle. Ainosuke also selected one of the vehicles and leapt inside. Yet another automobile chase. But this time, I won’t make a blunder like that Akasaka Mitsuke incident. And he continued his sharp surveillance of the car ahead.

The man toying with a blood-soaked severed head.

After driving for nearly an hour, the man’s automobile came to a stop in a desolate clearing in suburban Ikebukuro, a full ten blocks from the station; the one who stepped out was unmistakably that bastard. Ainosuke had finally succeeded. He abandoned his own car as well and, crawling through the darkness, followed after the man. In one corner of the clearing, surrounded by a dense grove of trees, stood a solitary black house. It appeared to be a Western-style two-story house with a stone gate. The man entered through that gate, unlocked the front door with a key, and swiftly vanished inside. Judging by the situation, it seemed there was no one keeping watch inside the house. Was the Phantom Man living all alone in this haunted house?

Even after waiting for some time, not a single window showed even a shadow of lamplight, and the interior remained hushed with no trace of human presence. Had that bastard crawled into bed without even lighting a lamp? Ainosuke mustered his resolve and entered through the stone gate; circling around to the side of the house, he searched for any spot where he might peer inside. There were windows, but all were pitch-black inside; even pressing his face against them, he could see nothing. Having given up his search, when he abruptly turned around, he noticed that part of the trees in the garden were faintly and eerily illuminated, floating hazily into view. It was a very faint light shining from somewhere. Ah, I see! He’s on the second floor, he realized. When he stepped back from the building and looked up, sure enough, one of the second-floor glass windows glowed dimly red. But what a dim light it was. It wasn’t an electric light. It was probably candlelight.

Seeing there were no electric lights, it really must be an empty house after all. Then why did the Phantom Man have a spare key to the entrance? What on earth was he doing in this abandoned house, lighting an old-fashioned candle? But when he thought about it, this made a perfectly suitable hideout for the Phantom Man. That bastard must have been holing up in this haunted house to avoid detection, sneaking out to commit all manner of wicked deeds in unexpected places. Shinagawa Shiro’s conjecture was proving correct after all. Within this monstrosity of a house, there was no telling what horrifying conspiracy this monster might be plotting using Shinagawa’s double as his pawn.

The darkness of night, the eerie silence, the old-fashioned Western-style mansion, and the candlelight suddenly conjured a strange association in his mind. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde! Shinagawa Shiro worked earnestly editing a popular science magazine and appeared thoroughly upright—but might there not be another demon lurking within his heart, one that occasionally transformed him into Mr. Hyde? However one considered it, Shinagawa didn’t seem like such a fearsome man—yet that very fact made it all the more plausible. Had not Dr. Jekyll been an irreproachably virtuous scholar? And when the Mr. Hyde within him emerged, did he not become a monster of unparalleled cruelty—knocking down an innocent child in the street, trampling its head, and killing it as casually as crushing a fly or ant?

In the darkness, Ainosuke involuntarily shuddered. "Nonsense. You're out of your mind. You coward. Such things exist only in the morbid fantasy worlds of novelists. First of all, isn’t the very idea that this Phantom Man and Shinagawa Shiro are scientifically impossible? How could the same person have two faces side by side in a newspaper’s photographic plate?" Moreover, for the same man to be dining at the Imperial Hotel while walking along Kyoto’s Shijo Street on that very day—such miraculous sleight-of-hand defied human capability. Airplane...Ah, airplanes exist. But even using passenger aircraft—considering distances from Imperial Hotel to Tachikawa and Osaka Port to Kyoto Shijo—there remained zero possibility of appearing in Kyoto that same day. Especially since Ainosuke and Shinagawa had dined at noon—this feat grew doubly impossible.

No, no—there was no need to dwell on such thoughts. Hadn’t Ainosuke himself witnessed Shinagawa Shiro and this other Phantom Man having an utterly bizarre encounter mere feet apart in that notorious Red Room in Kōjimachi? As Ainosuke stood in the dark garden, listening intently to the second floor while his mind churned through these thoughts, a startling noise abruptly erupted. For an instant, he couldn’t discern whether it was an object’s clatter or a human voice. But when a second brief scream followed, he confirmed it was unmistakably a woman’s cry. It came from that second-floor window where candlelight seeped through. He felt certain something unspeakably cruel had transpired there.

Moreover, the voice ceased abruptly, and the silence returned to its original, deeply eerie state. No matter how long he waited, there was not a human voice to be heard—nor even the faintest sound.

Ainosuke could no longer remain still. He resolved on an uncharacteristic act of recklessness. If he entered through the front entrance, the other party would notice him, and he might meet with some terrible fate. Rather than that, he resolved to first observe the room’s situation from the outside by taking advantage of the glass window. Just outside that window, about two ken away, stood a large pine tree. He suddenly clambered up the trunk like a lineman. Drenched in sweat from head to toe, he finally managed to reach a branch level with the window.

Perched on the thick branch there, gripping the trunk with both hands and steadying his body, he peered into the second-floor window. The glass doors were shut tight, but with the entire pane clouded by accumulated dust into translucency and the candlelight blocked by something, for a time he couldn’t make sense of anything. However, upon peering intently, he discerned a man in a white shirt and shorts, his back turned, engaged in some activity. The candle was concealed by the man’s body. That it was undoubtedly the Phantom Man was evident from his body’s exact resemblance to Shinagawa Shiro.

The room remained like an empty house, devoid of any decorations or furniture, with only one end of a table-like stand visible beyond the man. The man occasionally shifted position. He bent his upper body and lowered his head into what appeared to be a posture of prayer. What on earth could he be doing? The object of his veneration had to be placed on the table obscured by his shadow—but how strange to worship something in this abandoned-house-like room deep at night. And what could that woman's scream from earlier have meant? From what he could see, the room contained only the Phantom Man; there was no trace of any woman.

As his eyes adjusted, finer details gradually came into focus. First, he noticed that the man had rolled up his white shirt sleeves above his elbows. He looked as though he had done some intense physical labor. Next, he noticed that the cuffs of the white shirt were dotted with red stains. It was blood. Upon closer inspection, on his bare arm, traces of blood had coagulated like a terrifying river.

Ainosuke imagined the object being worshipped. Could it be that the corpse of the woman who had screamed earlier was lying there? But it didn’t seem to be something as large as a corpse. Ainosuke’s curiosity had reached its peak. Ah—that’s not him worshipping. He’s kissing it.

The man’s gesture suddenly conveyed such an impression. But what on earth was he kissing? A corpse? As he watched patiently, the man finally moved his body. The small table that had been concealed until now, along with the object atop it, came into view.

At the same time, the pine tree rustled violently and shook with terrible force—because Ainosuke, overwhelmed by shock, had nearly slipped from the branch. But in that instant, he regained his composure, steadied his position, and fixed his gaze intently on the object. There on the table lay nothing but the severed head of a still-young woman. Freshly hacked from its torso, raw and smeared with clotting blood.

The reason Ainosuke had been so shocked when he saw it was that, for an instant, he thought that head might belong to his wife Yoshie—but he soon realized it did not. It was some unknown young woman.

The Phantom Man, holding an unfamiliar metal candlestick of an unusual design, thrust it forward again and again, gazing fixedly at the severed head of a woman. The head had half-closed eyes, furrowed brows, an open mouth, and the tip of its tongue visible between its teeth. It was an expression of agony verging on the obscene. The candlelight cast a russet glow, creating grotesque shadows. The blood stained the white teeth, spurting from the lips down to the chin. Where the neck met the table, the severed flesh formed a slimy mess like fish intestines, from which something—perhaps nerves—protruded ominously: sinister white cord-like strands oozing out. There was no way such minute details could be clearly discernible, yet Ainosuke felt as though he had seen them with vivid clarity.

Soon, something spine-chilling occurred. The Phantom Man began doing something bizarre with his free hand. At first, using his fingertips, he repeatedly tapped and prodded at the woman’s protruding tongue as if pushing it back into her mouth, but once the tongue had retreated between her teeth, he inserted his fingers between them, prying them apart—one finger becoming two, then three—until finally he forced his entire hand, up to the wrist, into the corpse’s mouth. Then, the blood that had pooled inside began frothing and, trickling down his wrist, could be seen gushing forth like a spring—foully beautiful.

One after another, cruel and lewd acts too extreme to be recorded here were carried out. And the Phantom Man’s macabre play with the severed head showed no sign of ending. Just because the Phantom Man had once been a masochist in the Red Room and toward Yoshie did not mean he couldn’t also be a sadist. Examples of those who combine both are not scarce throughout history and across regions. Undoubtedly, this Phantom Man was endowed with both a subtle, refined masochism (an odd way to put it) and a ferocious sadism—and what’s more, he must have been a truly ultimate murderer who inspired terror.

Suddenly, he noticed a strange coughing-like sound coming from the base of the pine tree. And what startled Ainosuke was that as the sound grew louder and louder by the moment, he realized it was the barking of a dog. The demon had prudently kept a guard dog. The guard dog that had been away somewhere had returned and caught wind of the mysterious figure up in the tree. When he looked, the Phantom Man, seeming to have noticed the sound, turned toward him, showed an expression of terror head-on, and began walking toward the window.

“It’s over,” he thought, but resolved to flee as far as he could manage. Ainosuke suddenly leapt down toward the ground. As he landed, a resilient, warm mass of flesh collided into him with tremendous force. The beast was unexpectedly large. Ainosuke struggled with the beast for some time, but after finally dealing it a fatal blow, he dashed headlong toward the front gate. But by then, it was already too late. When he arrived at the gate and looked, there stood the man in question—white shirt sleeves rolled up—having outmaneuvered him and lying perfectly in wait. In his hand glinted a small firearm.

“If you run, you’ll get injured.”

The Phantom Man spoke with unshakable composure.

“There are a few matters I’d like to discuss with you. Won’t you step inside the house?” Ainosuke could only obey the man’s command. Pressing the pistol against Ainosuke’s spine from behind, the man forced him up the entryway and led him to a secluded room on the lower floor—a barren, dust-choked space that stretched endlessly. “What do you plan to do with me?” Only after entering the room did Ainosuke finally speak.

“Nothing at all.” “While I disappear，I want you to stay right here.” “Since it would be dangerous if you had free use of your limbs，I intend to bind your body.” A man indistinguishable from Shinagawa Shiro in every detail pronounced his verdict in Shinagawa’s very voice.

Pitiable Aoki Ainosuke was soon bound hand and foot and lay sprawled on the dust-covered plank floor. At his head loomed the triumphant Phantom Man.

“I know your name without even asking.” “You’re Mr. Aoki, aren’t you?” “I know your friend Mr. Shinagawa—and not just him. I even know your wife Yoshie.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! My name, you ask?” “After all, I’m Shinagawa Shiro.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Is there anywhere on my body that isn’t Shinagawa Shiro?”

On the man’s hands and the sleeves of his white shirt, dark, coagulated blood still clung.

Ainosuke was overcome with indescribable emotion. The one subjecting him to such cruelty and mocking him was a man indistinguishable from his close friend Shinagawa Shiro. Moreover, he was at once the villain who had stolen the wife Aoki could never hate enough and the Last Murderer of unparalleled cruelty. “Tell me the truth—I implore you.” “Are you truly not Mr. Shinagawa at all?” Ainosuke could not help but ask that.

“Well, what do you think? If I were Shinagawa, what would you have me do?” the rogue answered brazenly. “If by chance you are Mr. Shinagawa, I beg you—I will never speak of what I just saw—I absolutely won’t breathe a word of it to anyone! Just tell me the truth about your relationship with my wife—I implore you! Look—Mr. Shinagawa—I’m begging you!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha! You’ve finally resorted to calling me Mr. Shinagawa, have you?” “But I’m terribly sorry—I am not Shinagawa.” “Is this about your wife?” “Well now, I’ll leave that to your imagination.” “You know, don’t you?”

Ainosuke involuntarily clenched his teeth and groaned. “Well then, you just stay quiet like that. Farewell.” The Phantom Man threw out his words, dashed out of the room, banged the door shut, and from outside click-clacked the lock into place. Ainosuke remained sprawled on the plank floor, having lost all capacity to gather his thoughts amidst the overwhelming events, and for a time was left in a daze. He had never imagined that the Phantom Man was such a heinous murderer. First, the pickpocket at Kudanzaka Slope; next, the bizarre games in the Red Room; then the adulterous whispers in Tsurumai Park—he had thought [the Phantom Man] was undoubtedly a villain, but he had never imagined him to be such an extreme evildoer. When he thought about it, his trembling fear that Shinagawa Shiro might have once been plotting some grand conspiracy was by no means unfounded.

Ainosuke Tails His Wife to the Mysterious House

Ainosuke spent the night in a room of the mysterious house. Since the circumstances leading up to his eventual rescue by the police would be utterly uninteresting even if described in detail, they will be summarized very briefly:

After the demon locked the door and left, there remained only an interminable stretch of darkness and silence. Ainosuke collapsed onto the plank floor there, trembling with violent terror as every manner of delusion tormented him. Among these, the most prominent was an auditory hallucination of something drip-dripping down from the ceiling. This drip-dripping continued ceaselessly throughout the interminably long night. In other words, he had hallucinated a scene in the room directly above—the severed torso of that woman with the decapitated head lying sprawled in obscene gore.

During that night of agony, the restraints—not particularly secure—had somehow come undone, but even had he gained freedom in his limbs alone, the locked door like a beast’s cage and the iron-barred windows barred any thought of him escaping. He, who hadn’t slept a wink, waited only for dawn to break and for people to pass through the open space outside. Since it wasn’t a thoroughfare, there was hardly any foot traffic, but finally, a boy of fifteen or sixteen passed by outside the hedge beyond the window, blowing on a harmonica.

Because Ainosuke believed the demon was still in the same house, he hesitated to call out; instead, he tore a page from his notebook to write a letter, wrapped a silver coin as a weight, and threw it out the window to the boy’s feet.

Fortunately, his message got through, and the boy immediately rushed to a nearby police box. Before long, police officers arrived—but what was truly strange was that when they investigated at Ainosuke’s urging, they found the house completely vacant: not a single trace of human habitation in any of the rooms, no sign of the Phantom Man who had been at the center of it all, nor of the bloody severed head or woman’s torso—not even a single drop of blood could be discovered on any floorboard.

What was most unexpected was that the police officer who rescued him did not need to break down a single door. In other words, not only the entrance but even the door of the room where Ainosuke believed he had been confined was not locked. He tried to open the door many times throughout the night, but each time he felt as if it had been locked from the outside. When had the demon removed it, and for what purpose—or had Ainosuke, in a fit of rage, mistakenly believed it to be so?

With the morning sunlight came a sense that the supernatural beings had withdrawn; even everything from the previous night now seemed to him as nothing more than a dream or illusion. The police officer too wore a peculiar expression as he stared fixedly at him.

And so, in the end, the bizarre incident at the mysterious house was left unresolved. To the police officers, Ainosuke’s own mental state appeared far more bizarre than the strange events he had recounted. Therefore, this incident was undoubtedly buried without thorough investigation as the bizarre delusion of a mentally disturbed individual.

In truth, the psychological aberration that drove Ainosuke to commit that grave sin in his pursuit of the grotesque may already have taken root at this very moment. In a daze, as though tricked by a fox, he staggered back to his separate residence, unable to discern whether the previous night’s events had been dream or reality. And there, Yoshie—the wife he believed to be unfaithful—awaited his strange morning return.

The story leapt ahead to the night of the third day. To dwell on the psychological conflict between Ainosuke and his wife during that interval would have proven tedious.

Around eight o’clock that night, as Ainosuke was walking absentmindedly along the streetcar tracks on his way back from strolling through a nearby temple festival, something suddenly startled him. He was shocked—profoundly shocked. But in truth, it was also something he had been desperately awaiting. There stood his wife Yoshie, entirely alone, flagging down a cruising automobile and preparing to board it. She had seized upon his absence to arrange a clandestine tryst. “I’ve finally caught you!” Ainosuke, his pulse quickening, discreetly hailed another automobile without alerting his quarry and slipped inside. Needless to say, this was surveillance. The cat-and-mouse game of vehicular pursuit had long since become second nature to him.

He burned with jealousy. His wife had begun to appear increasingly beautiful. Even if she was an adulteress, the fact that he was tailing his own beautiful wife like this—pursuing her as though he were both thief and detective—strangely tantalized his grotesque curiosity. The pursuit itself now felt vaguely erotic. Through the rear window of the car ahead, the white nape of his wife's neck flickered intermittently into view. However, after some thirty minutes of continued pursuit, when Ainosuke suddenly turned his attention to the houses lining the road outside and realized Ah, these look familiar, a terrifying thought surged up through his chest. The car was indeed passing through the same district as the previous night, heading toward Ikebukuro. The station now loomed ahead.

Then, the location of the illicit rendezvous must have been that eerie vacant house.

He vividly recalled the bizarre events of the previous night. The kitchen knife gripped by the Phantom Man, the blood-soaked severed head of the woman, and the bizarre murderous debauchery.

His wife seemed to trust the other party completely, but perhaps within that vacant house, the same fate that had befallen the woman the previous night now lay in wait for her. It was possible that the two truly loved each other. But no matter how deeply they loved each other, he was not an ordinary human being. It was a horrifying final act of madness. From his perspective, perhaps it was precisely because he cherished her that he desired to suck the living blood from her body.

Sure enough, Yoshie’s automobile came to a halt in front of the eerie vacant house. Ainosuke abandoned his automobile at the edge of the open space and crouched watching in the darkness when the faintly white figure of his wife disappeared into the vacant house—its silhouette looming like a pitch-black monster—as if being sucked inward.

Needless to say, inside the house, that monster lay in wait for its beautiful prey.

A violent jealousy and concern for his wife's life jumbled together—Aoki Ainosuke forgot all caution, forgot his own peril, and suddenly chased after Yoshie into the vacant house. As usual, the door was unsecured, so entering posed no difficulty, but the Western-style mansion's corridor was pitch-dark, and he had no idea which room Yoshie was in. But in any case, as he groped his way slowly and cautiously toward the back, he suddenly heard low voices. Although he couldn't make out the meaning, it was undoubtedly Yoshie's voice and that of the monster—the one who resembled Shinagawa Shiro.

He followed the voices through the darkness, muffling his footsteps, but with a start tripped over something and made a terrible racket. The voices abruptly ceased; simultaneously, boots clattered, and a light flashed on. Ainosuke was struck by the direct glare of the electric light and froze in place, struck dumb with terror. The door before him swung open, and there stood the monster, his back to the electric light. “Oh, if it isn’t Mr. Aoki.” “It seems this house has caught your fancy indeed, for you grace us with your visits so often.” “Well, please do come in.”

The man glared at him with terrifying eyes while speaking in an eerily polite tone. Ainosuke, however, refused to yield. His wife Yoshie was part of this equation. This was nothing like the previous night. He entered the room as directed. With bloodshot eyes, he frantically scanned the area for any sign of his adulterous wife.

Ainosuke Finally Commits the Grave Sin of Murder But within the deserted room, his wife’s figure was nowhere to be seen. The voices had lingered just moments earlier—there should have been no chance for escape. The window remained barred with its customary iron lattice. The only possible escape route lay through the door connecting to the adjacent room. Ainosuke thought he detected—or perhaps imagined—the rustle of fabric beyond that door. Moreover, judging by the room’s layout, this could only be a bedroom. The thought that a bed might await there inflamed him further, and he lunged headlong toward the door.

“Now, now, you shouldn’t go searching through someone else’s house like a detective, Mr. Aoki.” The Phantom Man swiftly spread his arms before the door, grinned with Shinagawa Shiro’s face, and fixed his gaze on Ainosuke, who stood frozen. The composed demeanor of his opponent only served to further enrage Ainosuke. He wanted nothing more than to leap at him and strangle him to death, but he knew all too well that in terms of brute strength, he was no match. He looked around wildly, as though searching for salvation.

Then, something glinted and caught his eye. What a stroke of luck for him—there on the table, carelessly left behind, lay a single pistol! He lunged at the table like a cannonball, desperately grabbed the pistol with hands nearly numb, then whirled around and aimed the barrel at the villain’s chest. “This thing’s a real dud. “Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten about the pistol!” “Ha ha ha ha!”

The monster didn’t flinch. He remained standing with his arms spread wide, utterly composed. Ainosuke, taken aback by his enemy’s sheer audacity, abruptly realized something and froze in shock. “So it’s you... This pistol’s empty.” “Ha ha ha ha! How observant of you. It isn’t empty. It’s properly loaded with a round. But have you ever fired a pistol before? Do you know how to fire it? And look—your hand’s trembling like a palsy victim’s. Ha ha ha ha! A pistol’s only as fearsome as the hand holding it.”

“Step aside.” “If you don’t move back right now—I swear I’ll fire!”

Ainosuke shouted with all his might, trying not to let his voice tremble.

“Go ahead and shoot.”

The monster was still smirking slyly. He was underestimating his opponent, believing he lacked the courage to fire. Should I shoot? If I pulled the trigger, it would go bang. But if I shoot, something terrible will happen. I mustn't shoot. I mustn't shoot. Yet the more he willed himself not to, the more his finger on the trigger began curling inward of its own accord. While nearly crying out for someone to stop him, the trigger finally gave way. By the time he thought Oh no!, a sickening thud reverberated through the air as the acrid stench of gunpowder assaulted his nostrils.

He tried to avert his gaze, yet his eyes remained nailed in place, staring motionlessly at his opponent. The Phantom Man stood rigidly still with an uncanny expression utterly unlike himself. Though his eyes were stretched wide open toward Ainosuke, strangely there lingered not the slightest impression of being glared at. The very tips of his outstretched hands twitched almost endearingly as if to clutch at something—then abruptly went slack, dangling limply at his sides.

On the chest of his white shirt was a small hole, as if scorched. It was a black hole that seemed like an unfathomable abyss. In an instant, from that hole, paint-like vivid red arterial blood gushed forth with bubbling froth, forming a thin stream that trickled away.

At the same time, the man’s large body collapsed forward limply, as if melting or perhaps crumbling. To Ainosuke’s eyes, those split-second events appeared to unfold with bizarre slowness, as though captured in the slow-motion of a moving picture—yet every minute detail registered with perfect clarity. With the obstruction now gone, he stepped over his opponent’s body, approached the door, and flung it open with force, anticipating his trembling wife Yoshie on the other side.

It was too dark to see clearly, but there was no sign of anyone.

“Yoshie! Yoshie!” Ainosuke shouted in a hoarse voice. There was no response. He stepped into the room and, like the seeker in a game of hide-and-seek, searched every corner. And instead of Yoshie’s limp body, he came upon another entrance gaping open. The assumption that it had been a bedroom based on its single doorway turned out to be a colossal mistake—that room indeed had another exit leading outside.

Half-frantic, Ainosuke wandered from one dark room to another, searching for any sign of a person. It was only after he had finally managed to do so that he realized he had matches in his pocket. He struck match after match and searched the entire house once more. He also went upstairs. But there was no sign of his wife anywhere.

She had fled. Where could she have gone? Surely she wouldn’t have gone home. Where? Where? While thinking such things, he somehow returned to the original room. And there he saw the corpse of the Phantom Man lying face down in exactly the same posture as before.

“Ah… I’m a murderer.” An icy chill crept up his spine. Only then did he finally feel the crime he had committed.

“Ah… I’m done for.”

In his mind, all forms of the past crumbled violently like an earthquake. He stood motionless for a long time, without the strength to think anything.

"But what if this guy was just pretending to be dead and was about to suddenly leap up and startle me?"

Suddenly struck by a strange thought, he approached the corpse and forcefully twisted his face toward the light to look. But the face, like yellowed parchment, did not laugh. Instead of laughing, with a sickening crack, the jaw dropped open, and from between the white teeth of the gaping mouth, a thread of blood as fine as silk trickled down the cheek.

Seeing this, Ainosuke released his grip, collided with something nearby as he staggered, then suddenly bolted outside and charged across the open ground toward the houses with tremendous force.

The murderer, in a self-destructive frenzy, went bar-hopping.

About an hour later, Ainosuke stood before the lattice door of the annex. Where he had gotten out of the car, where or how he had walked—he was in a daze. While constantly sensing pursuers at his back and wondering if by some chance Yoshie had returned home, he finally made his way to the house.

Mustering his resolve, he quietly opened the lattice door—and immediately spotted Yoshie’s familiar sandals. She had returned safely.

For some reason, he made sure not to make a sound as he entered the entranceway and stepped into the parlor. There stood Yoshie, caught mid-motion. Their eyes met, and both bodies turned to stone—Aoki Ainosuke remained standing blocking the way, while Yoshie stayed frozen with one knee raised. “When did you get back?” After a long while, Ainosuke spoke as though sighing. “Oh, I didn’t go anywhere at all.”

Yoshie answered with a frightened expression, as though she had seen a ghost, her breath coming in gasps. “Is that true? Do you intend to keep insisting you never went out?” “Haven’t you done something yourself? I wouldn’t tell such lies.”

Yoshie answered brazenly with that eerie innocence of hers. Ainosuke was struck by his wife's astonishing artifice. It was positively terrifying. It felt as though he had been suddenly struck across the cheek, leaving him utterly at a loss. He silently went up to the second-floor living room, took out a bank check and his registered seal from the small document case, crammed them into his pocket, and left the house just like that. He sensed Yoshie chasing after him to the entrance and saying something at his back, but he didn't turn around.

He reflexively walked to the main street, reflexively raised his hand to hail an automobile, and when the driver asked his destination, he blurted out "Tokyo Station" at random.

But as the car sped along, he changed his mind. He both wanted to meet the real Shinagawa Shiro and felt compelled to do so. He told the driver Shinagawa’s home address.

As it was past ten o'clock, Shinagawa had already gone to bed; however, awakened by an insistent knocking at the door like that of a telegram delivery, he came out to the entrance in his nightclothes after being notified by the old maid. “Oh, do come up. What brings you here at this hour?” Ainosuke stared at Shinagawa’s face as if to bore a hole through it, but— “You’re Mr. Shinagawa, right? You’re alive, then.” he blurted out something utterly absurd.

“Huh? What are you saying?” “Ha ha ha ha—dragging me out of bed at this hour? Spare me your jokes.” “Instead of that, why don’t you come up?” Shinagawa, taken aback and slightly annoyed, said. “No, that’s fine.” “As long as you’re alive, that’s enough.” “By morning, everything will become clear.” “Well then, goodbye.” The way he said “Well then, goodbye” carried an oddly plaintive tone, as though bidding a final farewell—which made Shinagawa regard him suspiciously,

“You’re acting rather strange.” “You’re not drunk, are you?” “Well, regardless, do come up.” Shinagawa urged him, but Ainosuke paid no heed—he rushed out to the street, leaped into the waiting automobile, then impatiently urged onward without stating a destination, forcing it to depart. After that, he changed destinations one after another and spent about two hours driving nearly all over Tokyo. In the end, even the driver became so exhausted that he started pleading, “Please have mercy.”

“Hey sir, the garage is a long way off. Won’t you show some restraint already?”

The driver had slowed the car to a crawl and was droning on about it. When he suddenly looked out the window, he noticed a large liquor store just then closing its shutters. “I’m getting out. I’m getting out.” Ainosuke abruptly had the car stopped, paid a fare of nearly ten yen, got out, and dashed into the liquor store that was now shutting its doors. “Serve me a drink.” “We’re closing up.”

The clerk stared brazenly at Ainosuke’s disheveled appearance and replied curtly.

“Just one drink.” “I’ll gulp it down and leave right away, so please.” Since he kept pleading, the manager in the back interceded, and the clerk brought a cup of sake. “No, serve it in a masu.” “A masu is what I want.” Then, receiving the sake in a five-gō masu filled eight-tenths full, he pressed his mouth to the corner and slurped it down in one gulp. He wasn’t one to be easily affected by alcohol, but having never drunk this way before, it felt unnerving—like swallowing poison. Suddenly, his face burned hot.

Since the liquor store staff, annoyed by his demand for another drink, absolutely refused to comply, he had no choice but to stagger off unsteadily. He felt an overwhelming urge to bellow at the top of his lungs. “I’m a murderer! I just killed someone!” “I’ve just come from killing someone!” But true to form, he did not actually raise his voice. Instead, he staggered along, groaning out an antiquated folk song he had learned in his student days like a sigh, deliberately swaying unsteadily.

After walking two or three blocks through the desolate late-night streets where streetlights stood out starkly, he found a bar still open. He entered and drank heavily—a reckless mix of Western liquor and sake. And while muttering some muddled, incoherent things, he remained seated until driven out by the waitress. “If you want to drink that badly, go to Yoshiwara Embankment—they’ll serve you till morning there.”

When the waitress’s scolding jolted him back to his senses, he found himself alarmingly close to the so-called Yoshiwara Embankment.

He set out walking once more, swaying unsteadily and humming a strange tune, in search of a bar that was still open. As a dimly lit, shabby bar caught his eye, he entered it. After ordering hot sake and gulping it down noisily, he glanced toward the corner to find a young man in Western clothes facing him, grinning slyly. Since there were no other customers outside, he thought it strange. Tormenting his muddled head as he tried to summon his memory, he suddenly remembered. It was that beautiful youth he had once met under the wisteria trellis in Asakusa Park. He might be a delinquent youth who had made this area his haunt.

“Ah, we meet again.”

While saying this, the youth stood up and moved to the seat next to him. “Shall I keep you company?”

“Ugh… Go ahead.” “Let me tell you—today I’ve got something truly wonderful to celebrate.” “Hey, you! Shall we sing?” “But you don’t look remotely happy,” the youth remarked with pointed significance. “If anything, you seem deeply troubled. You’re drowning it in drink, aren’t you?” “So what—does my face scream ‘fresh from murder’ now?”

Ainosuke retorted in a desperate tone and bellowed with laughter. "Well, that might be unexpectedly close to the truth." The youth remained unflappable. "But such matters mean nothing." "I know something ten times more dreadful than murder." "Right? You understand now." "The miracle I mentioned before." "In some corner of this Tokyo..." "There exists a terrifying place where they perform miracles at will—absolving sinners, resurrecting corpses, erasing living people without leaving traces," the youth's voice sank lower until it became a whisper. "You—mightn't you require such a miracle now?" "But do you possess the means to procure it?" "As I told you previously—ten thousand yen." "You mustn't lack even a single sen."

“You seem to think I’m a murderous criminal, huh?”

“Yes, I do think so.” “After all, you don’t get such a terrifying expression unless you’ve killed someone.” “But there’s no need to be so nervous.” “I am your ally.” “What do you say?” “Won’t you confide the truth in me?” The youth whispered into his ear and gently stroked his back, like a mother comforting a child.

The youth’s mask-like, perfectly symmetrical features exerted some inexplicable influence over him. It occurred to him that this youth might indeed be his savior, dispatched from the underworld. His tightly wound heart began to unravel from the edges, and a sweet, clinging surge of tears welled up within him. “To tell the truth, I shot and killed a man tonight with a pistol. The corpse of that man is still lying in a vacant house right now. But you’re truly my ally, right?”

Ainosuke fixed his bloodshot eyes—their whites livid with veins—terrifyingly upon the other’s face and whispered with the deadly earnestness of a man about to duel. “It’s all right. “Look into my eyes. “These aren’t the eyes of a detective, are they? “I am an ally to criminals. “I am a miracle broker who caters to criminals as my clientele, you see. “But I don’t deal with petty thieves. “My clientele consists solely of major criminals who can afford to pay the fee of ten thousand yen.”

The youth, dead serious, blurted out something straight out of a dream.

“Very well, then I’ll tell the truth.” “I’ll tell you in detail what I’ve done.”

Ainosuke pressed his liquor-stale lips against the youth’s shapely earlobe with fervor.

Ainosuke Finally Invested a Large Sum to Purchase a Miracle

After recounting the circumstances in slurred speech, Ainosuke made no effort to conceal his welling tears and continued sniveling like a weepy drunk. "That man was a murderous fiend." "My wife was about to be killed." "So my actions were nothing more than self-defense, you see." "But the law doesn't make such allowances." "There's no concrete evidence." "My wife denies ever going to that vacant house." "She'd never give testimony favorable to me." "Far from it—to her, I'm her lover's enemy." "One half of the adulterous pair lies dead." "And there's not another soul who knows of their affair." "In short—here stands a murder." "The man I killed was the fearsome Last Maadaraa." "But no one knows that." "There isn't a shred of proof." "And all that remains is for me—a mere murderer—to climb the gallows."

“I understand. “I understand.” The youth interrupted Ainosuke’s repeating and said. “So ultimately, you simply wish to avoid being punished as a murderer.” “Now then—this is a transaction.” “Do you consider ten thousand yen too costly?”

“Tell me—what does ten thousand yen buy?” “A miracle. An unimaginable miracle. No further explanations. If you doubt my credibility, our business ends here.”

The youth said this and, as he had done one night before, made as if to leave the spot.

“Here’s a check.” “I’ll write in whatever amount you want.”

Ainosuke already thought of money as nothing more than trash or something of the sort. When the youth saw the checkbook, he pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket and handed it to him. “Ten thousand yen exactly will suffice.” “Well then—ten thousand yen.” “But it won’t convert to cash until tomorrow morning.” “By then, my crime might be discovered.”

“That is fate.” “Let’s just go through with it.” “Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock—once you’ve converted this into cash, I will take you immediately to the place of miracles.” The youth looked at his wristwatch and said, “It’s two-thirty now.” “It’s just over six more hours of endurance.” “Why, if you drink some sake, the time will pass in a flash.”

However, since he couldn’t very well spend the night at a bar, under the guidance of the mysterious youth, Ainosuke lodged at a flophouse near Yoshiwara. The room wasn’t as filthy as he’d imagined, but on top of the agony of his hangover, there was an irritating itchiness, and though utterly exhausted, he couldn’t fall asleep. The moment he dozed off, he’d be tormented by indescribably terrifying dreams, only to jolt awake at his own screams, his entire body drenched in an uncanny sweat—and so he stayed wide awake until morning.

Unable to wait for delivery, he had someone bring the newspaper, but though he was afraid to look, he couldn’t keep himself from doing so. He mustered his resolve and opened to the society page, but no sooner had he opened it than he flung it to the bedside as if it were some loathsome insect. After a while, he took it in hand again, started to open the third page, then flung it down once more. It was only after repeating this process four or five times that he finally managed to read through it. However, there was not a single line about the strange house in Ikebukuro or the Phantom Man’s corpse.

"Huh, something's off... Ah, right! The incident from late last night wouldn't have made it into this morning's paper." When he realized this, Ainosuke felt crushed by disappointment. The thought that he had to endure until the evening edition made it seem unbearable. "Ah... Let things take their course." "It'll be found out anyway." "It's the gallows anyway." He muttered such things and flopped onto his back once more, burying his face in the greasy collar of the futon. His mood lay discarded like mud.

But before long, an unexpected gust of happiness swept through his bed that reeked of human presence. Around ten o'clock, the mysterious youth from the previous night entered, his face as symmetrical as a Noh mask, grinning.

“Good news.” “Everything went smoothly.” “The money was obtained without any complications.” “Behold—the ten thousand yen in cash.” The youth produced a bundle of hundred-yen bills from his pocket and tapped them briskly against his palm in demonstration.

Soon, the two left the flophouse together. Ainosuke insisted that he hated going out in daylight, fearing the sun, but the mysterious youth dismissed his protests with a laugh, “That’s exactly the problem. Foolish criminals choose dark towns at night and sneak around furtively like thieves—that’s precisely why they get caught immediately. Stride boldly through broad daylight. Even someone who knows police sketches would never suspect it’s him and let him slip by. That’s the key. That’s why even I choose to guide people to the place of miracles in broad daylight whenever possible. Now then, let’s go. The car is properly waiting, you see.”

Because the youth urged him on, Ainosuke found himself getting swept up in the momentum.

After leaving the inn and walking two or three blocks under the dazzling April sun, there on the main avenue waited a splendid automobile. The driver also appeared to be part of the mysterious youth’s gang; they exchanged glances, signaled each other, and nodded in agreement.

Before long, the automobile carrying Ainosuke and the mysterious youth began to move. “It may be somewhat uncomfortable, but I must ask you to be blindfolded.” “As it’s an extremely secret location, even our most valued clients must not learn of its whereabouts.” “This being our organization’s rule, I must insist on your compliance.” After driving a short distance, the youth made an unusual request, but Ainosuke—in his desperate resignation—naturally agreed. The youth then produced a roll of bandage from his pocket and wound it tightly around Ainosuke’s eyes and head like an injury dressing. Ordinary blindfolds risked arousing suspicion if seen from outside; thus they used bandages to feign injury. It was an approach that accounted for every contingency. After thirty minutes of full-speed driving, the car halted. Guided by the youth’s hand, Ainosuke stepped onto unfamiliar stone pavement.

“We must descend some stairs,” “Please mind your footing.”

With the youth's whisper, they found themselves already at the head of the stone stairs. It was an exceedingly long stone staircase.

They descended and turned, descended and turned, until they had gone a full two jō underground. Before long, they emerged onto a spacious, open area. The area was no longer stone-paved but had become a smooth wooden floor that was slippery underfoot. “You’ve been patient.”

The youth’s voice sounded, and the bandage around his head was removed. When the blindfold came off and he looked around, there—in stark contrast to the blazing daylight of the streets they had walked after leaving the inn—existed a shadowy subterranean world of night. It was a plainly constructed Western-style studio with wooden flooring, about ten tsubo in size. Though an electric light burned, hordes of spectral shadows clustered about, creating an uncanny sense of being in another world. This was because life-sized male and female nude dolls stood arrayed around all four walls like the Five Hundred Arhats.

“You seem quite startled.” “However, this is not a doll factory.” “This isn’t some ordinary place—you’ll understand soon.” “You’ll understand soon.”

The mysterious youth spoke while wearing a peculiar faint smile on his own face—a face too perfectly symmetrical, like a doll’s.

Behind the dolls stood many shelves, upon which countless medicine bottles were arranged like in a scientist’s laboratory. The two openings in those shelves were the entrance through which they had just come and the door leading further inside. What on earth lay beyond that door? Who could possibly inhabit such a place? Ainosuke found himself assailed by an indescribable demonic aura and could not suppress a shudder. After standing there awhile, the handle of the door at the far end turned with utmost caution—creaking slowly—until the door silently opened halfway, and in the dark shadow, a figure faintly emerged.

Latter Part: White Bat

The Third Shinagawa Shiro

Now then, what became of this poor grotesque enthusiast? As for what bizarre events occurred in that strange laboratory and so forth—these shall be left for later enjoyment—here we shall instead observe the entire incident from a different perspective. For these strange incidents involving the two Shinagawas were not merely the personal tale of a grotesque enthusiast—they served as nothing less than the prologue to an enormous criminal case that once sent all of Tokyo, nay all of Japan, into an uproar; a case now poised to shift to its main act. The author, too, could no longer proceed with the pen as slowly and deliberately as before.

Yoshie, the wife of Aoki Ainosuke, couldn’t make sense of why her husband had been acting so strangely that evening. As the reader has already surmised, she was entirely innocent. However, because Ainosuke’s expression had been so terrifying, she unwittingly ended up mirroring him with her own stiffened countenance, inadvertently corroborating his misunderstanding. On Ainosuke’s part, he had become so frenzied by the monster’s deceit.

Even after waiting until evening of the following day without Ainosuke returning, between his terrifying countenance from the previous night and her growing conviction that something was gravely amiss, Yoshie found herself unable to remain still any longer. Therefore Yoshie resolved to visit Shinagawa Shiro—her husband’s closest associate in Tokyo—and seek his counsel. After all, there remained the possibility that Ainosuke might have taken lodging at Shinagawa’s residence.

After preparing, entrusting the house to the old maidservant, and walking about two blocks to the taxi company office she always used—what should she encounter? As if by prior arrangement, Shinagawa Shiro came walking toward her from the opposite direction, and she collided with him head-on.

“Oh, Mr. Shinagawa!” “Where are you headed?” “I was planning to call on you at your residence. The truth is, Aoki went out acting strangely and hasn’t returned, so I thought perhaps he might be at your residence.” “Ah, so that’s how it is. Oh, there’s no need for you to worry. The truth is, there was a mahjong gathering, and I’ve been staying at a certain house in Ikebukuro. I also stayed there last night, and today, after finishing my work, I’m now on my way there. And so, I thought to invite you. They’re all people you know. Wouldn’t you like to join us? Mr. Aoki is certain to welcome you as well.”

“Well, if that’s how it is. Then, since I’ve already gone out, I’ll accompany you as I am.” And so, the two walked side by side toward the taxi office—but what was this now? Which Shinagawa was this Shinagawa in the first place? The reader was well aware that every word he spoke had been a complete fabrication from start to finish. But the Phantom Man in question should no longer be in this world, having been killed by Aoki. Then, was the real Shinagawa Shiro telling such lies to lure Yoshie out? The destination was Ikebukuro. Speaking of Ikebukuro—it was the location of that strange house where the Last Marauder had run wild. This man seemed to be trying to take Yoshie there, but the real Shinagawa would never do such a thing. There had been no reason for Aoki to lie about being in Ikebukuro. Then, if the man here was neither the Phantom Man nor the real Shinagawa Shiro—how bizarre! Had a completely different third Shinagawa Shiro appeared yet again? It may sound strange to say, but how many bodies did the man named Shinagawa possess?

(But, dear readers, you mustn't get angry if this seems too absurd—for this mystery will soon be solved rather simply.)

Without a word exchanged along the way, the car arrived at a certain house in Ikebukuro. As expected, it was that eerie house, but Yoshie, unaware that it was such a place, followed behind the Shinagawa lookalike man and stepped inside.

“Oh my, what a strange house. It looks completely abandoned, doesn’t it?”

Yoshie surveyed the spacious wooden-floored room—devoid of any furniture and thickly layered with dust—and asked uneasily. “Where is Aoki?”

The man resembling Shinagawa clicked the door’s lock shut behind his back and answered while grinning slyly. “Aoki? You mean Aoki…”

“Oh…” Yoshie’s lips turned ashen as she stood frozen. For she had begun to dimly realize a terrifying truth—that the man now laughing before her was not Shinagawa at all, but a different person who bore an uncanny resemblance to him. “Who are you? You’re not Mr. Shinagawa, are you?”

With parched lips, she finally spoke. “Shinagawa Shiro.” “Ah, are you referring to that good-natured science magazine president, Shinagawa Shiro?” “That’s incorrect.” “I am that man’s shadow.” “Since I’m a shadow, I have no name.” “In other words—the second Shinagawa.” “However, I do consider myself a tad cleverer than the real one.”

The monster explained nonchalantly, his words meticulously polite, an unceasing smile gracing his lips. “Does it seem strange?” “It must seem strange.” “If we weren’t twins, you’d think it impossible for two men to resemble each other so perfectly. Correct? You would think that.” “There—precisely there—lies humanity’s greatest weakness.” “I cannot comprehend why criminals throughout history failed to recognize this glaring vulnerability.” “Is it not falsehood itself to refrain from exploiting this?” “Were one to wield this power, even grand endeavors—toppling nations from their foundations or plunging the world into chaos—would become child’s play.” “Consider this: even if I am not Shinagawa Shiro, imagine I possessed features a hundredfold more akin to ××××× than his own.” “…You understand now, don’t you? The terrifying implications this carries…”

As he gradually adopted a lecturing tone, feeling quite pleased with himself before this beautiful listener, he was about to divulge something. If left unchecked a little longer, he might have revealed some terrifying secrets. But just at that crucial moment, an unwelcome intrusion barged in.

Snap! Crack! At that moment, Yoshie—who had been half-listening to the demon’s monologue—suddenly let out a shriek that cast aside all shame and propriety, as though she’d glimpsed something unspeakable, and clung spider-like to one of the walls.

"Oh, what's wrong?" The man deliberately feigned surprise as he inquired, though he had anticipated her shock from the very beginning.

“Ah, that dark red stain on the floor? As you’ve guessed—it’s blood. Ha ha ha ha! But blood is blood—it’s not human. Nor is it from an animal. It’s stage rouge used in plays. Here, look at this. Look.” As he spoke, he took out a small gelatin capsule from his pocket and slammed it against the wall with a snap. The gelatin capsule burst, and the thick blood mixture trickled down as though the wall were the chest of a living human.

“Ha ha ha ha, do you see now?” “This is my precious weapon.” “With an empty pistol and these blood-filled gelatin capsules—these two tools—when the critical moment arrives, I deliberately let myself be shot, crush one inside my shirt, and stage a convincing death act.” “That’s safer than killing the opponent, and far more intriguing, don’t you think?” “Just watching them panic when they think I’m dead. See? Ha ha ha ha!”

The man continued laughing uproariously as if it were immensely entertaining, but when he finally stopped, he resumed his chatter. “Just saying that probably isn’t enough for you to understand, but in fact, last night—right around where that bloodstain is—I was killed by your husband.” “Your husband, you see, was so blinded that he fell for my masterful performance, convinced he’d truly committed murder, and ended up losing his mind.” “And in his fit of desperation, precisely while he was roaming Yoshiwara bar-hopping, my subordinates escorted him and have him hidden away in a secret location now.” “In other words, this is the trace of where that murder was carried out.” “But you see, while my being shot was an act, it doesn’t mean only performances take place in this house.” “There’s no guarantee that more terrifying things won’t happen here—that blood which isn’t rouge won’t flow.” The man grinned broadly and laughed boisterously. “To tell you the truth, your husband saw the place where real blood flowed.” “Look—you can see it, can’t you?” “He climbed that large pine tree in the garden.” “And so, to silence that knowledge, I decided to have that person kill me.” “That’s how I orchestrated it.” “It worked perfectly.” “So now, the man he had pegged as the culprit is dead. Not only has he lost the target of his denunciation, but that person himself—utterly convinced he’s committed the grave sin of murder—is in a half-crazed state.” “What a clever method, don’t you agree?” “Such gelatin capsules would achieve a splendid double effect—”

The monster had spoken that far and was staring fixedly at Yoshie’s expression, but in an unsettling tone,

“Ah, you’re trembling. Are you scared?” “Does it frighten you how I’m laying everything bare like this?” “You’ve discerned what ulterior motives lie behind me calmly revealing the trick like this, haven’t you?” “You truly have discerned it.” “It’s exactly as you’ve imagined.” “However, you needn’t cling so tightly to the wall.” “It’s not as though it will happen right away.” “I am not the sort to carelessly kill such a precious prey.” “There is so much more I have yet to tell you.” “Now, come over here.”

The monster’s tentacle-like simian arm shot out, seized Yoshie’s soft nape, and with viscous strength yanked her closer to him. Yoshie’s entire body went limp; she couldn’t scream, couldn’t resist—it was as though she were being tormented by a nightmare.

“I hadn’t always been such a villain. “At first, I merely wanted to mock that pompous president of the science magazine—blending into movie crowds to flash this face of mine across the screen, or delighting in letting people glimpse my grotesque form through cracks in secret houses. But then your husband appeared.” “And then, more than Shinagawa Shiro himself, he began to find my very existence peculiar and take an interest in it.” “So then, thinking I’d have a bit of fun with this fellow, I acquired a girl whose voice closely resembled yours and staged a seduction act—and that person swallowed the bait whole and came running.”

“Well, what do you think?” “Isn’t it splendid?” “I never imagined it would succeed this spectacularly.” “And there it was—with the esteemed president of a science magazine and your detective-obsessed, grotesque-loving husband as perfectly suited practice dummies, it succeeded splendidly, didn’t it?” “With things going this smoothly, I became utterly certain I could get away with anything.” “And so, I began to put into practice the things I had only been doing in my dreams.” “I began to indulge in pleasures that no emperor could ever imitate.” “And when that gets exposed to the world, there’s someone who’ll dutifully take the blame.” “I am a man with no legal existence in this world.” “I am nothing but a shadow of Shinagawa Shiro.” “In other words, all my crimes will be shouldered by Shinagawa Shiro.” “Isn’t this splendid?”

“What do you suppose pleasure truly is?” “You’ll understand soon enough—very soon.” “...Now, to continue,” he said, pulling Yoshie closer until his cheek nearly touched hers, “while staging that little performance with your counterfeit double, something peculiar happened—I grew dissatisfied with mere imitations.” “I came to crave the real you.” “You see, while I did subject your husband to that ordeal partly because he’d uncovered my secret, at heart I wanted to remove that hindrance so I could truly claim you as mine.” “Ah, your hands are cold and trembling.” “Exquisite beads of sweat glisten along your neck.” “How utterly charming you are.” “Now then, a delightful game awaits in that room over there.” “Let us go.” “...Can you imagine?” “What manner of game it might be—”

And so, the pitiful little sparrow—still clamped under the inexplicable monster’s arm—was led away to another room. What transpired there, no one knows. But it was undoubtedly as everyone had imagined.

We cannot forget that bloody game which Aoki Ainosuke once glimpsed from the pine treetops.

The One-Armed Beauty of Today

Several days after the aforementioned events—as for the season, it was a hot, humid day near the end of May, by which time about six months had already passed since the beginning of this story.

At the western edge of Ushigome’s Edogawa Park lies what is colloquially called Ōtaki (Great Waterfall)—now merely a dreary concrete sluice gate, but even now, there remains a spot where water cascades down as if it were a grand waterfall. A small river flowing from western Musashino becomes a waterfall there, turns into the Edo River—once a famous cherry blossom spot—makes a great bend, and flows into the outer moat at Iidabashi.

By that Great Waterfall stood several boat rental shops, and with many people maneuvering small boats for summer evening leisure, it had become a minor local attraction in the suburbs. However, as it was that humid late spring day just mentioned, neighborhood children already rented boats, steering poles through shallow murky water to battle the churning torrents swirling at the base of the waterfall—all for their amusement. Among them were also some mischievous boys who, with reckless abandon, had stripped naked and plunged into the dirty water like little savages.

The Great Waterfall spanned ten *ken* in width with a drop of perhaps two *jō*—its massive mouth like a giant pane of glass; white waves clashed in the basin below; thunderous booms shook the surroundings. Small though it was, it possessed every beauty befitting a waterfall. Careless individuals who underestimated the sluice gate and brought their boats near the waterfall basin ended up losing their lives—one or two such cases occurred each year. The waterfall basin was exceedingly deep, and even groundless ghost stories had arisen—tales of demonic entities dwelling in its depths.

But the local children were like kappa—they knew every dangerous spot and swam without fear. At that moment, from one of the small boats, a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old ringleader—now completely naked and spinning around—flipped his jet-black body upside down and plunged with a splash into the deep waters near the waterfall basin.

“Wait here! I’ll find something good and bring it back for you.” The boy shouted this to his companions on the boat before wriggling his body like a dolphin and plunging deep into the water’s depths. This was because things like wallets dropped by pleasure boaters were sometimes buried deep in the mud at the bottom.

He opened his eyes wide underwater and descended deeper and deeper toward the bottom. There were no seaweed forests like those on the ocean floor, but instead, wood fragments, straw bundles, soggy cloth scraps, and small animal bones—whether from dogs or cats—writhed grotesquely in the murky water’s depths, presenting a sight even more eerily horrifying than the sea. Gazing directly beneath the waterfall basin revealed a horrifying spectacle: torrents of water—equivalent to hundreds of tons—plummeted from a height of six meters, forming a colossal pillar that plunged nearly to the abyss’s deepest reaches. When its momentum waned, the column shattered into countless pure white bubbles that seethed and surged upward toward the surface in a furious boil.

But the boy, accustomed to such sights, thought nothing of it. Rather than that, he swam through the mud for as long as his breath lasted, searching among the debris at the water’s bottom for any item that could serve as a souvenir for his boat companions. When he glanced over, a white object fluttering and protruding from the mud five or six *ken* ahead caught his eye. The boy had plunged into this same watery depths hundreds—no, countless—times, but never before had he encountered such a bizarre-looking thing. It was not an animal bone. It was thicker, squishy and limp, and somehow seemed alive.

He became curious and approached it. With each parting of the water’s layers, the thing’s form grew clearer. Due to being at the bottom of muddy water, the entire surrounding area was unnervingly inky black, like a flickering silent film from a rundown cinema with faltering electricity. In the midst of it, the pallid thing stood out starkly—as if truly sprouted from the mud—its five-pronged tips clawing at the water in desperation. A living human’s—most likely a woman’s—wrist contorted in the death throes of agony. It was there, jutting out rigidly from the mud—a single wrist writhing in agony.

The boy’s body thrashed through the water at tremendous speed like a shrimp fleeing a predator. Then, flailing wildly, he surfaced and violently retched up the muddy water he’d swallowed. And when he was finally able to speak, he turned toward his companions on the boat.

“A p-p-person! A person—a person’s dead here!”

he stammered out, shouting.

The boy himself was as pale as a corpse. “Really? Dead for real?” “I don’t know. It was still moving.” “Alright, let’s hurry and help them! Come on, everyone—let’s all help and save them!” One brave boy boldly declared. Among the river imp boys, a heroic fervor welled up. “Let’s save them! Let’s save them!” Shouting in unison, they tore off their clothes and dove in one after another like competitive swimmers, each making a loud splash.

A total of four reddish-black, smooth bodies plunged diagonally through the muddy water toward the bottom. The first boy, emboldened by his companions, steeled himself and dove down to the remembered spot before resolutely seizing the white fluttering object. The next boy who followed likewise grabbed at it competitively. A squishy, unsettling texture. When they yanked with all their might, it slipped free without resistance—cleanly dislodged. There was only a hand—no torso. It had ended up jutting from the mud as if sprouted there, likely dislodged by some prior disturbance.

The boys returned to the boat. The pale woman’s severed arm lay tossed in the middle of the boat. Had a sharp blade severed it? The cut was pristine. Pinkish flesh wrapped around white bone that peeked out faintly. On one finger glittered an intricately crafted platinum ring. It sank deep into the fleshy finger.

The commotion that followed needs no detailed recounting. Upon receiving the children’s report, the old man from the boat rental rushed to the police box in alarm. Several officers from the local police station were dispatched and hired workers for a thorough underwater search, but aside from that single arm—which turned out to be a left arm—nothing else was discovered. There were conflicting theories—whether it had been thrown in where it sank, discarded far upstream and carried down past the sluice gate to settle in the waterfall basin—but since there were no signs of a murder near the great waterfall, a patrolman told the boat rental owner that the latter theory was likely correct.

The severed arm was transferred from the local police station to the Metropolitan Police Department for forensic analysis. Needless to say, the next day’s newspapers were abuzz with this article. It was not the arm of some vagrant or beggar—this was the limb of an alluring woman, her well-manicured fingertips and platinum ring suggesting a young beauty of affluent upbringing. It was tailor-made for curiosity-driven third-page articles. A newspaper editor came up with the headline “The Modern One-Armed Beauty.” In other words, it hinted at the truly bizarre fantasy that a beautiful woman who had one arm severed off was still alive somewhere in Tokyo. He must surely have been an avid reader of the detective novel *The One-Armed Beauty*—a work adapted by Ruikō Kuroiwa from foreign sources.

Famous Detective Akechi Kogoro

The day after the aforementioned incident, Akechi Kogoro visited Inspector Namikoshi—a familiar presence at the Metropolitan Police Department (who at the time occupied a key position in the Investigation Division)—and held a discussion in a secluded room away from others.

This was a mere coincidence. Akechi Kogoro had no particular interest in the “Beauty One-Armed Incident.” At the time, he himself was leading investigations into another case causing greater public uproar—hence his natural visits to the Investigation Division. His rapport with Inspector Namikoshi dated back to their collaboration on the “Spider-Man” case years prior, allowing their conversations to unfold without formal restraint. Just then, an attending patrolman entered and timidly laid a single business card before Inspector Namikoshi.

“XX Science Magazine President, Shinagawa Shiro… Hmm, an odd visitor has come,” Inspector Namikoshi remarked. “Perhaps he means to regale us with some tale?” “There’s a message written on the back,” the patrolman said. “Regarding the severed arm incident of a woman discovered at Ōtaki, I earnestly request an opportunity to discuss the matter with you.” “Hmph—that severed arm case,” the inspector muttered. “There might be something here after all, Mr. Akechi.”

“Do you know that person?” “Hmm, I know him.” “We’re not that close though.” “I’ll meet him once.” “Then I’ll take my leave.”

“No, no—on the contrary, it’s better if you stay. Moreover, we may yet need to borrow your wisdom.” He laughed with forced joviality. This was none other than Demon Inspector’s attempt to mask his embarrassment. While he held Akechi Kogoro in high esteem, as a seasoned investigator who had risen through police ranks, he had long felt a tinge of shame at relying on an amateur detective’s assistance. Soon after, guided by a patrolman, Shinagawa Shiro—already known to our readers—entered the room. His stiffly formal attire—a black jacket with striped trousers—marked him unmistakably as a man of science. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, he wasted no time in addressing his purpose.

“Actually, there’s a missing woman.” “It’s been about five days now.” “No—it’s not just the woman. Her husband vanished too, a day or two before she did.” “Aoki Ainosuke—he’s a friend of mine—but until I saw this morning’s paper, I hadn’t thought it serious.” “Given Aoki’s capricious nature and Nagoya being his main residence, I’d assumed he’d slipped back there quietly—which is why I hadn’t even notified the police yet.”

“However, yesterday—after receiving a response from his family home in Nagoya stating he hadn’t returned—this morning brought that newspaper article.” “I can’t help but fear something dreadful has occurred—it weighs heavily on my mind.” “The reason being—the ring on the woman’s finger reported in the newspaper—it’s identical to the one belonging to Aoki’s wife Yoshie whom I just mentioned.” “So when this possibility struck me—and since I remember that ring distinctly—I came here hoping to examine the actual item.”

“I see.” “Thank you for coming.” “I’ll show it to you right away.” Delighted by this promising lead as if he had already grasped a clue to the crime, Inspector Namikoshi personally went to the storage room and returned with a patrolman carrying the jarred severed arm. When they removed the white cloth covering it, inside the jar lay an uncanny object submerged in preservative fluid—its fingers pointing upward as though sprouted from the base.

“Take a look.” “This is the ring.” Shinagawa pressed his face close to the jar placed on the desk and gazed at it for a while. As the preservative fluid was cloudy and he could not discern clearly, he apologized to the inspector, carried the jar to the window, removed the lid, and examined it meticulously for some time. Having seemingly determined something, he returned to his original seat with a slightly pale face. “It was just as I thought.” “This is undoubtedly Aoki Yoshie’s arm.”

he said in a very low voice. "There can be no mistake, I trust?" Mr. Namikoshi’s tone was equally serious. "Absolutely not." "This particular engraving was specially commissioned at Mr. Aoki’s preference, so there is no possibility that anyone other than Yoshie would be wearing it." Mr. Shinagawa said this, went to stand where the bottle was placed, and meticulously inspected it, but before long—with a deep sigh—he covered the bottle with the white cloth as before, "How dreadful." "How dreadful."

he muttered to himself. Because that tone seemed to carry some hidden implication, the inspector seized the opportunity, “Do you have some suspicion?”

he asked. “Yes, there is,” Shinagawa replied. “Actually, I came here intending to discuss that as well, but it’s such an unusual matter that I fear whether you’ll believe my words.” “In any case, let’s hear it,” said Inspector Namikoshi. “It concerns the criminal, I presume?” “Yes.” Shinagawa’s voice grew taut. “To state this abruptly—though you might think I’ve lost my mind or am dreaming—there are grounds to believe that behind this incident, another me, indistinguishable from myself down to the last detail, a man whom anyone would mistake for me, is pulling the strings.”

“What are you saying? I don’t quite grasp your meaning.” The inspector asked with a perplexed expression. Akechi Kogoro, who had been listening nearby, now stared at Shinagawa Shiro’s face as though trying to pierce through it—this bizarre tale having clearly piqued his interest. “No, it’s only natural you don’t understand." "I myself initially doubted whether my mind had gone astray." “But for six months now, I’ve been tormented by this monster who mirrors me in every particular.” “It isn’t only me.” “The Mr. Aoki I mentioned earlier knows this matter well.” “Truthfully, I’ve lived in constant dread—wondering when this horror might unfold.” “For it’s abundantly clear this man wearing my face is a consummate villain.” “This incident too forms part of his intricate plot.” “The victim is my friend’s wife—no, not merely his wife. At this very moment, we cannot even say whether Mr. Aoki himself lives or dies.” “Both are people deeply connected to me.” “If the killer proves to be a man indistinguishable from myself—what then?” “In short—the prime suspect becomes me.” “You see? Me—here before you.” “That terror consumes me.” “Thus I came urgently—to lay bare these circumstances before that scoundrel can act, and affirm my complete innocence in this affair.”

“Let’s hear it.” “Please tell me everything in as much detail as you can.” “You may already know this, but the man here is the renowned private detective Mr. Akechi Kogoro.” “In a case like the one you’ve described, I believe Mr. Akechi would surely be interested as well.”

When Mr. Shinagawa heard the name Akechi, he glanced briefly that way and flushed faintly. He didn't know why. Perhaps knowing of Akechi's exceptional talents, he might have been pleased by this unforeseen encounter.

He began his long tale. Since all these matters were already known to the reader, I shall omit them here—the strange photographs seen at a rundown theater in the outskirts, the two Shinagawa Shiros whose faces had appeared side by side in newspaper photos, the astonishing confrontation in the red room, the fact that this other Shinagawa had apparently formed an illicit relationship with Aoki’s wife, Aoki’s profound distress over this, and how about a week prior (marking the last time anyone saw Aoki’s face), he had suddenly come visiting late at night—

“You are indeed Mr. Shinagawa, aren’t you?” “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

He recounted in detail how Aoki had muttered something strange before abruptly vanishing somewhere; how shortly thereafter his wife Yoshie had gone missing; how there had been witnesses who saw Shinagawa and Yoshie walking side by side near Aoki’s residence at that time; and so on—concluding that behind these disappearances of both individuals, that monster must undoubtedly be involved. Moreover, he concluded that he was undoubtedly plotting to shift that dreadful crime onto the real Shinagawa Shiro.

There was no doubt that this utterly bizarre tale had deeply affected both Inspector Namikoshi and Akechi Kogoro. As for someone like Inspector Namikoshi, he flushed his already ruddy face even more and listened with rapt attention. Having finished his story and seeing that his listeners had grasped the situation, Mr. Shinagawa—with a visible sigh of relief—left behind the words, “Please do not hesitate to summon me whenever necessary,” took his leave and departed.

“It’s like something from a novel,” said Inspector Namikoshi. “Even if they aren’t twins, I can scarcely believe there exists a man who matches him down to the last detail.” The inspector appeared to hesitate over whether he had properly executed the arrangements according to Shinagawa’s instructions.

“Very interesting. Whether you believe it or not, this seems like an absurdly fascinating case.”

Akechi Kogoro said with a mischievous child-like expression.

“Interesting it may be, but—” “No—what I’m saying differs from your meaning. That man possesses sleight-of-hand skills surpassing even professional magicians.” “Wh-what did you say?”

Because Akechi had said something bizarre, Inspector Namikoshi looked momentarily flustered. “Well, go ahead and examine the jar with the arm soaking in it. You were so engrossed in the story that you didn’t notice that man’s actions—he’s quite a piece of work.”

Upon hearing this, Inspector Namikoshi—startled—stood up, approached the window, and removed the white cloth covering the jar to peer inside. Simultaneously came a startled cry of “Ah!” At the bottom of the jar floated a single severed finger drifting faintly. “The ring! The ring!” The Inspector stood gaping wordlessly. “He’s quite the skilled magician—pretending to examine the ring’s engraving while swiftly severing the finger to extract it. He made off with crucial evidence you see—the ring had bitten so deep into swollen flesh that cutting was necessary.”

“And you knew about it?” The Inspector turned crimson and roared. “You knew all along and kept quiet?” “Well, I was so taken with his splendid technique—but rest easy, the ring is right here.” With these words, Akechi produced a slender platinum ring from his vest pocket and displayed it. “When did you—?”

“When I stood up to see that man off at the doorway. That guy never dreamed there’d be another sleight-of-hand artist here.”

“Ah, your antics again.” “That’s all well and good, but haven’t you let the crucial one—that guy—get away?” “The ring is less important than that guy—since he came to destroy evidence, he might very well be the culprit.”

“I don’t think so. The disappearance of the ring would be noticed immediately. Would someone who came to steal it so openly really be the true culprit? No one in their right mind would attempt such recklessness. He’s likely just a subordinate. If we make a fuss now, the big fish will escape. There’s no need to panic. Since this looks utterly fascinating, I’ll lend a hand myself. No—stop pursuing that man. When dealing with criminals of this caliber, they approach us on their own even if we remain silent. In fact, that very gesture just now—depending on your perspective—couldn’t it be seen as a challenge to us?”

It was indeed a fact that the criminal had challenged the police. However, in other respects, even the great Akechi had made a grave miscalculation. To that extent, the criminal’s methods had been extraordinary. The time came when Akechi’s miscalculation would soon become clear. While they were engaged in such a debate, about thirty minutes of wasted time passed. Just then, the same relaying police officer from before came in with a strange expression on his face, holding yet another business card.

“Shinagawa Shiro” This time, there was no title of president of a science magazine. “Isn’t this the man from earlier?”

“That seems to be the case.” “‘That seems to be the case’? Couldn’t you tell by looking at his face?”

“Y-yes, but…”

The police officer wore a peculiar expression for some reason and struggled to respond. "In any case, drag him in here," Inspector Namikoshi ordered. "Don’t let him get away!"

Inspector Namikoshi commanded in a harsh tone.

Before long, Shinagawa Shiro appeared at the door. The relaying police officer was behind him, determined not to let him escape. “Did you forget something?” The Inspector forced a smile and said. “Huh?” Mr. Shinagawa stood utterly dumbfounded, as if his very soul had been ripped out.

“Didn’t you just steal the ring and leave about thirty minutes ago?” “Are you trying to say you dropped the ring on your way here?”

“Huh? That *I* came here thirty minutes ago?” “This me?!” Mr. Shinagawa stood utterly bewildered at first, but soon—sensing a terrifying truth from the room’s atmosphere and the inspector’s expression—he abruptly paled and froze in place. “That bastard! He beat me to it!”

Mr. Shinagawa continued staring vacantly at a single spot, muttering disjointedly, but soon regained his composure,

“Please look carefully. Was it me? Was I wearing these clothes?”

When told to look closely, they both had black jackets and striped trousers, but their material and stripe patterns differed. It was truly a dream-like event. At this sheer absurdity, both host and guest fell into complete silence. “So that guy told the absolute truth about everything,” “It wasn’t some fabricated fantasy meant to deceive us after all.” Even the great Akechi Kogoro involuntarily rose from his seat at this unimaginably bizarre turn of events, turning deathly pale as he shouted. He had never before experienced such scathing humiliation.

Magnesium

A ridiculous farce—but when considered carefully, there existed no farce in this world more terrifying than this. Ultimately, the earlier Shinagawa proved to be a brazen impostor, with it becoming clear that he himself was none other than the murderer. The genuine Shinagawa, through his exhaustive testimony and presentation of evidence—(this evidence consisting of evening newspaper clippings showing the Phantom Man, a letter from Aoki to Shinagawa concerning the incident, and a diary found in Ainosuke’s study)—compelled even the police authorities to acknowledge this unfathomable mystery.

Therefore, they continued their investigation to the fullest extent—examining the strange house in Ikebukuro revealed through Aoki’s diary, interrogating the madam of that infamous brothel in Koji-machi—but the Phantom Man had long anticipated such moves, and no matter where they searched, they couldn’t find even a single strand of hair as a clue.

For approximately one month, the Phantom Man had maintained an eerie silence. In the Beauty One-Armed Incident—flaring up like a sparkler to set society abuzz—it had now fizzled out like a dragonfly missing its tail. He, who had dared to suddenly appear before Inspector Namikoshi and Akechi Kogoro to issue his brazen challenge, had not gone into hiding out of fear of the police investigation. Could it not be that he was plotting some elaborate conspiracy, and this was merely its preparatory phase? At least here, there was one person—Shinagawa Shiro, president of the science magazine—who was convinced of this. He had become so overly sensitive that even being addressed by an ordinary person would make him jump out of his skin.

Sure enough, Shinagawa’s prediction had hit the mark. One month later, on a certain night in mid-July, the Phantom Man was discovered in a truly bizarre location while making strange gestures. Moreover, what exactly he had been doing through those peculiar motions, what crime might have been committed—none of it could be discerned in the slightest, rendering this an utterly perplexing case.

Late that night, a reporter from A Newspaper’s society section and a photographer were walking side by side through the desolate mansion district of Kojimachi Ward. At the time, A Newspaper was serializing a human-interest feature titled “Midnight in Greater Tokyo,” and these two reporters had set out tonight to shift their focus slightly and explore wealthy neighborhoods. The district they had now entered was the wealthiest enclave among wealthy districts—on one side stood a palatial residence resembling a marquis’s private forest, while the other featured towering stone walls topped by a concrete fence stretching nearly an entire block, framing the grandiose estate of millionaire Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon.

“How about this scene—a beggar woman sleeping under this enormous stone wall, in the ditch, covered with a straw mat?” “Hmph, as if there’d be a beggar in a place like this. Rather than that, imagining a thief climbing over this high wall would make a much better scene.” As they descended the slope whispering such jokes, they discovered something squirming in the darkness beyond the reach of the meager streetlights. A sudden premonition struck the keen nerves of the newspaper reporters.

“Shh, something’s there—hide!” The two men proceeded slowly and cautiously, crawling along the stone wall while peering ahead. It was a thief. Well—they had just been talking about that very thing! Because it was precisely at the bottom of the slope, this marked the tallest section of the stone wall. Because a concrete wall stood imposingly atop that stone wall, the total height reached twenty feet. In exchange, it became a spot most removed from light—a formidable stronghold for their work. When they looked up, a rope hung down from the top of the wall, with a masked man now descending along it. Below stood two Western-suited lookout partners waiting in readiness.

The man descending the wall was carrying an enormous load on what looked like a large pole. “There’s three of them,” “Making noise is dangerous!” “But what a shame,” “I wonder if there’s time to alert the house here.” “No, no! It’s too far—the gate’s a block away!” “The gate’s a block away!” The two reporters were whispering to each other in voices as faint as a mosquito’s hum, but there, in the line of their trade, their minds worked with swift precision. “Hey, I’ve got a brilliant idea!”

The photographer tapped his companion’s shoulder.

For two or three seconds, they continued whispering in hushed tones; then, for some reason, they began creeping closer toward the thieves. Ten paces, five paces, three paces—they closed in to a perilous proximity where advancing any further would alert their targets. The masked man had finally reached the ground and was in the process of hoisting the large bundle onto the back of the man below.

“Everything went smoothly, eh?” “Yeah, but it was hellishly heavy.” “That’s heavy. It’s bloated with greed and overindulgence, you see.” The masked man deftly unwound the rope, coiling it toward himself. At that moment, Boom—an eerie sound rang out, and the pitch-black mansion district flashed bright as day. Needless to say, the photographer had ignited magnesium. Why do such a thing? To startle the thieves? That too. But he’d also pressed the camera’s shutter. In other words—he’d taken a photo of the culprit.

The plan succeeded perfectly. However you looked at it, they never could have imagined a photographer appearing on such a midnight thoroughfare. The thieves were utterly astonished by the strange explosive sound and the dazzling flash of fire. One of them took out a prepared pistol and tried to fire into the darkness, but the other two immediately restrained him. Resisting would only escalate the commotion further. Before long, reinforcements would multiply.

At this point, the only course of action they could take was to flee. They had to run as fast as their legs could carry them to where the car was waiting. They sandwiched the man carrying the bundle between them and, helping him from both sides, dashed off in a headlong rush.

When he saw his fleeing opponents, the photographer gleefully let off another magnesium flash with a boom behind them. “Should we give chase?” “Stop, stop! We’ve already properly taken the crime scene photos. There’s no need to panic. Instead of that, why don’t we inform the house here about this?”

Having reached this agreement and about to turn back toward the gate, something caught the reporters' eyes.

“Hey—those guys dropped something!” “Hmm, seems like something fell from those fleeing guys’ bodies.” “It might be a handkerchief.” “No, it’s not.” “It looks like a piece of paper.” “Anyway, let’s pick it up.” The reporter ran about ten ken, picked up the piece of paper the thieves had dropped, and came back.

“There’s something written here. This might be evidence.”

The two returned to the nearest streetlamp and tried to read the text on the piece of paper. Prime Minister　　　　　　　　Taigahara Koreyuki　……………………………4

Minister of Home Affairs　　　　　　　Mizuno Hirotada……………………………5 Superintendent-General of the Metropolitan Police　　　　　　　Akamatsu Montaro　……………………………3 Director of the Police Affairs Bureau　　　　　　　Itosaki Yasunosuke　……………………………6 President of Iwabuchi Spinning Miyazaki Tsunemon……………………………1 Amateur Detective Akechi Kogoro ……………………………2 (The author notes: Though over a dozen names of high officials, magnates, peerage members, and elder statesmen—with Akechi alone being the exception as an impoverished amateur—were originally listed here, I have omitted all extraneous details and limited myself to recording only these six numbered names. Let the reader infer the rest.)

“What the hell is this?” “Ridiculous.” “It’s just a list of notable rankings!” “They’ve scribbled some pointless nonsense.” “They’ve listed every last prominent figure—from elder statesmen and cabinet ministers on down—without missing a single one.” “But they’ve done a rather clever job selecting these names, though.”

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. “Even if I’d tried, I couldn’t have chosen better than this.” “They’ve hit the nail on the head.” “Even so, Akechi Kogoro is weird.” “Does Mr. Akechi even have anything worth stealing?” “Ha ha ha ha, what a joke!” “Then let’s hurry and inform this house.” As the photographer was about to throw away the piece of paper, the other reporter hurriedly stopped him. “Wait—look! Miyazaki Tsunemon’s name is in here!” “And there’s a number (1) marked below it.” “Hey, this is that Miyazaki’s residence!”

“What the hell! Then this list of names is the thieves’ schedule?” “So according to this, tomorrow night they’re targeting Akechi Kogoro marked with number (2), and the day after that, they plan to break into the Superintendent-General’s place with number (3), huh?” “Hey, hey—this isn’t a joke!”

The piece of paper, having exceeded the two newspaper reporters’ imaginations, appeared to them as nothing more than a comical oddity. But feeling it would somehow be a waste to discard it, one of them stuffed the paper into his pocket. Soon they returned to the imposing gate of the Miyazaki residence and began frantically pressing the doorbell.

Superintendent-General Akamatsu

The following day around noon, Superintendent-General Akamatsu, having heard a report from the Director of Criminal Affairs immediately upon arriving at headquarters and deeming the matter grave, directly summoned Inspector Namikoshi—the officer in charge—to his private office. On the gleaming large desk lay the crime scene photographs of the mysterious thieves at the Miyazaki residence—captured last night through the quick thinking of Newspaper A’s photographer—along with that infamous list of notable rankings. “Is the man in the center of this photograph undoubtedly Shinagawa Shiro, the one involved in the severed arm case?”

The Superintendent-General pressed for confirmation as he inquired. Looking at it, indeed, one of the three men in Western attire was unmistakably Shinagawa Shiro himself. "Well, it could be Shinagawa Shiro or the other man." "However, the one who would perpetrate such misdeeds is undoubtedly thought to be that other man."

Inspector Namikoshi said respectfully. The man he was addressing was His Excellency. He was an esteemed person whom Inspector Namikoshi had only spoken to directly a handful of times each month.

“Hm—that famous fellow they call the Phantom Man, eh?” “That is correct. He’s been like a monster who vanished completely since then.” “And you say you’ve seen this other man before as well.” “Well, it’s not just me. Everyone in the high-ranking division knows him. He’s a notorious dangerous figure.” “Is he a Communist Party member?” [Later Note: At the time, the Communist Party was not a legal political party.] “That’s precisely why it’s so troublesome—we can’t definitively confirm whether he’s a Party member. He’s an extremely cunning fellow who never gives himself away. On the surface, he’s registered with the K Proletarian Party.”

“Ha ha ha ha! A handshake between the Phantom Man and the Communist Party?” “My, my—they’ve acquired quite a formidable weapon.” “Ha ha ha ha!” As if to drown out the Superintendent-General’s boisterous laughter, the Inspector replied without even a hint of a smile. “No—it’s truly a fearsome weapon.” “In all my years of service, I’ve never encountered such an absurd case.” “The more I dwell on it, the more my mind becomes tangled.” “And these men’s arrests?”

“Not yet. We did issue an alert, but their hideout was already empty. However, even if we were to arrest them, there would be absolutely nothing we could do. Other than trespassing, they’ve committed no crimes.” “Hmph. So you’re saying not a single item was stolen after all.”

While saying this, the Superintendent-General glanced at the photo on the desk. There, clearly visible, was a burglar carrying a large bundle on his back, as big as his own body. “That is correct. I personally met with Mr. Miyazaki early this morning and conducted a thorough inquiry, but he stated that not a single item was missing from the Miyazaki residence.”

“But this bundle’s shape doesn’t look like any sort of goods.”

“That’s exactly it. I had naturally noticed that as well. It’s not just this photograph—the Newspaper A reporters overheard the thieves saying ‘That’s heavy because it’s swollen with greed and over-nutrition.’ Given those words, we can’t conceive of it as anything but a human. We thoroughly investigated that angle too, but not a single member of the Miyazaki family or their servants had gone missing.” “And now this name register? Ha ha ha ha! I suppose I’ll be next in line for the chopping block then.”

Inspector Namikoshi made a strange face upon hearing the Superintendent-General’s booming laughter. What on earth was the Superintendent-General thinking, laughing off this bizarre incident? “Mr. Namikoshi, when it comes to police matters, I’m an amateur.” “But sometimes an amateur’s perspective may not be limited to seeing things less correctly than you professionals—there may be cases where it’s actually more accurate.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The Inspector, feeling somewhat insulted, retorted.

“About this case,” “I’m proposing we consider a completely different perspective.” “...Can’t you see? For instance—what if we suppose that this Shinagawa and the Phantom Man are exactly the same person?”

“Huh? So you’re saying everything from the beginning was fabricated…” “True, my reasoning may be overly conventional—but I cannot conceive of two people existing in this world who are completely identical down to the last detail. With over fifty years of life experience behind me, I simply cannot take such an absurd tale seriously.” “But… but…” “Do you understand the psychological state of those so-called editors of popular science magazines? They are not serious scholars. They’re essentially novelists—the sort who take delight in gathering bizarre curiosities to parade before their readers. That desire to astonish the world—when it grows excessive, they might even attempt mad schemes. While I don’t know much about it, among famous foreign criminals you’ll often find scholars styled as ‘Doctor This-or-That’… They too are fundamentally academics craving to make people gasp in awe. Don’t you agree?”

“However, there is concrete evidence that Shinagawa and the Phantom Man actually met face-to-face at a distance of just two or three feet.” “This isn’t just Shinagawa’s own testimony—it’s explicitly recorded in Aoki Ainosuke’s diary.” “I’ve seen that diary myself.” “It’s precisely because I saw it that I can say I no longer believe in the Phantom Man’s existence.” “The reason being, the manner of that meeting was extremely unnatural.” “Shinagawa peered through a knothole.” “At that moment, the other man—Aoki, wasn’t it?—that Aoki couldn’t have peered through the knothole at the same time.”

“But…” “Now listen carefully. Aoki had previously peered through a knothole and caught a glimpse of Shinagawa’s figure. Therefore, that night, he might have only seen part of the man’s body and—due to the identical clothing—mistakenly believed it to be this supposed second Shinagawa. When I read the diary at the time, I noticed this immediately, though I hadn’t yet reached certainty. But consider this current case—it’s like some sort of ranking list of names. A theft without stolen goods. In short, don’t you think this is an outlandish detective novel concocted by the president of the science magazine? As for these so-called Communist Party members—they might simply be worthless men Shinagawa hired to exploit your overactive nerves. If he’s cultivated his reputation as such a dangerous figure, then this whole charade would naturally appear more convincing, you see.”

It was truly an astonishing deduction. Inspector Namikoshi had never dreamed that such a terrifying deduction would spring forth from the bald head of the elderly Superintendent-General. Indeed, such a perspective wasn’t entirely impossible. How precise and thorough the Superintendent-General’s deduction was would become immediately apparent if you, dear readers, were to re-read the earlier section of this story titled “The Two Men’s Bizarre Glimpse of the Acrobatics.” But in Inspector Namikoshi’s mind, belief in the Phantom Man had taken strong root.

“So you’re claiming that meeting in Mimura’s attic was staged—that Shinagawa used a double to make Aoki believe in the Phantom Man? And that last night’s incident was executed by Shinagawa because he knew Newspaper A’s photographers would come?” “Naturally, we can’t fathom the mentality of a man who’d delight in such convoluted theatrics. But compared to imagining two people being indistinguishable down to the last detail—this still strikes me as marginally more plausible.”

“But what about the face that appeared in the motion picture?” “What about the evening newspaper’s photo edition?” “Ah yes, those existed too, didn’t they? But listen—if one had a contact in a newspaper’s photography department, it would be trivial to have them skillfully insert a single man’s face into a crowd photo.” “No matter who was in the crowd, it wouldn’t affect the news value.” “As for the motion picture—well, if someone had conspired with the director to send a letter bearing a false date, the mystery would unravel instantly.”

Inspector Namikoshi was left utterly dumbfounded by the Superintendent-General’s casual interpretation. What formidable imagination this elderly statesman possessed! To think he had dismissed the stalwart politician’s supposedly crude intellect—what a colossal miscalculation that had been. “Then what about the brutal murder of the woman in the vacant house in Ikebukuro? And Aoki’s disappearance?” “And Ōtaki’s severed arm?”

The inspector attempted a final protest.

“The severed female head might have been a doll.” “The severed arm might have been from a dissection corpse at some hospital.” “Otherwise, after mobilizing all police resources for a month-long investigation, how could they have failed to uncover any leads?” “At least from the Metropolitan Police Department’s standpoint, it seems more advantageous to believe so.” “The Aoki couple as well.” “It’s the idea that they’re still alive somewhere, isn’t it?” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

The Superintendent-General laughed again. This strange laughter did not sit well with Inspector Namikoshi. He felt as though something unexplained still lurked beneath that laughter.

But logically, there was nothing left to say. Until he could obtain more conclusive evidence, there was no way to argue. He finally bowed his head.

“I’m astonished. That the Superintendent-General has considered a criminal case so meticulously—truly, for those of us who have been at this for years, we have no choice but to hang our heads in shame.”

Honest Inspector Namikoshi appeared genuinely overwhelmed. “Ha ha ha ha, you’ve finally surrendered, haven’t you?”

The Superintendent-General reverted to his natural boldness and declared frankly: "But Inspector Namikoshi, you mustn't overestimate me." "The truth is, this is borrowed steel." "There's someone who sharpened this blade for me." "Huh?! What do you mean?" "It's Akechi Kogoro." "Ha ha ha ha! That man assembled this entire theory and presented it to me days ago." "I merely honed its edge before wielding it." "So," the inspector blurted out, his composure thoroughly shattered, "does Mr. Akechi actually believe this?"

“No, he doesn’t believe it. There’s no conclusive evidence to support it. He merely reported that viewing matters from such an… unconventional angle remains possible.”

“So?”

“So Mr. Akechi himself will personally shadow Shinagawa Shiro and keep him under surveillance.” “Then when the Phantom Man next appears, if the real Shinagawa shows no suspicious behavior, we’ll finally have no choice but to believe this modern ghost story.” “I found that man’s reasoning compelling, and since entrusting such a labyrinthine case to a reliable outsider seemed more practical than letting professionals flounder about, I approved his proposal.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Akechi tell me about this?” Inspector Namikoshi displayed a hint of anger and muttered as if to himself. “Now, now—you mustn’t get angry.” “If even you were steeped in Akechi-style logic and became complacent, it would only invite danger.” “That man deliberately excluded you out of concern and reported solely to me.” “In other words, it’s a strategy of attacking the enemy from both fronts.” “However, last night’s incident has finally brought us to the moment of verifying these two logics.” “That case was only briefly mentioned in this morning’s paper—Mr. Akechi may still be unaware.” “So I want you personally to visit Shinagawa’s office and assess the situation.”

In other words, the matter for which Superintendent-General Akamatsu had summoned Inspector Namikoshi was this.

Crime Scene Alibi

At 1:00 PM, Inspector Namikoshi knocked on the door of the science magazine editorial department on the third floor of the Toa Building in Kanda Ward.

Led by the office boy, they proceeded to the reception room; then a company employee appeared to receive their business—a middle-aged man with neatly combed long hair and glasses.

After hearing their business and withdrawing, he himself brought tea and respectfully placed it before the inspector. And as he left the room, for some reason he placed a hand on the small mustache under his nose and let out a peculiar cough—"Ahem." It didn’t seem like a natural cough.

Before long, President Shinagawa appeared. The inspector tried to glean something from his expression, peering intently, but President Shinagawa merely maintained an affable smile. This was not the face of a man concealing secrets. When the inspector tersely recounted the previous night’s events, President Shinagawa’s laughter vanished at once, his voice quivering. “Has he finally surfaced?” “If my partner is such a dangerous element—might he not have embarked on some grand new villainy this time?”

However, he was merely shocked and fearful, making no attempt to speak of his own alibi from the previous night. The veteran Inspector Namikoshi thought to himself,

“Oh, this is strange,” thought Inspector Namikoshi. “If this guy were a villain playing both roles, he should first and foremost offer an alibi. But since there’s no sign of that, perhaps Mr. Akechi’s suspicions are overblown after all.”

he thought. And so, having no other choice, he broached the subject himself,

“You were sleeping at your residence last night, I presume?” he inquired cautiously.

“Yes, I was of course sleeping at home… Ah, I see.” “Ah, right, right. I was being careless.” Mr. Shinagawa’s expression clouded slightly with displeasure. He strode briskly to the door, opened it, and called out toward the editorial office: “Yamada-kun, Yamada-kun—please come here for a moment.” The employee named Yamada who had been summoned was the man who had brought tea before the inspector and let out a peculiar cough as he left. “Yamada-kun, please answer truthfully in front of this gentleman.” “Yamada-kun—about what time did you go to bed last night?”

“I stayed up late playing bridge, and since the eastern sky was already beginning to brighten, it might have been close to four o’clock.”

“Who were your bridge partners?” “What are you talking about?” Employee Yamada made a strange face. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You yourself and our company’s Mr. Murai and Mr. Kaneko. Both of them couldn’t return home and stayed at your house—have you forgotten?” “About what time did we start playing bridge?” “Well, around nine o’clock, I suppose.” “From then until dawn, I never left my seat, right?” “Yes—except when you got up to use the restroom.”

At that, Mr. Shinagawa turned back to face the inspector and declared triumphantly.

“As you have heard. If you wish, I would be happy to have you hear the testimonies of Mr. Murai and Mr. Kaneko as well. Moreover, since Mr. Yamada here is a bachelor like myself and lives with me at my residence, I could never sneak out of the house without him noticing.”

“No, no, I’m not suspecting you at all.” Inspector Namikoshi, looking not a little flustered,

“It was merely a precautionary question.” He made a strained excuse, but inwardly,

"The testimonies of employees living with him seem somewhat..." he remained half-convinced yet doubtful. After exchanging brief pleasantries, the inspector left the editorial office and exited through Toa Building's main entrance. While thinking, "Perhaps I should visit Shinagawa's unoccupied residence now and inspect the servants," he had walked half a block when something abruptly called out from behind. When he turned around, the employee named Yamada from earlier came running up. And then,

“Let us go to the Metropolitan Police Department together,” he said something odd. “Huh? Do you have business at the Metropolitan Police Department?” “Ah, I thought I’d like to see that famous register of distinguished individuals once.”

Inspector Namikoshi started and stared fixedly at the man’s profile. “Who are you?” “Don’t you recognize me?”

When they turned into a side street with few passersby, Employee Yamada removed his glasses, spat out the cotton padding he had stuffed in his cheeks, swept off the tiny mustache glued to his face, and tousled his hair into a disheveled mess. “Ah, Mr. Akechi!”

Inspector Namikoshi shouted in surprise.

The pigment remained unchanged, but the shape of his face was unmistakably that of Akechi Kogoro. He ignored the inspector’s surprised expression and began to speak. "My earlier testimony wasn’t a lie. Last night, that fellow definitely didn’t go out anywhere. I was eavesdropping on your conversation, but unless that A Newspaper reporter fabricated the photos, the existence of the Phantom Man has been confirmed."

“Anyone can see it’s not a fake photo at a glance,” the inspector answered flustered. “What’s more, one of the Miyazaki family’s servants noticed when they burned magnesium around two last night—there’s no doubt about that. But I must say... You’re really working there?”

“Yeah, I’ve only been with the company for less than half a month. But since my introducer was reputable, the president completely trusted me, and when I pretended to be struggling with lodging, he ended up saying I should come stay at his house for the time being, you see.”

“So your suspicions have finally been cleared then.” “Yes, I saw it with my own eyes.” “But it’s truly strange.” “How could humans with such identical faces come into existence?” “There’s no precedent for this in all of history or across the world.” “Even you wouldn’t consider it unreasonable that I suspected Shinagawa of playing both roles.”

“I don’t think so at all. In fact, I just heard about that from the Superintendent General and was thoroughly impressed by your keen insight.”

“It’s dreadful.” Akechi said with genuine fear in his voice. It was an unusual remark for a man like him.

“Mr. Namikoshi, this is by no means an ordinary matter.” “It’s the common sense of humanity forged through hundreds and tens of years of tradition.” “That something entirely new could suddenly occur, transcending that common sense—it’s unthinkable.” “At the heart of this case lies some bone-chilling, terrifying secret.” “I’ve lately been tormented by a certain hair-raising fantasy.” “A nightmare beyond science.” “A harbinger foretelling mankind’s ruin.”

However, Akechi’s suggestive manner of speaking failed to resonate with Inspector Namikoshi. He responded with something entirely unrelated.

“A handshake between the Phantom Man and the Communist Party? The Superintendent General laughed at me for suggesting it, but what do you make of this angle?” “I take it at face value. This could be one manifestation of their grand conspiracy. If I recall correctly, Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon’s spinning mill is currently embroiled in labor disputes.” “Ah, so you’ve arrived at that conclusion too. The disputes are ongoing. Male and female workers have united to present these utterly unreasonable demands. But if we assume they attacked the Miyazaki residence under that pretext, it’s peculiar they neither harmed anyone nor stole a single item.”

"That is the crucial point," Akechi Kogoro said. "They must have carried something out. Yet nothing is missing from the mansion. This eerie contradiction... It's terrifying." "So," Inspector Namikoshi asked, "do you believe in that tournament ranking-like list of names? It states that the second one to be attacked is you yourself."

When he heard this, Akechi turned deathly pale for some reason. “Wh-what did you say? So my name is on that list of names?” “And it’s in second place?”

“That’s right.” “And next after you comes Superintendent General Akamatsu.” Inspector Namikoshi said this and tried to laugh cheerfully, but upon seeing Akechi’s uncanny expression of terror, his laughter withered away.

White Bat

Whether by mere coincidence or through some hidden causal thread, the labor dispute at Iwabuchi Spinning Company—which had been reported as an unstable situation—reached the afternoon of the day following the magnesium incident and finally erupted into a full-scale general strike.

The vast fortune of Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon had been built almost entirely through the operations of Iwabuchi Spinning. Of course, Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon’s exceptional managerial skills and his arduous diligence and perseverance were what had built it, but for the workers burning with class hatred, such matters were beside the point. To put it bluntly, their ultimate goal was to drag down the exploiter Miyazaki Tsunemon to the same level of extreme poverty as themselves, regardless of what became of the company’s fate.

The general strike had been sustained with strict control for five days already. The newspaper articles on the dispute expanded daily. That Mr. Miyazaki regarded the strange magnesium incident as some kind of harbinger and felt tremendous terror was truly only natural. Around him, not only plainclothes and uniformed police officers but also specially hired martial arts experts were constantly in attendance, prepared for any emergency. It goes without saying that guards had been stationed at both the front and back gates of the mansion.

Now, it was the evening of the fifth day of the strike.

Having concluded an executive meeting and returned home, Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon was met by his pallid family members fraught with worry before retreating into his private quarters. His elegantly combed white hair and florid countenance—oversized relative to his slight frame—stood jarringly against the haggard lines carved into his forehead by ceaseless days of strain.

He forgot to change his clothes, sank heavily into the large sofa there, and accepted the cold drink offered by the maid. “Dear, the bath is ready. Would you like to take it later?” The wife had followed him in and studied her husband’s expression with anxious care. “Uh-huh.”

Mr. Tsunemon gave an absentminded reply and sank into thought. His hollow eyes remained fixed on the single letter lying on the table. The wife and the maid stood idle for a few seconds.

Eventually, Mr. Tsunemon’s hollow eyes took on a sharp gleam, as though snapping back to his senses.

“Hey, who brought this letter?” A strangely shaped envelope with unfamiliar handwriting—and only a single one at that—lay in the center of the table.

“Perhaps it was Mr. Aoyama?” “If it were Aoyama, he should have taken it to the study. And having just a single one is strange.”

Mr. Miyazaki received over a dozen letters at every mail delivery without fail. These days especially saw an unusually large volume of correspondence. That only a single letter lay here in this room rather than his study struck him as odd. Moreover, its lack of stamp or postmark proved it hadn’t come through the postal service. When he turned the envelope over to examine its backside, there was indeed no sender’s name listed. For reasons unclear even to himself, Mr. Miyazaki hesitated intensely before finally breaking the seal. Whether he’d truly glimpsed its contents or not, his brow clouded over as he spoke in a voice choked with emotion,

“Where is Aoyama?” “Call Aoyama.”

he ordered.

The summoned student servant Aoyama knew nothing about the letter. It wasn’t only Aoyama. It was discovered that neither the madam, the young lady, nor any of the servants had entered this room since completing the cleaning that morning. And needless to say, there had been no such letter during the cleaning. It was not unreasonable that Mr. Miyazaki had conducted such a thorough interrogation. For the contents of that letter were as follows—so eerily menacing.

Our terms demand your daughter’s life in exchange. We await your response until tomorrow noon. Deliver your answer to the workers. You shall unconditionally accept their demands. Should you delay beyond tomorrow noon by even one minute, consider her life forfeit. No defense shall prove effective. Our agent operates beyond physical constraints. Dismiss this as mere intimidation at your peril. Ponder how this missive reached your private sanctum. This alone should reveal our superphysical capabilities.

At the end of the text was drawn a peculiar emblem. Within a black crescent moon approximately one inch in diameter, a bat with spread wings stood out in white—an eerie white bat. It was the emblem of an unknown demonic cabal. Mr. Miyazaki was no stranger to this type of threatening letter. Especially since the labor dispute, about one such missive found its way to him daily. And so he attempted to feign his usual indifference toward this letter as well, but strangely, this time alone, beneath his facade of hollow bravado, an uncontrollable tremor of fear welled up from within.

No matter how thoroughly he investigated, he could not determine how the letter had entered his private room. During his absence, the windows had been sealed. To reach it from the corridor, one would have to pass in front of someone’s room. At both the main gate and back gate stood numerous guards. How could anyone have infiltrated such a place? The servants had all been cared for over many years—trusted souls of known character. The impossible had been achieved effortlessly. That the letter’s sender boasted of being superphysical was not entirely groundless nonsense.

After careful consideration, Mr. Miyazaki resolved to seek the assistance of the amateur detective Akechi Kogoro—who was said to possess unique skills in handling such bizarre crimes—in order to prepare for any potential danger. The pride of a great industrialist could not be exchanged for his beloved daughter’s life.

That night, our renowned detective Akechi Kogoro, having received the earnest invitation of the wealthy man, passed through the gates of the Miyazaki residence. In other words, Mr. Miyazaki had accepted the phantom thief’s challenge.

The Terrifying Father

As the "tomorrow noon" specified in the letter passed, even Mr. Tsunemon found himself overwhelmed by an unbearable eeriness. Though he hadn’t explicitly told his wife or the young lady herself, through the mansion’s atmosphere and Mr. Tsunemon’s demeanor, they had come to grasp the general situation.

One hour, two hours passed by, but the worries and fears of the master, his wife, the servants, and others only grew. What time? Who? From where? Everything was unknown.

An elusive enemy. They had no idea where or how to set up their defenses. That unnerved them beyond all reason. At three in the afternoon, in Miss Yukie’s private room—with Yukie at its center—her two solemn guardians Mr. Tsunemon and detective Akechi Kogoro were exchanging small talk. The ailing mother had withdrawn to a separate room due to exhaustion from having not slept a wink the previous night.

Yukie was nineteen years of age, in the bloom of youth—Mr. Miyazaki’s only child. She was more of a daddy’s girl—toward her mother, whose etiquette was so proper it bordered on strictness, she tended to be reserved—but with her father, she felt no qualms about acting spoiled. She could be quite cheeky too. Mr. Tsunemon had come to find great pleasure in exchanging jokes with his daughter, who still retained a childlike demeanor for her age. Today, however, she was pale and silent, glancing around restlessly as though unable to bear her terror—a sight all the more pitiable for her usual cheerfulness.

Mr. Tsunemon had been talking for a while when he suddenly stood up and began pacing around the room irritably. No sooner had he sat down than he began frantically puffing on a cigarette. Even the giant of the business world appeared to be greatly tormented by this invisible enemy. “Ha ha ha ha ha, Mr. Akechi, I seem to be worrying too much.” Because Akechi was staring intently at him, Mr. Tsunemon spoke as if to hide his embarrassment. “No, there’s nothing unreasonable about it. Even someone like me, accustomed to such matters, feels somehow unsettled this time. I know something of that fellow’s tactics... But he's still human. No matter what, he cannot possibly have the power to penetrate these defenses. It’s an impossibility.”

“Is it truly an impossibility?” “Unless he possesses supernatural power—” “The thief openly declares he possesses that very supernatural power.” “It’s a bluff. It’s unthinkable.”

However, for some reason, Akechi appeared terribly perplexed; instead, as if trying to read Mr. Miyazaki’s expression, he stared fixedly at him. “Bluff.” “It must be a bluff… But then, how do you explain that?”

From the direction of the back gate came a clamor of voices, growing steadily louder.

The student lodger Aoyama rushed in. "We’ve captured a suspicious man near the back gate." "He apparently has a pistol." "He said to call for Mr. Akechi."

Upon hearing this, both the host and guest stood up. “Mr. Akechi, please go and see.” “Please examine it thoroughly.” “I’ll take care of things here.”

Akechi tried to leave but hesitated momentarily. He felt an instinctive unease. However, he couldn’t not go. He stared intently at Mr. Tsunemon, “Then I leave your daughter in your care.” “Do not leave her side.” Reiterating his warning emphatically, he disappeared through the door with the student’s guidance. The father and daughter left behind exchanged pale glances and remained silent for a while, but finally Yukie, unable to bear it any longer, cried out like a small child.

“Father, I’m scared.” She was on the verge of collapse, utterly drained of strength.

“There’s no need to worry—I’m right here with you, aren’t I? Moreover, this room is practically surrounded by detectives and students. After all, didn’t they catch the thief before he could even enter the back gate? Ha ha ha ha ha, oh come now—there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.” “But I just… Father!”

Yukie signaled with her usual look. Nineteen-year-old Yukie still occasionally acted spoiled toward her father, retaining the habit of being held in his arms. This eye movement was that very signal.

When Mr. Tsunemon saw this, for some reason, he betrayed a faintly flustered expression. And he showed not the slightest indication of responding to her plea.

Yukie found it strange. She wondered if bringing that up at such a time had been a mistake, but precisely because it was such a time, she wanted to be held in her father’s strong arms. Resolved, she resolutely approached her father’s side and sat down in his armchair, forcing her soft body into it as if squeezing herself in. Through the linen kimono, her father’s well-fed flesh pressed tightly against her smooth skin. Yukie was too consumed by fear to dwell on such suffocating thoughts.

When Mr. Tsunemon felt his daughter’s skin, strangely enough, he grew even more flustered. As though he had never experienced such a thing before. The innocent sheltered daughter next brought her pale yet plump cheek before her father’s mouth. When she was little and something frightened her, her father would kiss her cheek to reassure her. That habit still remained to this day. Mr. Tsunemon’s panic reached its peak. He was at a loss, unable to comprehend his daughter’s innocent gesture. But the next instant, blood rushed to his cheeks, and his eyes blazed like fire.

The white-haired Mr. Tsunemon’s hands awkwardly reached out and embraced his daughter’s soft body.

“Ah!” For some reason, even as Yukie sought that very thing, she let out a small cry of fear at her father’s embrace. It was because her father’s touch felt somehow different from usual. In that instant, because her father seemed like a complete stranger she had never seen before. Mr. Tsunemon, sensing Yukie’s faint resistance, grew even more frenzied. With a dry rustling sound from his lips, he tightened his arms around his daughter with a forceful grip. And he brought his lips to Yukie’s fleeing ones.

The father’s eyes burning with lust and the daughter’s eyes frozen in terror stared fixedly at each other at a distance of mere inches. Overwhelmed by their frenzy and locked in an eerie silence, they grappled with each other in a life-or-death struggle. After a desperate struggle, Yukie barely managed to escape her father’s grasp and, with her hair and kimono in disarray, staggered toward the door. But Mr. Tsunemon had already outmaneuvered her and stood blocking the door behind him.

“Please move aside.” “Who are you?” “Just who are you?”

Yukie glared at her father and said desperately. "I'm nobody. I'm your father." "No. No... ...You're not Father... Ah, I'm scared!"

Yukie seemed on the verge of madness. The man certainly had her father’s face, yet he was not her father in some indescribable way.

In the blink of an eye, a white-haired demon that seemed to fill the entire world lunged at her with a terrifying visage. She no longer had the strength to shake him off. As if she had lost consciousness, she helplessly allowed herself to be handled. Once more came an embrace that allowed no movement; the man’s breath raining down on her face; a loathsome stench different from her father’s; and the slimy, eerie sensation of lips. …………

Uncanny force The commotion at the back gate occurred because a worker-like man was suspiciously peering into the mansion grounds; when the guard detective tried to apprehend and question him, he suddenly pulled out a pistol and resisted. A brave detective grappled with the thief but was flung off with a single swing.

The thief brandished his pistol and steadily advanced into the mansion grounds. The commotion grew more intense. The men of the household rushed to the scene. The opponent was alone but wielded a ranged weapon, making it impossible to approach recklessly. The crowd formed a loose circle around him and clamored noisily.

In this way, it ultimately took about twenty minutes to bind the thief, but eventually, three detectives took hold of the rope ends and led him off to the Metropolitan Police Department.

As Akechi Kogoro watched them leave, he was suddenly struck by a terrifying suspicion. "What on earth would make that man deliberately allow himself to be captured? What if…" He hurriedly retraced his steps to the room he had come from. In the corridor stood a single student keeping watch. When they had rushed to the back gate earlier, they had strictly ordered this student alone not to abandon his post. Akechi felt a flicker of relief upon seeing him still at his station and opened the door. But the moment he stepped inside, he came rushing back out and seized the guard student by the shoulder.

“You, where did Mr. Miyazaki go?” “In the washroom.”

“Now?” “Yes, just moments ago. Ah, Mr. Miyazaki has returned.” In the corridor ahead, Mr. Tsunemon’s figure came into view. “During that time, I presume no one entered this room?” “No, absolutely not.”

Mr. Miyazaki came up to the two of them and called out. “Ah, Mr. Akechi, it seems the thief has been caught.” “Yes, but…”

“But?” Mr. Tsunemon had a puzzled look. “Is your daughter all right?” “Please rest assured.” “Yukie is unharmed.” “See for yourself.” “As you can see, she’s perfectly fine.”

Mr. Miyazaki walked toward the door and opened it. Akechi followed behind.

“Well, well, what an ill-mannered young lady!” Mr. Miyazaki said with a smile. Yukie was leaning against the rattan armchair, fast asleep in complete exhaustion.

“Mr. Akechi. Poor thing—she must have been utterly exhausted. She’s dozing off.” “Dozing off? You’re calling that dozing off? You’re referring to *that* as dozing off?” Akechi asked back in surprise. “Not a nap, but something else…”

But as he spoke, even Mr. Miyazaki began to realize his daughter’s strange condition. He turned deathly pale and stumbled into the room.

“Yukie! Yukie! Snap out of it! It’s your father!” “It’s your father!” Even when he shook her shoulders, they just flopped limply back and forth with no response at all. Akechi stood by the armchair watching Yukie’s condition, then suddenly grabbed Mr. Tsunemon’s arm and whispered.

“Quiet. I can hear something. There, what is that sound?” When they listened closely, they could intermittently hear a strange sound—drip, drip, drip—like water leaking from a roof.

They looked around the entire room, but there was no sign of water dripping anywhere. Moreover, the sound was coming from right under their noses. “Ah! It’s blood!”

Akechi, who had circled behind Yukie’s rattan chair, shouted. When they looked, directly beneath Yukie’s body, from the bottom of the chair, drops of vivid red blood were falling to the floor and splattering back up. On the floor, a small pool of blood had formed. When they lifted Yukie’s body to look, sure enough, on her back, right where it would have struck her heart from behind, only the blood-covered hilt of a dagger was visible. She had met her end from that single stab of the dagger.

“It’s the White Bat.”

Discovering the strange emblem engraved on the dagger’s white sheath, Akechi muttered.

“How strange. “I was only away in the washroom for two or three minutes. “Moreover, the student guard insists that no one entered this room. “How… When on earth…” Mr. Tsunemon, forgetting even to mourn his daughter’s death, could only stand dumbfounded at the thief’s astonishing swiftness.

The student on guard was summoned and entered.

“Are you absolutely certain no one entered this room?”

“Yes, sir. I was standing in the hallway facing the door, so there’s no way I could have missed anyone.” “There’s absolutely no mistake.” The student guard turned deathly pale as he beheld the horrifying scene inside the room and answered. “You didn’t hear any sounds either, did you?” Akechi inquired.

“Yes, sir. The door was closed, and I was keeping watch from a few yards away, so I didn’t hear anything.” “The walls and doors of this room are thickly built, so even slight noises won’t leak outside.” Mr. Miyazaki explained, “You, go quickly and bring a doctor and the police. And as for my wife… Ah, there’s no need to inform her right away. It would be best to inform her as late as possible,” he ordered. “Is that student guard a trustworthy man?”

Seeing him leave, Akechi asked.

“He’s honest to a fault. “He’s from the same hometown - a man I’ve been mentoring for many years.” “Did he perhaps harbor some sort of feelings toward your daughter…” “No, such a thing is absolutely impossible. "He has a fiancée. "That girl is in her hometown, but they constantly exchange letters and are very close.”

“So, something utterly impossible—something inconceivable—was carried out.”

“But how can the impossible be carried out? The culprit might have had an entryway we didn’t notice.”

“Such an entrance cannot possibly exist outside this single door. I had thoroughly inspected this place in advance. The windows are fitted with iron bars. The walls and cupboards have no hidden mechanisms either. Having determined that guarding the door alone would suffice for safety, I chose this room to protect your daughter.”

Akechi, at the height of perplexity, gazed at Mr. Miyazaki’s face as though seeking salvation. This strange gesture—unbecoming of a famous detective—had now occurred twice. “In other words, do you consider this crime to be completely unsolvable?”

Mr. Miyazaki said with a look of dissatisfaction.

“Yes… However, if you find that answer unsatisfactory…” “Huh? Then does that mean…” Mr. Miyazaki stared at the famous detective’s face with a terrifying glare worthy of duelists, his gaze unrelenting.

“It’s terrifying.” “No—rather, it’s ridiculous.” “Yet simultaneously, it remains a simple and clear fact—like an arithmetic problem.” “The sole and unavoidable logical conclusion.”

“And that would be?” “To put it plainly…”

For the third time, Akechi’s face contorted into a wretched expression, as though pleading for deliverance.

“I can’t believe it. I cannot bring myself to accept what that theory implies. It terrifies me.” “Then speak it plainly.” “During my absence, I must tell you that the sole person who could have approached your daughter—in all heaven or earth—was but one.”

“Just one person? In other words, that would be me.” “Yes. It’s you.” Mr. Miyazaki made a strange face and blinked his eyes.

“So you’re saying the one who killed my daughter is her own father—me?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot believe that.” “However, all circumstances and all logic point to that sole person.”

“Are you seriously saying this?”

“I am serious.” “Please despise me.” “I lack the courage to affirm this crystal-clear theory.” “There exists a mysterious force there beyond human power.” “As long as I cannot uncover what this force truly is, I am powerless.” Akechi said something incomprehensible and made a pitifully bitter face. It was the expression of a child on the verge of tears from vexation. “Are you quite yourself? "I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about."

Mr. Miyazaki looked down upon the famous amateur detective’s predicament with an ironic smile.

“But I will not rest until I uncover the true nature of this mysterious force. Then I will either bow my head before you and apologize for today’s rudeness or put a rope around Miyazaki Tsunemon and send him to the guillotine.”

Miyazaki Tsunemon had been silently listening to this outburst but, without responding to Akechi, pressed the call button and summoned his attendant. And when he saw attendant Aoyama enter,

“Expel this lunatic.” he commanded. “Do you mean Mr. Akechi?” “Yes. “This man has gone mad. “To claim I am my daughter’s killer—he spews such outrageous slander. “We cannot allow him to remain on the premises another moment.”

Mr. Miyazaki declared with utter composure.

“There’s no need for such trouble. I’ll take my leave now.”

Akechi bowed politely and stepped out the door. He wanted to be all alone. And so he sought to steady his severely disordered thoughts and meticulously re-examine every last detail of this series of criminal incidents. He could leave the rest to the police who would soon arrive. He had no time for such things. Uncovering the true nature of this monstrous, terrifyingly mysterious force—his mind was wholly consumed by that singular purpose.

Phantom Man

Unthinkable events had been carried out with ease.

The previous night, Phantom Man’s gang had carried off a human-sized package from the Miyazaki residence. Moreover, not a single item was missing from within the mansion. It was an impossibility. Outside the only door serving as both entrance and exit, a reliable attendant had stood guard. Miss Yukie had been brutally murdered inside that room. The only person who could have approached her was none other than her own father. A father killing his daughter— Unless some other special reason were discovered, such a thing was impossible.

For these two impossibilities to be possible, there had to lie some tremendous secret hidden within them. Pursuing the theory to its logical extreme led to a single conclusion. There was absolutely no other possible interpretation. But even imagining it was enough to make one’s hair stand on end in terror.

Akechi was at a loss for what course to take. He had no idea where to begin. As a last resort, he employed his mastery of disguise to assume the appearance of an elderly Western gentleman and began roaming the streets. At times he drifted from pleasure quarter to pleasure quarter, at times prowled around the Miyazaki residence, and at other times patrolled the vicinity of that uncanny house in Ikebukuro. His quarry was the Phantom Man—the spitting image of Shinagawa Shiro. Were he but to discover this man and covertly shadow him, locating the phantom thief’s lair and exposing the great secret concealed there would not lie beyond reach.

After the murder at the Miyazaki residence, for about a week, he had wandered around in that manner with patient perseverance. And then, one day, he finally had the good fortune to encounter the Phantom Man he had been seeking.

While having dinner at a restaurant, he sensed an odd presence behind him and turned sharply to find Shinagawa Shiro’s face there. He nearly greeted him out of reflex but stifled the impulse at the last moment, rising from his seat with feigned nonchalance. Could this be the real Shinagawa Shiro? Or perhaps not? To verify, he slipped into the restaurant’s telephone booth. Its distance from the dining area ensured no risk of being overheard. After dialing Shinagawa’s number and waiting with a pounding heart, he confirmed Shinagawa was indeed at home—the unmistakable voice of the science magazine president resonated through the receiver. Exchanging brief words before hanging up, he returned to his seat and waited for the Phantom Man to finish his meal. Naturally, he planned to tail him.

Soon, the tailing began. The monster exited the restaurant and sauntered through the lively town lined with night stalls. It was likely an after-dinner stroll. If he wanted to capture him, the entire crowd in the town would be his allies—it would be an easy matter. However, Akechi would not be satisfied merely with arresting the Phantom Man. He wanted to locate the thieves’ hideout. This was no time to rush. He would follow patiently and persistently with single-minded focus. Time and again turning through the town, the monster walked on endlessly. With a villain’s wariness, he glanced back each time he rounded a street corner to check for pursuers. Each time Akechi swiftly concealed himself, the man resumed walking with relief. But at one of those turns—just as Akechi tried to hide in the shadows—he was spotted by a hair’s breadth. Though disguised, his opponent was a criminal bearing a scar on his shin. Such suspicious behavior would not escape notice. His tailing had been discovered at last.

It was a streetcar thoroughfare where empty taxis were darting about in all directions. "That bastard would surely hail a taxi." As he watched, sure enough, a car came to a stop before him. Realizing he couldn’t afford to fall behind, Akechi also hailed a taxi that was approaching from behind. “Follow that car!” Just as he issued the command and tried to board, Akechi—for reasons unknown—suddenly changed his mind and let it pass by.

The car in front had already departed as well. But what was this? Wasn’t the Phantom Man, who should have been in that car, running across the town? In other words, he had pretended to board the car, passed through it, and leaped out the opposite side. It was an automobile decoy maneuver. Akechi had already sensed this, thereby avoiding the folly of carelessly pursuing the decoy taxi.

What incredible swiftness. The monster had already hailed another automobile on the opposite side of the road—one heading in the reverse direction from before. Determined not to fall behind, Akechi leaped into a car himself. This time, the Phantom Man made no attempt at a decoy maneuver. Thus began their automobile chase. As they raced onward, they eventually entered a district Akechi somehow recognized. Though he had initially been gazing absently out the window, when he realized how precisely their route aligned with one he knew intimately, he couldn’t suppress the thought: “Huh—this is strange.”

Before long, sure enough, the car ahead came to a stop in front of that house. That house was none other than the real Shinagawa Shiro’s residence.

The Phantom Man got out of the car and opened the lattice door. The old maidservant greeted him. He exchanged a few words with the old maidservant and slipped away into the interior without incident.

“Nonsense! Was the one I’d been tailing all along actually the real Shinagawa?”

He was disappointed, but upon rethinking, something felt off. If it was Shinagawa, why would he pull that automobile decoy maneuver? And who exactly had answered the phone earlier? Yet if it were the Phantom Man, he’d never have fled to Shinagawa’s house of all places. Even the great Akechi felt fox-tricked.

At any rate resolved to investigate, he requested guidance and was shown to the parlor—one he had grown familiar with during his science magazine days. It was a quasi-Western room: Japanese-style tatami flooring laid beneath chairs and a table arranged in Western fashion. There on the large sofa sat Shinagawa Shiro, awaiting his guest.

“Ah—it was you after all.” “You understand, don’t you?” “I am Akechi Kogoro.” “I made a grave mistake—misunderstanding you as the Phantom Man.” “...But wasn’t it you who answered the phone earlier?” “Huh—a phone call, you say?” “That must be some kind of mistake.” “I don’t recall receiving any phone calls.”

As they were conversing, something utterly outrageous occurred. For from beyond the sliding door came the voice of another Shinagawa Shiro. “Haven’t I been here since evening? “You say I just returned home now? Don’t you know I was in the back room doing research? “Where the hell is this ‘me’ who supposedly came back?”

The one being scolded was the old maidservant. But what a bizarre way to reprimand someone! Akechi, realizing the truth with a start, abruptly stood up and made to leap at the Shinagawa before him. But despite the lack of reaction, the fake Shinagawa continued to smile nonchalantly. What audacity.

At that moment, the owner of the voice from beyond the sliding door burst into the room with a frantic expression. When he looked, one was a man identical to himself in every detail, and the other was an old man he had never seen before. “Who the hell are you people?”

He roared domineeringly. “Well now, this is strange. “You bastard—you sneaked into my empty house and pretended to be the master, didn’t you? “Who the hell are you? “No—I don’t need to hear that to know. “You’re the one—the monster who’s been tormenting me all this time—”

The fake Shinagawa, who had just returned home, coolly shouted back. He understood now. He understood. The brazen Phantom Man—unable to withstand Akechi’s pursuit—had fled into the real Shinagawa’s residence through a split-second impulse. What an audacious yet fantastical scheme this was! Even when placed side by side with no discernible difference between them, both Shinagawas kept denouncing each other as impostors.

Before long, the real Shinagawa finally recognized Akechi’s disguised form.

“Ah—Mr. Akechi, isn’t it? What on earth is happening here? The one before you is the infamous Phantom Man.”

Then, the fake Shinagawa, not to be outdone, launched into a tirade.

“Oh—you’re Mr. Akechi?” “So you’ve been following me all this time because you mistook me for the Phantom Man.” “I am the one and only Shinagawa Shiro.” “This man took advantage of my absence to impersonate me and plot fresh villainy.” “Now arrest this man!”

As he listened, it became impossible to tell which man's claims were true.

“Then why did you try to shake me off by pulling a disappearing act?”

“I’ve grown rather timid as of late. With your elderly disguise, I couldn’t recognize you at all, so I mistakenly thought the White Bat Group had begun some new evil scheme. If I were truly the Phantom Man, there’d be no reason for me to come here. There should be plenty of places to escape outside.”

When stated thus, it did seem reasonable at first glance. Akechi observed the two Shinagawas at close range. Though he knew beyond doubt that one of them was the White Bat leader, he found himself unable to determine which one it was—and thus could not make a sudden move. But this absurd charade did not last long. Akechi suddenly conceived an idea. He pulled the Shinagawa who had been in the house earlier into a corner and, whispering so the other Shinagawa would not hear, began questioning him one by one about trivial incidents from when he had worked at the magazine company under the alias Yamada. Shinagawa answered briskly. There remained no room for doubt. This man was none other than Shinagawa Shiro.

But there was just the slightest gap there. While the two men were engrossed in their questioning, the Phantom Man—who had been seated in the armchair—quietly rose, stole away without a sound, and vanished beyond the sliding door.

The Kidnapping of the Great Detective There existed a burglar identical in every detail to Shinagawa Shiro, president of a science magazine. What had begun as a fact straight out of a fairy tale gradually transformed into an absurdly large, colossal incident.

After the incident had been fully resolved, Prime Minister Daigawara Koreyuki—who was himself one of the victims of this case, having even lost his precious only son—once confided in a close acquaintance.

“Mr. Akechi Kogoro is a benefactor not only to Japan but to all of humanity. If he had not prevented this grand conspiracy in its infancy, not only Japan but—no—Britain, America, France, Italy, Germany, even Russia would have lost their emperors, their presidents, their governments, their militaries, their police forces—in other words, the very nations themselves.” They suppressed newspaper reports and strictly prohibited the spread of rumors, so the general public remained unaware of anything, but the White Bat Group’s conspiracy was comparable to Copernicus’s heliocentric theory, Darwin’s theory of evolution, or even the invention of firearms, the discovery of electricity, and the creation of aeronautical machines—a scheme that would have upended the very foundations of humanity’s faith and way of life.

Labor-capitalist struggles, nihilism, anarchism—compared to this grand conspiracy, they were nothing but trivial matters too insignificant to merit attention. They sought to erect a demonic empire across the entire world with weapons far more terrifying than explosives or electric power—and this was no mere fantasy. However, the plot was uncovered before it could come to fruition, and now the members of the White Bat Group have vanished like dew on the execution ground. With their deaths, their headquarters and their manufacturing factories were utterly burned away, and the grand conspiracy—a scheme that comes but once in a hundred years, once in a thousand—was at last nipped in the bud. "For the sake of humanity, this is a cause for celebration beyond compare."

Such was the general meaning of his words. Those who heard this account, imagining the contents of the grand conspiracy that had compelled even the obstinately tight-lipped Prime Minister Daigawara to make such a statement, felt a chill penetrate their very bones. But that is a story for another time.

Now, in the previous chapter, it was recounted how the fake Shinagawa—being tailed by Akechi Kogoro—had fled into the real Shinagawa’s residence as a last resort, where two indistinguishable men sat face-to-face in one room, each vehemently claiming to be Shinagawa Shiro, leaving even the Great Detective at a loss for what to do. However, as the interrogation gradually progressed, the fake Shinagawa—his disguise on the verge of unraveling and unable to bear remaining there any longer—seized an opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

Engrossed in interrogating the real Shinagawa, Akechi Kogoro suddenly noticed the other Shinagawa had vanished from sight. "So that one was the impostor," he concluded, leaping outside in one motion—where he glimpsed a figure sprinting roughly a block away. And so the chase began anew.

After turning this way and that and emerging onto the main street, he lost sight of the monster. When Akechi asked the driver of a taxi waiting there for fares, the man—unusually downcast—replied from under the brim of his cap that “that fellow” had just boarded a car speeding off in that direction. Naturally, Akechi leaped into the waiting taxi and ordered pursuit. It was a by-the-book car chase.

After driving for about ten minutes, they entered a desolate mansion district. Then, what was this? Akechi’s car suddenly changed direction and slid into an even more desolate alley.

“Hey! What are you doing? The car ahead was driving straight ahead, wasn’t it?”

Akechi shouted, and the driver swiftly turned around. "Ah—You...!"

“Hahahahaha, you’ve been had.” “No use struggling now.” “Take a good look at this.” The pistol’s muzzle jutted sharply from atop the cushion. To his dismay, Akechi had come utterly unarmed. It would later be revealed that during that critical moment, the culprit had nimbly disguised himself as the driver of his accomplices’ abandoned car. Wrapped in a borrowed overcoat with a borrowed hat pulled low, he’d lain in wait to ensnare Akechi. A breathtakingly swift maneuver indeed.

The monster, still holding the pistol at the ready, got down from the driver’s seat and entered the passenger compartment.

“No matter how much you scream, no one’s coming to help in this desolate town.” “But just to be safe, I’ll have you bear with me for a moment.” A white object suddenly flew toward Akechi’s nose—pistol-pinned and immobile—a handkerchief soaked in anesthetic, prepared who knows when.

There was no way Akechi would stay still. He kicked open one of the doors and tried to leap out the opposite side.

“Ahh, you fool—are you asking for pain?”

As he spoke, the thief took careful aim and shot Akechi in the right leg just as he was about to leap out. A bang—a strange noise. But it wasn’t as high-pitched as a bursting tire. After all, pistols don’t make such loud noises. Half-leaning out of the car, collapsed and writhing in agony, before Akechi’s face came that crumpled handkerchief again—the foul odor—but this time, he no longer had the strength to resist. Left to the thief’s devices, Akechi—helpless against the anesthetic pressed upon him—lost consciousness.

The fake Shinagawa picked up the detective’s limp body, laid it on the cushions, and while bandaging the bleeding wound on his leg with Akechi’s own handkerchief, muttered as if to himself. “Akechi, thanks to you chasing after me, I’ve saved myself a great deal of trouble. “This way, I didn’t have to go through the trouble of changing the order on the list of names. “You haven’t forgotten, surely. “The numbers stamped on that list of names. “The first is Iwahane Spinning Company President Miyazaki Tsunemon. “Then, the second is the amateur detective Akechi Kogoro. “In other words, this time it was your turn. “Hahahahaha.”

The thief chuckled low and returned to the driver’s seat. Then, with a calm expression as though nothing had happened, he gripped the steering wheel and stepped on the starter. The car raced straight through the desolate mansion district—devoid of pedestrians—and vanished to parts unknown.

The Metropolitan Police Superintendent in the Trunk

About a week later, Akechi Kogoro visited the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, having an old-fashioned rickshaw transport an enormous trunk. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Akechi! You weren't at your hotel when I went there—I was getting worried about where you'd disappeared to. Seems you've made some progress. That massive trunk—what on earth is it?" In the grand entrance hall, Inspector Namikoshi called out upon encountering him. "It's critically important evidence. I'll explain later. But first, I need to see Superintendent Akamatsu. Is he in?"

“Yes, I just came from speaking in the Superintendent’s office.” “The Chief of Criminal Affairs was there too.” “Then please have an officer assist with carrying this trunk.” “I want it brought into the Superintendent’s office.”

“Understood.” “Hey there—lend this rickshaw puller a hand, would you?” Inspector Namikoshi commanded the two officers in the hall before turning back. “Regrettably, I’ve urgent duties concerning His Majesty’s procession security. “Give your full account in the Superintendent’s office. “Should time permit, I’ll return to hear the particulars.”

After parting with Inspector Namikoshi, Akechi Kogoro followed the large trunk up to the Superintendent’s office. “We were just looking for you, Akechi,” the Superintendent said frankly upon seeing his face.

“You see, this White Bat case hasn’t been progressing at all.” “But you’ve brought in quite a peculiar item, haven’t you?” “What’s this trunk about?” “Were you not occupied with official business?”

Akechi asked while looking at the Chief of Criminal Affairs, who was seated facing the Superintendent.

“No, our discussion has just concluded.” “In that case, I deeply apologize for the imposition, but as there is something I wish to discuss with you alone, Superintendent… I must ask everyone else to step out for a moment…” “Now now, Mr. Akechi, this here is Mr. Chief of Criminal Affairs, whom you know well.” “That’s quite rude of you to say.” “However, as this is an extremely grave matter, I hesitate even to speak of it to you, Superintendent.” “Though it’s terribly rude, I must ask everyone else to step out for a moment…”

Akechi seemed to find it extremely difficult to speak. “Mr. Akechi, you’re being unusually cryptic today.” The Chief of Criminal Affairs rose with a laugh. “But I have business elsewhere—I’ll return later. “Well then, Mr. Akechi.”

He made this remark and left the Superintendent’s office.

“Now then, let’s hear it.” “And what on earth is this major incident you speak of, hmm?” Superintendent Akamatsu found himself thoroughly entertained by the genius detective’s unconventional methods. “I must insist on completely clearing the room.” Akechi remained obstinate.

“Very well,” The Superintendent, growing more amused by the moment, barked, “Hey you—go wait over there.” The receptionist who had been stationed at the entrance to the Superintendent’s office was driven away. Now only two men remained in the room.

“Do you have the key to the door?” “The key? Are you suggesting we lock the door?” “That seems a bit...” The Superintendent laughed and said, “I believe it should be in the reception desk’s drawer.” Akechi found the key, unlocked the entrance door from inside, left it inserted in the keyhole, and returned to his seat. “I would like you to look at the contents of this trunk.” “It’s terribly bulky, isn’t it?” “Open it up.”

The trunk was an enormous, armor-clad chest rarely used for domestic travel, large enough to hold a person within. “Please don’t be alarmed—there’s something most unexpected inside.” Akechi turned the trunk’s key while speaking with the expression of a magician unveiling a secret box. At that instant, the image of a corpse flashed through Superintendent Akamatsu’s mind. Through the trunk’s lid, he could vividly picture a ghastly, blood-drenched mass of flesh curled within. Even the Superintendent could not help but tense his facial muscles slightly.

With a click of the lock releasing, the trunk’s lid was slowly opened, inch by inch. The first thing that appeared was a police officer’s cap adorned with a gleaming Rising Sun Medal. Next came the round, plump face beneath the cap, a mustache, golden epaulets, the black uniform of a high-ranking police officer, and a sword belt that sat awkwardly askew.

It was indeed daytime, with the sun blazing brightly outside the window. Moreover, Superintendent Akamatsu was certainly not dreaming. But could such a horrifying thing truly happen outside of dreams or illusions? Even this formidable statesman gasped "Ah!"—his eyes riveted on the figure in the trunk, body stiffening as if paralyzed into immobility. When observing Akechi Kogoro, one saw he had thrown open the trunk lid completely and now stared at the Superintendent's expression with serpent-like eyes fixed on prey.

The two of them remained like that for about thirty seconds, motionless and silent as exquisitely crafted life-sized dolls. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Mr. Akechi, you shouldn’t play such mean prongs,” the Superintendent finally regained his composure and forced out a loud voice with a tearful laughing expression. “You made a likeness doll of me to try and scare me?”

Indeed, the figure inside the trunk was a likeness doll of Superintendent Akamatsu. A plump body, a round face, a neat little mustache with a charming air, round gleaming eyes—the hat, uniform, sword belt, and shoes, everything down to the last detail was identical to the Superintendent’s. One might even suspect the number of hairs on its head matched his exactly. “Do you mean to say it’s a doll?” Akechi said in a venomous voice.

“Take a closer look.” The Superintendent, with the feeling of one tormented by a nightmare, stared at the exquisitely crafted lifelike doll that did not differ an inch from himself. As he stared, even the Superintendent’s heart seemed to lurch up to his throat as a terrifying truth dawned on him. That thing was alive. It was not a doll. It was indeed breathing. Wasn’t its abdomen, bent in an awkward position, quietly rising and falling? Wasn’t it even blinking its eyes rapidly?

The Superintendent, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of events, had no strength left to consider a course of action and could only stare vacantly at the other Superintendent inside the trunk. The doll's round cheek began to twitch spasmodically. In the instant he gasped, the spasms grew increasingly violent until its lips curled back to reveal a row of white teeth, and its face suddenly broke into a broad, eerie grin. When he saw this, the fifty-year-old Superintendent Akamatsu assumed a childlike tearful expression and staggered backward in terror.

At the same moment, the man in the trunk—like a snake springing from a jack-in-the-box—suddenly shot upright and lunged at the Superintendent with arms outstretched. From head to toe, exactly the same—the two Superintendents grappled. Moreover, this was neither a dream nor a play. It was an incident that occurred in broad daylight in the Metropolitan Police Superintendent’s office.

It was a scene so absurd it made one want to clutch their sides and roar with laughter, yet at the same time, so terrifying it sent shivers down the spine and made every hair stand on end. The one who had lunged—that is, the fake Superintendent—circled behind the real Superintendent, who was too overwhelmed to react, and grappled him from behind.

But as expected of a veteran politician tempered by a hundred battles, Despite facing such terror, the Superintendent did not let out an undignified scream. He steadied his mind and, still pinned in a grapple, inched closer to the desk, then attempted to press the call button with the faintly moving fingers of his right hand.

“Whoa, that won’t do.” “Mr. Akamatsu, pressing that call button will cost you your life.”

Akechi quickly noticed this, aimed his pistol, and threatened the Superintendent.

“Mr. Akechi, what on earth is happening? When did you turn against me?” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Do I look like Akechi Kogoro to you?” “Open your eyes wider.” “There, see?” Akechi contorted his face grotesquely. “Wh-what the hell are you?!” Akechi took out a large hemp handkerchief from his pocket with his left hand and fluttered it before the Superintendent’s eyes. To his horror, there in one corner of the handkerchief was the eerie White Bat emblem he recognized.

“Damn you!” The Superintendent summoned all his strength and tried to shake off the enemy behind him. But the monster’s grapple would not budge an inch. It was utterly hopeless. There was no choice but to shout at the top of his lungs to call for help. Perceiving this intention in his expression, the fake Akechi Kogoro wasted no time. He rolled up the handkerchief he’d been waving and thrust it forcefully into the Superintendent’s mouth. A spur-of-the-moment gag. In the blink of an eye, it was now the real Superintendent Akamatsu who found himself bound hand and foot and curled up inside the trunk. Struggle as he might, try as he might to cry out, there was nothing more he could do.

“Do you understand now?” “Mr. Akamatsu, our program is proceeding precisely as planned.” “First was Miyazaki Tsunemon, second was Akechi Kogoro—and third comes Superintendent Akamatsu.” “In short… today marks your turn.” The fake Akechi Kogoro delivered his pronouncement.

Though it may seem a strange analogy—can one cut apart only the core of an apple without peeling its skin? It can be done. If you have a needle and thread, it can indeed be done easily. But this great feat of magic by the White Bat Group—humans indistinguishable in every detail from their faces to their forms, emerging exactly as desired—was no mere matter of apples. No matter what kind of needle and thread you brought to bear, such an absurd feat could never have been accomplished.

A ghost story—or else a fairy tale. If these things were indeed real events, then there must exist something behind them that far surpassed human comprehension. But we must also consider that since ancient times, all great discoveries and inventions—until the very moment they were revealed to the world—had been things that common sense dismissed as impossible, matters laughed away as ghost stories and fairy tales.

Be that as it may, the trunk’s lid closed with a click as the lock snapped shut. The current cabinet’s luminary—Senior Fourth Rank and Third Order of Merit recipient Metropolitan Police Superintendent Akamatsu Montarō—had now been reduced to a single living parcel crammed inside a trunk. When sealing the lid, Akechi had prudently administered anesthetic, leaving this human cargo utterly motionless. The new Metropolitan Police Superintendent—having concluded the administrative handover through uncanny means—thudded into the oversized armchair reserved for his predecessor, slit open the former Superintendent’s private cigar resting on the desk, and expelled a lavish cloud of violet smoke.

Fake Akechi sat down on the trunk containing the living luggage and, with impeccably polite words, addressed the new Superintendent.

“Then, Your Excellency, shall I have this trunk stored at my hotel for the time being?” The new Metropolitan Police Superintendent opened his mouth to speak for the first time since assuming his post. “Ah, please do so. By the way, to take that luggage out, we’ll have to open the door, won’t we?” My, how even his voice was exactly like Akamatsu Montarō’s. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Indeed, that is precisely the case, Your Excellency.”

As he spoke, Akechi stood up, went over, turned the key, and unlocked the door. When the new Superintendent pressed the call button, the receptionist from earlier entered. “You—have someone help you carry this trunk out front,” he said. “And ah—Mr. Akechi—you’ve had the car waiting?” “Ah—I have had a rickshaw waiting.” “Then load it onto that rickshaw.” “Understood?”

The receptionist attended to the particulars with deference and withdrew. Thus, the changeover between the outgoing and incoming Metropolitan Police Superintendents was effected without complication, and Akechi Kogoro—maintaining an air of affected dignity—departed for parts unknown with the rickshaw bearing the genuine Superintendent in tow. Pathological Philanthropist

If Miyazaki Tsunemon—a titan of industry—were in fact an utter impostor and a member of the White Bat Group, then inciting a form of industrial upheaval through his prestige and the deployment of his vast assets would be no particularly difficult task. To cite one example that had already manifested, when the fake Miyazaki unconditionally approved the workers’ nearly reckless demands, it not only dealt a major blow to the industry as a whole, stirred up uproarious public opinion, and fomented internal strife within trade associations. Given the market prices of products at the time, it became impossible to break even, and there was no prospect of sustaining the entire spinning industry; to put it bluntly, one could even say that Japanese competitors had reached a point where they faced nothing short of total annihilation. Needless to say, Mr. Miyazaki himself became the target of public censure and the object of bitter resentment among his peers. The young lady’s murder was deserving of sympathy, but there was no reason to acquiesce to the workers’ demands after the fact. Rather, they insisted that the factories should be shut down. The absurdity lay in the fact that this Mr. Miyazaki was actually a thief. Whether he lost his standing in the business world or not, whether the company turned a profit or not—such matters were of no concern whatsoever. He was branded a demon by the propertied class, yet with nerves of steel, he feigned nonchalance as if it were nothing but a passing breeze.

Moreover，those who suffered damage from this incident were not limited to industry peers alone．It was suspected that an era of worker tyranny，unprecedented in history，had descended upon Japan’s entire industrial world．This was because，within less than a week after the Iwabuchi Spinning dispute had ended，five more disputes broke out across various manufacturing industries nationwide．They got a taste of success with the Iwabuchi Spinning example and grew emboldened．Taking advantage of this，they obtained suitable incitement from those who made their living off labor disputes．

Then came something strange—no matter where in the country a dispute arose, threatening letters identical to those in the Iwabuchi Spinning case would materialize at corporate executives' private residences the moment workers submitted their demands, as if delivered by phantom hands. The boilerplate text always demanded they surrender either a daughter, son, or wife. With Mr. Miyazaki's daughter serving as a fresh cautionary tale, trembling capitalists inevitably capitulated to labor's terms. The alternative meant shuttering their factories altogether.

At this rate, if disputes erupted one after another and workers’ demands were met left and right, it would either lead to extreme inflation or else result in the complete collapse of production industries. Overly sensitive editorial writers began expressing concern in their columns, and public opinion gradually intensified. The Chamber of Commerce and Industry began to take action. Though raised casually, this matter became a topic of fervent discussion among cabinet ministers during one day’s cabinet meeting. The White Bat emblem now became the symbol of bourgeois terror and loathing. Even workers who appeared advantaged could not help but feel an eerie dread, unable to grasp the White Bat Group’s true intentions. After all, they were dealing with a gang of murderous thieves. If success in disputes came through such violence, advocates of justice emerged declaring it a disgrace to the working class. Scholars and pundits united their pens to advise: “Workers of the nation, until you witness the nefarious White Bat Group’s annihilation, you must on no account act rashly.”

Why was this group of societal disruptors—this murderous organization—being left unchecked? Were the politicians asleep? What were the police doing? In the end, the police became the target of relentless criticism and attacks. And chief among them was the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department—the White Bat’s very headquarters.

However, in an utterly preposterous turn of events, the very individual responsible for apprehending these phantom thieves—the highest commander of the Metropolitan Police Department himself—had before anyone knew it been transformed into a complete impostor: a member of the phantom thief organization indistinguishable from his doppelgänger-like counterparts. In other words, the White Bat Group had already occupied the Metropolitan Police Department—their one formidable enemy.

Fake Akamatsu Montarō shared a bedroom with the former Superintendent’s wife at the official residence and skillfully deceived his subordinate leaders when attending the office; though an impostor, his capabilities were not to be underestimated. On the Fake Superintendent’s desk, alongside crucial documents requiring approval, letters of censure from citizens lay piled mountain-high. He arrived punctually each day to stamp papers with an unseeing seal and peruse these fascinating condemnations—such constituted his duties. Those visiting the Superintendent’s office during that period would witness him chuckling gleefully while engrossed in tirades denouncing himself, marveling at this elder statesman’s thick-skinned magnanimity—though in truth, there was nothing remarkable about it. He simply laughed in genuine amusement alongside his detractors, finding police incompetence riotously entertaining.

As he grew accustomed to the department’s inner workings, what preoccupied him day and night was this crucial problem: under what pretext should he dismiss bureau directors, section chiefs, and station chiefs—and how might these dismissals most effectively cripple police capabilities? In what form did the Fake Superintendent’s conspiracy manifest itself, and what horrors had begun festering within an imperial capital now rendered virtually lawless? All this, however, would be told later.

Now, following the Metropolitan Police Superintendent, the next target of the White Bat Group’s sinister reach—according to their program—was the official residence of Prime Minister Daigawara Koreyuki.

Since losing his wife some years prior, Count Daigawara’s household had no blood relatives other than his adopted son, Mr. Shun’ichi, and his biological daughter, Miss Mineko—the rest being only servants—a lonely household indeed. Having long been without a child between himself and his wife, he had adopted his relative Mr. Shun’ichi, but several years later, Miss Mineko unexpectedly came along. Thus, Miss Mineko was arranged to marry the adopted Mr. Shun’ichi, preventing troublesome inheritance issues before they could arise. Fortunately, the parties themselves had no objections to this marriage and were now betrothed.

Miss Mineko was beautiful in appearance, formidable in intellect, and truly an exemplary count’s daughter. As the sole child born late and perhaps overindulged, she possessed one peculiar flaw—or perhaps virtue. This was a benevolence that far exceeded ordinary bounds. Why call it a flaw? Because her compassion too often manifested in overly eccentric ways.

For example, there was a time when she took off the expensive tailor-made coat she was wearing, put it on a beggar by the roadside, and hurried back home just like that. No, what was even worse was when she picked up an old beggar woman into her car, brought her back to the mansion, and even begged her mother—still alive at the time—to let them take care of this beggar at their home.

Miss Mineko’s extraordinary compassion transcended mere family gossip to become a widespread topic of public discourse through newspaper and magazine features—so much so that the late Countess had made this madwoman-like young lady’s virtue her sole source of distress. If there existed any vulnerability in the Daigawara Count’s household for the nefarious White Bat to exploit, it may well have been this young lady’s peculiar quirk alone. To such an extent was there neither negligence nor vulnerability in the life of this great statesman. Not only that, but as their previous methods demonstrated—for instance, when the fake Shinagawa deliberately fled into the real Shinagawa’s residence, placing side by side two faces indistinguishable down to the last detail to mock Akechi Kogoro—the White Bat gang willfully chose fantastical means, flaunting their grotesque ingenuity; they possessed in full measure what is called a criminal’s vanity.

Now, one day, as the Count’s daughter Miss Mineko sat absorbed in melancholy thoughts (for her fiancé Mr. Shun’ichi was traveling in the Kansai region at the time), gazing absently out the window of the main residence’s study, a peculiar figure came swaying unsteadily into view from deep within the garden’s forest-like grove.

At first glance, she appeared to be a woman of about the same age as the young lady, but was clearly nothing more than a beggar. What she wore could hardly be called a kimono—they were less like rags than tattered threads. Her feet were bare, and her hair hung disheveled in front of her face like a ghost’s. If a normal girl were to see such an intruder, she would either flee deeper inside or call for help—but Miss Mineko was no ordinary girl. Of course, at first she had been frightened and even tried to close the window, but the next moment, her innate, abnormal compassion surged up within her.

Miss Mineko stood waiting for the beggar girl to draw near, while searching her mind for the most compassionate words to use on such an occasion.

The beggar girl soon reached beneath the window, stood rooted there, stared intently at the young lady, and spoke in a voice of unexpected beauty. "Young Mistress, why aren't you running away? Aren't you frightened?" Ah—this girl has grown bitter because of her circumstances, Miss Mineko thought to herself. That's why she speaks in such an ironic tone. So, in the kindest voice she could muster, she began: "Where did you come in from?"

she inquired.

“Through the gate… But when you’ve nowhere to sleep, you can’t afford to be picky,” she said. “Last night, I slept in the storage shed in your garden’s corner.” The beggar girl was using unexpectedly refined language. This girl doesn’t seem to be a born beggar, the young lady thought again. “You must be hungry,” she began gently. “Don’t you have any family? A father or mother?” “I’ve no one,” came the reply. “I’m an orphan.” A faint smile flickered across chapped lips. “And yes—I’m absolutely starving.”

“Well, we can’t let anyone find out, so come in through this window.” “I’ll go find something for you to eat right now.” “Won’t anyone come?” “It’s all right. Right now, I’m the only one in this house—the rest are just servants.” This was indeed the case. Count Daigawara was at the Prime Minister’s official residence, and the secretary, Mitsudayū, and all the others had gone there as well—leaving not a single formidable servant behind to interfere with the young lady’s charitable deed. The young lady herself was usually at the official residence, where she had a role befitting her station in attending to her father’s needs.

After a short while, Miss Mineko—having somehow located a biscuit tin and tea set—returned, and without a thought for the girl’s filth, seated her on a fine chair, placed the biscuit tin on the table before her, and commenced an utterly bizarre tea gathering. The beggar girl must have been ravenously hungry, for she promptly stuffed five or six biscuits into her mouth all at once. As she did so, she irritably brushed back the hair hanging over her forehead, allowing her face to be clearly seen for the first time.

What a beautiful beggar she was. In contrast to her dirty kimono, her face alone was neither dirtied nor haggard from malnutrition. Well-proportioned features and pure white skin. However, what shocked Miss Mineko so profoundly was not that the beggar girl was an unexpected beauty.

“Oh! You...” The young lady who hadn’t so much as flinched at the beggar’s sudden appearance now involuntarily stood up and nearly bolted toward the door. “Ah, I’m so happy! So you see it too, Young Mistress? You really do see the resemblance!” The beggar girl exclaimed with exuberant delight. “I’ve achieved my heart’s desire. That a pitiable beggar child like me could look exactly like the Young Mistress—the daughter of the Prime Minister and a Count…” In fact, these two—the Count’s Daughter and the beggar girl—were so alike in build and facial features that they could have been twins, save for one having bobbed hair and a lustrous kimono while the other had disheveled locks and tattered rags.

“It may be presumptuous of me, but I’ve known for a long time now that you and I are like living copies of each other, Young Mistress. If only I could meet that Young Mistress and exchange even a single word—that was my one lifelong wish. That wish has been granted—I’ve never been happier than this.” The beggar girl’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Goodness, can such a strange thing exist in this world?”

Miss Mineko, now feeling ten times more compassionate than before, said with a sigh. These two girls, whose circumstances differed as vastly as heaven and earth, became as close as sisters in an instant. As Miss Mineko listened, the beggar girl recounted her detailed life story. There was no need to record the particulars here, but her circumstances were truly pitiable.

Her speech was refined, her face was beautiful, and her temperament didn’t seem particularly twisted. Miss Mineko became utterly ecstatic, as though she had gained a brand new friend. As the dampening life story concluded, the beggar girl gradually grew more cheerful from the joy of acting like friends with the noble young lady, while the young lady herself, having tired of the stifling tearful tale, began to act lively.

“Oh! I’ve thought of a wonderful idea! How splendid! Hey you, I’ve just come up with the most amusing game idea!” Miss Mineko exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Oh! So you and I are going to play a game together, Young Mistress?” The beggar girl asked in astonishment.

“Yes, exactly! “When I was a child, I read a fairy tale called ‘The Beggar Prince.’” “That’s how I came up with it.” “You see...”

She whispered something in a hushed tone.

“Oh! That’s too presumptuous... That you would even consider such a thing...”

The beggar girl was so dazed by the sheer audacity of it all that she appeared at a loss for words to decline.

Ah, Miss Mineko's extraordinary compassion had conceived an outrageous mischief. As a result, she never even dreamed that such a major incident would occur. Beggarly Young Mistress

The Count’s daughter conceived a bizarre prank. She decided to dress this beggar girl in her own kimono, put on the beggar’s rags herself, and play out an imitation of the novel called “The Beggar Prince.” Miss Mineko’s extreme compassion had made her want to let this pitiful beggar girl experience the dream of becoming a count’s daughter, if only temporarily.

The two stood before the mirror and swapped each other’s kimonos. The beggar girl washed her dirty hands in the basin the Count’s daughter had specially brought, then applied makeup to her face. “You there, mind if I cut your hair short?” When the beggar girl nodded, the young lady trimmed her hair into a bob that perfectly matched her own down to the last detail. It took considerable time and effort, but for an amateur’s handiwork, it turned out quite well.

Now it was the young lady’s turn. She put on the beggar’s rags, made her hair disheveled, and looked in the mirror. “Oh! You won’t find such a beautiful beggar anywhere. Shall I lightly apply this eyebrow ink to your face? If we do that, you’ll be the genuine article. No one who saw you would ever think you’re the Count’s Young Mistress.” The beggar girl grew emboldened and made such an outlandish suggestion, but Miss Mineko—rather than taking offense—found it amusing. Recalling her girls’ school masquerade parties, she even let the beggar girl smear eyebrow ink all over her face as instructed.

The two completely finished their disguises and stood side by side before the mirror.

“No matter how you look at it, you can’t tell—the fact that I am you and you are me—”

“Oh! That’s too much...” “I could die now without a single regret.” “To think that I could become Your Excellency’s daughter, even just once—” “You—are you really that happy?”

Compared to the beggar girl who had become a young lady, Miss Mineko—now transformed into a beggar—appeared all the more delighted. After staring at the mirror for a while, she suddenly burst into muffled laughter, as if struck by inspiration. “You there, try to act more properly and go inspect those rooms over there where the student servants and maids are,” she said. “And if you return without arousing the slightest suspicion—well then, I might even give you some sort of reward.” The beggar girl hesitated at this unexpected demand, but when the young lady opened the door and practically shoved her out, she reluctantly stepped into the hallway and began walking through the silent mansion toward the kitchen quarters.

When she turned the corner of the hallway, she encountered a student servant approaching from the opposite direction. Upon seeing this, the beggar girl suddenly let out a piercing shriek and dashed toward the student servant. Had she panicked and tried to flee? Yet there was something undeniably strange about her behavior. In the blink of an eye, a truly astonishing event began. “You there, come quickly. It’s terrible! In my room—a beggar woman has gotten in and is ransacking the place! Hurry, hurry! Get that creature out of there!”

The beggar girl disguised as Miss Mineko made an outrageous claim.

“Huh? A beggar? “In the Young Mistress’s room?” “What an outrageous wretch!” “Please wait here.” “I’ll have them dragged out right away.” The student servant, without a shred of suspicion, dashed down the hallway and arrived at the young lady’s room—only to find a filthy beggar woman with a pitch-black face sitting brazenly in the young lady’s chair, leisurely sipping tea.

“Hey! Just who the hell do you think you are?” “Where do you think this is?!” “If you keep dawdling, I’ll hand you over to the police!” Even as the student servant roared with a terrifying expression, the brazen beggar woman remained unperturbed.

“Oh! What’s all this anger about?” “I was just playing a little prank, that’s all.” “No need to get so worked up.”

The student servant was utterly dumbfounded.

“You idiot!

“Do you think I’ll tolerate someone barging into my room for ‘just a prank’? Get out now—or else!” He suddenly grabbed the beggar woman—who was in truth Miss Mineko Daigawara—by the nape of her neck and hurled her through the window with tremendous force.

Miss Mineko was indignant and scolded the student servant's rudeness, but to no avail. The prank had gone too far. Their disguises were so well executed that even the student servant couldn't distinguish between them. When she realized this, the young lady ceased her anger and began explaining calmly—yet the student servant adamantly refused to believe her. He dismissed her as a madwoman and wouldn't engage. It was only natural. Even if the beggar's face resembled the young lady's, the real one stood waiting in the hallway. Who could imagine a Count's daughter would stoop to disguising herself as a beggar? Moreover, the beggar girl now fully inhabiting the young lady's role had no memory of any kimono exchange. Seizing on their facial resemblance, she earnestly insisted this madwoman was making baseless accusations—rendering her opponent all the more convincingly deranged.

In the end, poor Miss Mineko—no matter how she pleaded, they would not listen—was violently thrown out beyond the gate by the hands of the student servant and the gatekeeper.

At this, no scheme occurred to the young lady raised in sheltered privilege. She burned with rage alone. Overwhelmed by fury, she couldn't properly voice what needed saying. As she stood rooted before the gate, endlessly murmuring "What to do? What to do?", the image that rose unbidden in her mind was that of her compassionate father, the Count. That's right. Father would never fail to recognize his own daughter. I must go see Father. That's best. That's best. Steeling her resolve, she began plodding toward the Prime Minister's residence looming not far off.

Passersby turned to gaze as they walked past. It was because she was a strangely alluring beggar. Yet for Miss Mineko, this was a journey of humiliation beyond anything she could have ever conceived in her wildest dreams. Battling against a despair so profound she wanted to collapse weeping to the ground, she finally steeled herself and kept walking. After walking two or three blocks, she started at the blaring of a horn and turned to look—it was her family’s familiar automobile. While she wondered who might be inside, the car sped off into the distance. Miss Mineko remained unaware that within that vehicle rode the beggar girl who had earlier impersonated the Count’s daughter. Their destination was identical: the Prime Minister’s residence. The cunning girl meant to arrive first and block Miss Mineko from meeting her father, the Count.

By the time Miss Mineko's beggar woman arrived at the Prime Minister's residence gate, the old gatekeeper—who had been briefed on the situation—stood waiting with his sleeves rolled up.

He shoved aside the beggar girl attempting to enter the gate and barked. “Just as I expected—you’ve shown up!” “We already know all about you.” “You’re not setting a single foot inside this gate!” Miss Mineko, who had been shoved down, found herself powerless to rise. Pressing her face against the ground, she surrendered to bitter, hysterical sobs. The Beggar Prince prank she’d conceived on a whim had unfolded precisely like that fairy tale’s plot—a development she could never have foreseen. But perhaps this was simply how fate had intended it. Who in this world would believe two people could exist as perfect duplicates—herself and that girl? Even if forced to confront each other, with both making identical claims, victory would naturally go to the one already occupying the young lady’s position. Wasn’t this why the prince in the story had endured such trials? As this thought crystallized, Miss Mineko felt all hope extinguish, leaving her no choice but to weep.

Anesthetic

Now, we must quicken the pace of our tale a little. For there would be no end to continuing to write the same thing indefinitely.

What became of Miss Mineko after that? The White Bat Group’s conspiracy had succeeded splendidly; her temporary disguise had backfired, and she was ultimately fated to be reduced to a beggar among the masses. The strange yet tragic circumstances of the Count’s daughter who had fallen to beggary—were one to narrate them in detail, it would likely form a most bizarre tale. But there is no time for that now.

The following day, Miss Mineko’s fiancé, Mr. Shun’ichi, met a bizarre death at a hotel in Osaka. Undoubtedly, this too was the work of the White Bat Group’s sinister hand—for they knew the only one who could have exposed the substitution of the young lady was her fiancé, Mr. Shun’ichi. They reasoned that unless they first eliminated this obstacle, they could not safely proceed with their ultimate objective—the conspiracy against Count Daigawara.

Now, about ten days after the two consecutive incidents had occurred—around the time Mr. Shun’ichi’s funeral had concluded—a most bizarre incident suddenly erupted at Prime Minister Daigawara’s official residence.

One evening, after an unusually prolonged cabinet meeting had concluded and he had seen off the departing ministers, Prime Minister Daigawara felt uncharacteristically exhausted. He entered his private quarters and slumped into a chair. The unnatural death of his adopted son, Mr. Shun’ichi, had left a sorrowful void in the Count’s private life. Whenever he found a brief respite from his grueling duties as Prime Minister, he would discover that he had unwittingly fallen into that void.

On top of that, he had another peculiar concern gnawing at him—a certain grave matter concerning his personal affairs that Secretary Nomura had whispered to him just moments before the cabinet meeting began. When he first heard it, he wondered whether the secretary had lost his mind or was perhaps caught in some waking delusion. He nearly snapped—*What foolish nonsense are you spouting?*—but restrained himself at the last moment. Yet for the Count—a man long accustomed to observing people—Nomura’s demeanor and words carried an unsettling weight that simply could not be dismissed as nonsense.

Even the great statesman, who had never before feared real-world events, found himself perplexed as to how to process this strange, nightmarish emotion. To dismiss this as absurd with a laugh would be simple enough. But surely Secretary Nomura hasn’t gone mad? Am I to perform that strange play orchestrated by that man? As the Count was lost in contemplation, the very figure he had just been envisioning stepped into the room. It was the young lady, Miss Mineko.

“I’ve brought your tea.”

Miss Mineko said demurely.

For some reason, the Count stared at his daughter with a start. "You're Mineko, aren't you? You must be Mineko." "Oh, what are you saying, Father?" The young lady laughed like a silver bell.

The Count took the teacup from his daughter’s hand and, while bringing it to his mouth, “You’re going to make me drink this, aren’t you?”

he said in a resolute voice, pressing the point. This time, Miss Mineko turned deathly pale and showed extreme panic, but with characteristic composure, regained her calm in an instant. "Oh, what strange things you keep saying," she demurred. "Father, you must be terribly tired today."

The Count kept his gaze fixed on Miss Mineko, an eerie smile playing at the corner of his lips as he brought the teacup to his mouth.

Before the thick lips, the teacup tilted gradually. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with repeated gulps. In the blink of an eye, the Count downed every last drop. Miss Mineko was sitting in the chair before the Count, restlessly glancing around the room for some reason, her demeanor unsettled. Her face turned deathly pale, and no matter how much she tried to suppress it, her body kept trembling in tiny shivers that she couldn’t control.

Just then, Secretary Nomura entered. When he realized the Count had already finished the tea, he quickly exchanged a strange glance with the young lady and, feigning nonchalance, approached the Count. “An envoy from the Minister of Home Affairs has just arrived and wishes this to be perused at once.” He presented a single letter. The Count opened it and began to read, but before he had progressed two or three lines, a strange shadow crossed his brow, and the hand holding the letter sagged limply.

“Is something the matter, Your Excellency? Are you feeling unwell?” “Father.” “Father.”

The secretary and the young lady rushed over simultaneously to support the Count’s massive frame, but the Count had already fallen into a deep, unnatural slumber. Seeing this, Secretary Nomura dashed to the entrance—one might have thought to summon the household staff—but instead locked the door from the inside.

The Count slid off his chair and was lying on the floor.

“Went smoothly, didn’t it?” Miss Mineko spoke like a stage villainess. “I must say, your skills are impressive. That’s the fourth one taken care of.” Secretary Nomura said. The “fourth person” referred to the fourth entry on the White Bat Group’s roster.

Ah, what an utterly bizarre fact this was! To eliminate the Prime Minister, they first replaced his daughter, next disposed of his adopted heir Shun’ichi, and finally substituted even Secretary Nomura before anyone noticed. The real Mr. Nomura was a man of integrity who had served the Count for many years—not someone who would collude with a criminal organization. The secretary here was undeniably a different person, indistinguishable from Mr. Nomura in every detail. “Now then, please lend me a hand.”

The fake secretary urged the fake young lady along and dragged the Count’s body—now sunk into helpless slumber—to a closet in the corner. The secretary unlocked its door with a key. The Count’s limp form was shoved inside. “I can manage alone from here. Keep watch at the window.” He tossed these words over his shoulder before disappearing into the closet’s pitch darkness. There waited a coffin-like box brought in earlier. Inside lurked the White Bat Group’s counterfeit Count Daigawara. The impostor emerged from the box. Together with his fake secretary accomplice, they crammed the real Count inside. They fastened the lid and turned the lock. Thus concluded their flawless substitution of the Prime Minister. The box imprisoning the true Count remained hidden in the closet, awaiting its scheduled removal when circumstances permitted.

The fake secretary, who had been clattering about in the darkness, soon emerged from the spot. Following behind him appeared—astonishingly—a figure indistinguishable from Prime Minister Daigawara in every respect, as though the Count who had just fallen into an anesthetic-induced slumber had now awakened refreshed and stepped forth. "Oh, Father." Miss Mineko let out a cry of astonishment and approached that figure. "Hmm, Mineko."

The Impostor Count had no sooner appeared than he began his performance. "Now then, Your Excellency, how should we proceed with your response to the Minister of Home Affairs?" The fake secretary said with affected solemnity. A trio of impostors in perfect concert.

“Very well.” “The letter’s response will suffice—but first contact the Metropolitan Police Superintendent; if he’s left headquarters reach him at his official residence.” “Have him bring along that civilian detective he idolizes—Akechi Kogoro—and come here immediately.” “Ah—wait!” “Since this involves a critical incident instruct him to bring five or six capable officers.” “And tell him our adversary proves remarkably formidable.” For the Prime Minister himself to issue such an extraordinary command marked an unprecedented event in history． Yet their adversaries were none other than counterfeit counterparts—the fake Superintendent and sham civilian detective． A summons from their own kind would inevitably come hurtling back．

But for what purpose was the Count summoning the Superintendent and Akechi? If it had been just those two, that would have made sense—but demanding they bring several brawny police officers along seemed decidedly strange. What in the world did they intend to set in motion here? Miss Mineko couldn’t help feeling bewildered. This deviation hadn’t been part of the planned scenario. Yet Secretary Nomura—maintaining an air of perfect composure—opened the door and departed for the telephone room, only to return moments later and,

“The Superintendent will be arriving shortly,” he reported.

Exposure

About thirty minutes later, as the Count and his secretary waited in a separate reception room, the Metropolitan Police Superintendent and his entourage came storming in noisily. Seated around the table in chairs were four individuals: the Count, Secretary Nomura, Metropolitan Police Superintendent Akamatsu, and Akechi Kogoro; the accompanying police officers waited outside the entrance.

Akechi Kogoro stood at the entrance, surveyed the hallway, and after confirming that no one was there, sealed the door and returned to his seat while—

“Ah, where is Miss Mineko?”

he said, looking at the Count and the secretary. "So you're worried after all? I see. Ms. Yoshie is in excellent spirits and awaits you in that room over there."

Secretary Nomura answered with a smirk. Well now—Miss Mineko had come to be addressed as Yoshie before one knew it. Speaking of Yoshie—wasn’t that the name of Aoki Ainosuke’s beloved wife, who had frequently appeared in this tale’s earlier chapters? Moreover, she was someone who should have already perished in “The One-Armed Beauty” incident. “Now then—what’s this urgent matter, Count?” The Metropolitan Police Superintendent addressed the Count in words of extreme discourtesy, utterly unlike his usual manner. Of course, he had already heard from Secretary Nomura that the Count had been replaced by a substitute.

“Well, as a matter of fact, there’s an extraordinary criminal within these premises.” “I’d like you to arrest them immediately.”

The Count said calmly. "A criminal? A thief? For the Metropolitan Police Superintendent himself to personally come out to apprehend such a thing—that's an odd story, isn't it? Hey, hey, Count! If you don't start showing a bit more restraint, that mask of yours is gonna slip right off!" "I wouldn't summon you for mere thieves. A state criminal. No, merely labeling them a state criminal won't suffice. More terrifying than the Communist Party, than revolution—it's a crime far worse." "Hey, Count—let's not play at scaring each other. Enough of your games, Your Excellency. You went to all the trouble of summoning me."

The Metropolitan Police Superintendent burst out laughing. "No, this is no jest. In any case, have the subordinates you brought along gathered in this room." "Really now?" "Hey." Superintendent Akamatsu looked at Secretary Nomura as if imploring him for salvation.

“It’s true.” “We discussed it a bit among ourselves.” “It’s still part of the Group’s work after all.” “Now then, call the officers.” “In that case, order the attendant to do it.” Finally convinced, Secretary Nomura pressed the call button without delay.

Soon, five burly police officers entered. “Mr. Daigawara. And this crime you speak of—what is it?”

Mr. Akamatsu rephrased his words in consideration of the police officers present and inquired. "The crime, as I have just stated, is an extremely grave state offense—an astonishing conspiracy to overthrow the government and stir up a great nationwide upheaval." Upon hearing this, the Superintendent made a strange face. The Count could only be referring to the White Bat Group.

“So you’re saying the criminal is hiding within this official residence?” “Where exactly is that?”

“Here.” “This room.” The Superintendent and Akechi looked around the room restlessly. But there was no place for anyone to hide. “Mr. Akamatsu.” “Please have the police officers prepare the arrest ropes, and order them to apprehend the criminal.”

The Count declared imperiously. “Whom do you mean?” “Onomura Jōichi and Aoki Ainosuke—both of them.”

From beside them, Secretary Nomura bellowed. Hearing this, Superintendent Akamatsu and Akechi Kogoro shot up from their seats, their faces deathly pale as they instinctively tensed while scanning the room, then shouted out.

“Who on earth are you talking about? Is such a person really here?”

Secretary Nomura also stood up as if to confront the two. Then, beckoning to the police officers lined up in the corner, he bellowed.

“Gentlemen, you must arrest the Metropolitan Police Superintendent and Akechi Kogoro.” “These men are neither the Superintendent nor Detective Akechi—they’re impostors.” “They’re Onomura and Aoki—members of the White Bat.” “Why do you hesitate?” “Seize them at once!”

But even the police officers hesitated. Could these two truly be impostors? How could they believe that this man, who had served as their Metropolitan Police Superintendent for months, was a member of the White Bat? “Ahahahaha, have you lost your mind?” “Mr. Daigawara.” “Please expel this fever-ridden madman.” “How can you remain composed while letting him spout such nonsense?” The Superintendent bellowed.

“I am also of the same opinion as Mr. Nomura.” “Officers—this is Daigawara’s command.” “Arrest these two individuals.”

“Wait—wait a moment. Are you saying that I am not Akamatsu? This is amusing. Please clarify why I am not Akamatsu.” “Because you are Onomura Jōichi.”

Secretary Nomura responded.

“Onomura Jōichi? I’ve never heard that name.” “But even if such a man existed, how could this Onomura share Akamatsu’s exact face while occupying the Superintendent’s office at Metropolitan Police Headquarters?” “When did Onomura transform into Akamatsu?” “We’re not talking about shape-shifting foxes or raccoon dogs—how could two indistinguishable humans possibly exist in this world?” “Keep your lunatic ravings within some semblance of reason!” Mr. Akamatsu, conveniently forgetting his earlier discourtesy, performed an elaborate pantomime of indignation. This constituted his final stratagem. Even were his true identity revealed, this single inexplicable point would defy all rational accounting. Thus he wagered everything on obstinate denial—if he maintained this pretense relentlessly, his adversary would find no purchase for counterattack.

“Hey Onomura—who do you think I am?” “I am not Onomura.” “But you’re the one who’s pinned this on Mr. Nomura, aren’t you?”

“Do you think the real Secretary Nomura could see through your conspiracy?”

Mr. Akamatsu stiffened at a complete impasse. What in the world had just happened? Secretary Nomura should have been replaced by an impostor. Moreover, the man serving as that impostor was supposed to be one of their most trusted members—a Communist named Takeda. Why would that bastard start such an idiotic betrayal? Prime Minister Daigawara was supposed to be in the same situation—hadn't they carried out the procedure flawlessly? The fake daughter and fake secretary were meant to administer the anesthetic and swap him with an impostor. How could things have gone so catastrophically wrong?

Just when he thought Secretary Nomura might be an impostor, his current words suggested otherwise. If he was neither the real one nor Takeda acting as his substitute, then who on earth was this man?

“Who are you?! Who are you?!”

Mr. Akamatsu became flustered and shouted.

The Devil's Manufacturing Factory “I’m Akechi Kogoro.” Secretary Nomura, having said that, skillfully removed his wig, attached eyebrows, and cheek pads, then smoothly stroked his face downward.

“How about that? Which is more convenient—your factory’s human transformation techniques or my disguise skills? Hahahaha!”

Astonishing. The one who uttered this with laughter was unmistakably the renowned detective Akechi Kogoro. From the wrinkles on his forehead to the curve of his lips, from the size of his eyes down to the very timbre of his voice—not a trace remained of Secretary Nomura, who had stood there mere moments earlier, no matter where one looked. “I was imprisoned in your lair. That’s how I came to know every last detail of your White Bat conspiracy.” “Having discerned that Yoshie Aoki impersonated the Count’s daughter to administer anesthetic, I substituted her drug with harmless powder beforehand and entreated His Lordship to feign unconsciousness deliberately.” “Then, under guise of exchanging His Lordship’s body for the counterfeit in the wardrobe box, we exploited the darkness to leave the substitution unmade.” “Thus your accomplices remain trapped within that box even now.”

The entire assembly gasped in astonishment at the renowned detective’s dramatic entrance. Mr. Akamatsu instinctively looked at the fake Akechi Kogoro standing beside him. There was not a single difference between them. Akechi Kogoro and Akechi Kogoro stood glaring at each other. But none was more astonished than Aoki Ainosuke, who had been impersonating the false Akechi. Had he been a true villain, he might have insisted to the real Akechi that *you* were the impostor—and had he done so, distinguishing between these two perfect duplicates might have proven nearly impossible. But as the reader knows well, this man called Aoki was at heart merely an extreme devotee of the grotesque—a thorough coward beneath it all. Thus finding himself unable to endure even that much strain, he became first to attempt fleeing the room.

When Aoki began to flee, the villain Onomura Jōichi, lacking the courage to stand his ground alone, followed after him and dashed toward the entrance. “What are you all standing around dazed for?” “Gentlemen, apprehend them!” Akechi shouted, but the police officers, overwhelmed by shock and in a dreamlike daze, made no move to pursue the criminals. Taking advantage of the absence of any resistance, the two thieves swiftly reached the entrance, threw open the door, and attempted to bolt into the hallway. But as the two men tried to bolt out—whatever they saw made them freeze mid-stride, rigid as posts.

“Superintendent Your Excellency, I’m afraid there’s no helping it. Please forgive my impertinence.” A deep voice tinged with sarcasm echoed from the corridor. There stood blocking their path just outside the door—the familiar figure of Inspector Namikoshi, the “Demon” Keibu. In his hand gleamed the ominous muzzle of a pistol. The meticulous Akechi Kogoro had quietly summoned this close friend in preparation for such contingencies. Thus were the three White Bat members—Onomura, Aoki, and Takeda (the fake Count Daigawara who had been hiding in that box)—arrested without resistance, five officers taking custody before withdrawing to another room.

Though he was an incomparably haughty and indomitable statesman of his era, even Count Daigawara found himself confronted by such an outlandish incident—the sort scarcely encountered even in nightmares—for the first time in his life. Even as he witnessed Aku Ningengen’s arrest, he remained suspended in such an uncanny dreamlike state—unable to fully accept this as reality—that he failed to recall Young Lady Mineko’s plight despite every reason for concern. “It is an impossibility.” “This horror transcends personal fear.” “It is mankind’s terror.” “The world’s terror.”

As Akechi was continuing to speak, the Count interrupted him. “I cannot believe it. That is something God would never allow. Could it be those wretches are using some form of disguise technique like yours?” “Absolutely not. Their appearances have been fundamentally altered. How could amateurs like the Aoki couple possibly replicate my disguise techniques? I spent no less than ten years of relentless research and practice to master even the art of manipulating facial wrinkles at will. Such things lie beyond the reach of dilettantes. Their methods lack adaptability—once altered, their features remain permanently fixed.”

“It’s a dream.” “Both you and I are dreaming.” “No, this is not a dream.” “I can explain their manufacturing process to some extent.” “Rather than that, I would like to show you their factory once.” “Though it may be impertinent to offer such an analogy—Your Excellency has likely heard of Sukekichi, the paperhanger from Okayama who attempted to construct an airplane before the Kansei era?” “He imitated birds and jumped down from a roof with papier-mâché wings.” “Naturally, when people witnessed this absurd act, they burst into uproarious laughter.” “The town magistrate sentenced him to exile.” “This was not limited to airplanes alone.” “Whenever utopian authors of old described radio or television—they too were always met with derisive laughter.” “They were dismissed as worthless dreams of fools unworthy of even a glance.”

When Akechi had spoken this far, a woman’s scream—like silk being torn—rang out from somewhere within the mansion. The Count, Akechi, and Inspector Namikoshi—who had been seated there—all startled and strained their ears.

“Let’s go check.” “Inspector Namikoshi.” Akechi Kogoro and Inspector Namikoshi rushed out of the room together. As they looked down the corridor，a student came running toward them.

“Something terrible!” “In the Young Lady’s room—” Without waiting to hear more, they rushed to the Young Lady’s chamber under the student’s guidance. A shrill scream pierced through chaotic crashes reverberating through walls and floorboards alike— This was no ordinary disturbance.

Akechi abruptly flung open the door. In the center of the room, two tangled masses of flesh writhed together like puppies. One was the Count’s daughter, Mineko. The other was a female beggar none recognized. And strangely enough, it was not the young lady but the eerie female beggar who was screaming.

Upon seeing this, Inspector Namikoshi—the Demon Inspector—suddenly rushed in and struck the beggar girl across the cheek with a resounding smack. The frail beggar girl collapsed without a moment’s resistance. “Take her away!” The inspector ordered his subordinate officers. “Hold on, Mr. Namikoshi.” “You shouldn’t act so rough.” “Who do you think you just struck?” “She’s the Count’s daughter!” Even though Akechi had pointed it out, the inspector still couldn’t grasp the full details.

“Don’t spout nonsense. Would I strike the Young Mistress? It’s this beggar girl. Because this wench was disrespecting the Young Mistress.”

“When you say ‘Young Mistress,’ are you referring to that one?” Where Akechi pointed stood someone deathly pale and rigid—unmistakably the Count’s daughter to any observer. “Are you claiming that one over there isn’t the Young Mistress?” “Have you forgotten the White Bat Group’s witchcraft? That woman there is Yoshie—wife of Aoki Ainosuke.… Look! She’s fleeing now. That itself proves it.” A policeman restrained Yoshie—disguised as Mineko—as she attempted to leap through the window.

Indeed, one could not deny it was Mineko when looking at her face, but when told this filthy beggar girl was the young lady, even her father Count Daigawara found it difficult to believe. "There are six counterfeit individuals produced by this devil's factory." "Three have already been disposed of as you can see." "The remaining three are Aoki Ainosuke's friend Shinagawa Shiro—president of a science magazine—Miyazaki Tsunemon of Iwabuchi Spinning Mills, and Nomura Hirokazu, the Count's secretary. However, the fake Secretary Nomura was thrown into Metropolitan Police Headquarters' basement by Inspector Namikoshi." "As for the fake Miyazaki Tsunemon, another police squad has been dispatched to arrest him—he should be in custody by now." "The last fake Shinagawa Shiro could be called the White Bat Group's leader himself. Arresting this bastard remains crucial—but equally urgent is rescuing the real Metropolitan Police Superintendent, Mr. Miyazaki, and Secretary Nomura confined in their hideout." "We must save these three men immediately."

Akechi explained. "Of course we must make those arrangements at once," declared Count Daigawara. "But we must absolutely prevent this astonishing conspiracy from leaking to journalists and spreading through society. Now—how many men will you need for the thieves' den?" The Count inquired with an expression of extreme tension. "The thieves number six," replied Akechi. "But half lack any criminal intent—three true culprits remain. They'll offer little resistance. Matching their numbers with two or three additional men should suffice."

As a result of their discussion, it was decided that the Chief of the Criminal Affairs Division’s Investigation Section, Inspector Namikoshi, six skilled detectives, and Akechi Kogoro—nine individuals in total—would set out to arrest the thieves.

Three cars departed from the Metropolitan Police Department and, following Akechi’s instructions, sped toward the outskirts of Ikebukuro. The car came to a halt at that strange solitary house—which dear readers will recall as the very same house where Aoki Ainosuke once tailed the Phantom Man and glimpsed the gruesome spectacle of a murder.

It remained the same deserted old Western-style building, like an unoccupied house. When pushed, the entrance door opened without resistance. Could this truly be the hideout of those phantom thieves? Yet for a supposed thieves' lair, wasn't it left far too exposed and carelessly unguarded? The group clomped their way into the dim, dust-choked interior of the building. After passing through several rooms, they reached one near the rear entrance where a staircase descending to the basement lay revealed.

Akechi took the lead and descended while swinging the prepared flashlight since it was pitch-dark even in daytime. The bottom of the stairs was a small brick room resembling a storage area. It was what they called a Western cellar. Empty barrels, charcoal sacks, broken chairs—all sorts of junk tools were thrown in haphazardly. This Western-style house having this basement was nothing particularly strange. “Well now—we’ve finally reached the entrance to the thieves’ hideout.” “Please prepare your weapons.”

Akechi said in a hushed voice. The term “weapons” referred to the pistols that had been specially prepared for the arrest of the vicious criminals. “But you—this basement is just a single room with no apparent secret passages. What do you mean this is the entrance to their hideout?” The Chief of the Criminal Affairs Division’s Investigation Section inquired dubiously.

“That’s precisely what makes this hideout secure.” “Because no one would imagine there might be another room further inside the basement.” “However, this wall is not a dead end.” Akechi explained in a low voice while removing one of the bricks from the wall before him, inserting his hand into the hole and doing something—when astonishingly, a section of the wall began to swing open like a door, slowly creaking apart until it left behind a gaping hole. From the depths of the hole, a faint light leaked out.

With Akechi at the lead, the group—pistols in hand—followed the narrow dark path deeper inward until they reached another door at the end. Akechi had the others wait in the darkness, then opened the door alone and stepped through. The spacious room was lined with rows of dolls. This was the very same room where Aoki Ainosuke had once been blindfolded and brought. "Isn't that Mr. Aoki? What's wrong? Did something urgent happen?" From across the room, a man rushed out and called. It was Shinagawa Shiro. Needless to say, this was none other than the counterfeit—the notorious Phantom Man.

Akechi couldn’t immediately grasp what the man was saying, but when he suddenly realized, he understood that a most ridiculous misunderstanding had occurred. The Phantom Man called him “Mr. Aoki.” He meant Aoki Ainosuke. Even by candlelight, it wasn’t so dark that one would mistake a person’s face. This was no case of mistaken identity. Calling him Aoki was only natural. The reason was that Aoki Ainosuke had now lost his original form and been transformed into Akechi Kogoro. It was only natural that he would mistake Akechi for Aoki. Moreover, since the Phantom Man had no way of knowing that the fake Akechi—Aoki—had been arrested, nor had he noticed that the real Akechi had escaped from this abandoned house, it was only natural for him to assume that whoever had just entered from outside was none other than the counterfeit Akechi: Aoki Ainosuke.

Once he realized this, Akechi suppressed his amusement and, with a flash of quick wit, turned the thieves’ own oft-used trick against them while skillfully maintaining his guise as Aoki. “It’s terrible! The police seem to have discovered this hideout. No—they haven’t merely discovered it. The enemy’s agents have already changed their appearance and infiltrated this place long ago!” he whispered urgently. “Huh? Police undercover agents?” The fake Shinagawa’s face paled in an instant. “Where are they?”

“They are here.”

“Here? You mean here?” “In this room.” “Hey—this isn’t the time for jokes! There’s no one in this room besides you and me, is there? Or do you mean they’re among those dolls?” The Phantom Man looked around uneasily at the clustered naked dolls.

The wax dolls stared fixedly in their direction with wide-open black eyes, as though alive. Even if real humans had been mixed among them, one couldn’t have told them apart in the slightest.

“They aren’t disguised as dolls. It’s a much better disguise than that, you know.”

Akechi said with a smirk. “A better disguise? What on earth are you talking about?”

The leader began to feel an indescribable terror. Anticipating that something indescribably eerie was about to occur, he stared at the other man with terrified eyes.

“Hahaha… Can’t you figure it out?”

Akechi, too, was gradually revealing his true identity. "So you're saying that undercover agent is in this room," "By the way, there are only two people in this room - me and you." "Then..."

The fake Shinagawa stammered.

“You’re finally starting to get it, aren’t you?” “That’s impossible. Have you gone mad?” The leader turned deathly pale and bellowed. “I have him confined in the back room. I just went and confirmed he’s clomping around inside right now. There’s no way he could’ve returned from outside. You are Aoki. You’re not that other one.” “However, as proof I’m not Aoki—look—I’m trying to arrest you. See?”

Akechi said this while tapping rhythmically on the man’s back. The fake Shinagawa jolted as he realized it wasn’t a finger but something far harder—like the barrel of a pistol pressing against him.

“Now then, gentlemen,” “You may come in now.” When Akechi called out loudly, the waiting police officers clattered in. The leader of the White Bat Group was thus effortlessly bound with rope. The remaining two members of the group, having heard the commotion and attempting to sneak away, were seized without allowing a word of protest. One of them was a young man with a beautiful, mask-like face who had frequently appeared in Asakusa Park in the past. The group proceeded deeper into the hideout, taking the three captives with them. Along the way stood a small room with tightly locked doors; pressing their ears close, they heard a clomping sound from within like human footsteps.

Fake Shinagawa made a strange face upon hearing this. He had been utterly convinced that the real Akechi was inside that room. “That noise?” Akechi explained with a muffled laugh. “That, my friend, is the rabbit you’d been keeping for your experiments.” “A rabbit wearing my shoes and hopping about.” In the thieves’ den stood a bizarre surgical hospital where domestic rabbits had been bred for experimentation. One of them—shoes lashed to its feet—had been serving as Akechi’s proxy.

The thieves were left gaping, unable to close their mouths.

“Now then, it’s your turn. You’ll stay quiet for a while inside the prison cell you made.” Akechi directed the detectives to confine the three thieves in that small room, locked it from the outside, and as a precaution, left one detective standing guard at the entrance.

Human Modification Techniques

After turning a corner in the tunnel-like corridor, there was a spacious room of about ten tsubo (approximately 33 square meters) partitioned by iron bars.

Inside the room, beds were lined up as in a hospital, and three individuals whose faces were wrapped in bandages lay upon them. At their bedsides stood what appeared to be electrotherapy devices, shelves of scalpels, shelves of medicine bottles, and various other unidentifiable gleaming instruments of eerie aspect crammed into the confined space.

Three men were moving about busily within it. One of them was an elderly man with unruly white hair, a beard that covered his face, eyes that glared sharply from behind Lloyd glasses, and an uneasy, almost deranged demeanor—wearing a white surgical gown like a surgeon. He had the appearance of a prison hospital director. The other two were also wearing surgical gowns, but they were mere youths, clearly assistants in status. Akechi used the key he had taken from the fake Shinagawa to open the iron bars and guided everyone into the bizarre hospital. The two assistants, startled by the sight of the police officers, fled to a corner of the room and cowered, but the white-haired old man—the hospital director—stood unflinching before the group and bellowed in a terrifying voice.

“Hey, you lot! Who the hell are you?” “You mustn’t come barging in here without permission.” “Have you no idea you’re interrupting vital work?”

“No, Dr. Ohkawa, we haven’t come to interfere,” Akechi said with a deferential bow. “We’ve come to observe your astonishing work. To hear your esteemed lecture.” “Hmm. Very well,” Dr. Ohkawa replied. “I won’t chastise you then. But you claim to have come for my teachings—do you have even the slightest grasp of medicine?”

“No, we are not medical scholars.” “These people are officials from the Metropolitan Police Department.” “In short—given our official duties—we must formally inquire about the nature of your invention.” “Ah, so you’re officials.” “It’s only natural for officials to come inspect my work.” “In fact, I’d been wondering why you hadn’t come sooner.” “Very well.” “I’ll explain it in a way even laymen can generally understand.”

It was truly a bizarre exchange. The group blinked in bewilderment, utterly clueless about what was happening, but when they heard Akechi's whispered explanation, they finally understood the details. Speaking of Dr. Ohkawa—until about ten years prior, he had been a world-renowned university professor. After resigning his post to devote himself to certain bizarre research, rumors of his endeavors circulated only for him to fade completely from public memory. No one knew where he was or what he was doing.

His research—a method to arbitrarily alter human appearances, what might be called the “Human Modification Technique”—was a grotesque hybrid of medical science and cosmetology. At a time when this madness-tinged work repelled all observers and found no patronage, there appeared a man who happened to befriend the doctor, believed in his skills, assisted him in perfecting the “Human Modification Technique,” and conceived an outlandish scheme to stage a grand spectacle.

He provided living expenses and research funds to Dr. Ohkawa, who languished in abject poverty. For nearly ten years, he continued this support without respite. About a year prior, Dr. Ohkawa’s grotesque research had reached its culmination—whether through fortune or misfortune. To transform a person into someone entirely different, or to produce an exact duplicate down to the last hair—all became possible with flawless precision. Yet at the very moment of completion—whether from exhaustion or divine retribution for meddling in devil’s work—Dr. Ohkawa’s mind shattered. He became a madman. But though deranged, he mysteriously retained mastery over the human modification procedures. He ended as a machine—silently executing his perfected invention through rote repetition.

For the man who had been supplying funds to Dr. Ohkawa, this descent into madness proved rather fortunate. He promptly purchased an old Western-style mansion, expanded its basement, and created a devilish manufacturing plant. He established a bizarre prison-hospital. Dr. Ohkawa was confined within the basement prison. Yet this prison contained all necessary tools and chemicals for human modification procedures, even supplying living humans as experimental subjects. The mad doctor carried out the procedures with glee. Unaware of how his techniques were being applied, he immersed himself solely in technique for technique's sake, remaining content in his position as director of the prison-hospital.

The man who had funded the doctor and utilized his invention was, needless to say, the fake Shinagawa Shiro—in other words, the leader of the White Bat Group. He first subjected himself as the initial test subject to undergo the procedure transforming him into Shinagawa Shiro, president of a science magazine. Once this was accomplished—as detailed in the earlier part of this story—he conducted various strange experiments: at times exposing his face in films and newspaper photo spreads, at others committing pickpocketing or stealing another man’s wife. After thoroughly testing whether Dr. Ohkawa’s techniques could perfectly deceive society, and once he determined them foolproof, he finally embarked on his last grand conspiracy—so nefarious its very purpose defies description.

Obtaining accomplices for his evil deeds was no trouble at all. Without the slightest danger, there was no one who would refuse to become a great magnate overnight or a nation’s prime minister. At that time, Akechi had not given such a detailed explanation. He had merely given a brief explanation that Ohkawa was a mad genius inventor. He then went on to say the following. “What Dr. Ohkawa has perfected is demonic technology. “It must never see the light of day—a secret from hell. “This operating room will be destroyed immediately. “Dr. Ohkawa will be confined to a real prison. “Starting tomorrow, it will become a strange marvel—something you may try to see but cannot. “We wish to take this opportunity to glimpse the true nature of this magic and hear the magician’s theories.”

No one voiced any opposition. The group, guided by the white-haired mad doctor, approached the row of bedsides. Dr. Ohkawa showed various surgical tools and medicines while eloquently explaining his bizarre “Human Modification Technique.” No matter what he said, being an old man akin to a madman—his surgical skill notwithstanding—his explanations were often muddled by strange fragments of speech that seemed to require consulting some infernal lexicon, but their general substance was as follows.

“Since you are police officials, you must be acquainted with disguise techniques.” “Wearing wigs, attaching false beards, donning spectacles—these are mere conventional methods.” “But suppose one could truly alter a person’s natural-born visage without such crude props—why then, these childish tricks of disguise would become utterly obsolete.” “My method fundamentally reconstructs the human face into something entirely different.” “This is transformation in its purest form.”

"It works equally for men and women. Those born hideously ugly must suffer lifelong humiliation. Love eludes them, society scorns them, until they curse existence itself. Until now, salvation lay only in cosmetics. But makeup merely masks flaws—it cannot transform one's fundamental nature. Eyes remain small, noses stay flat, mouths keep their vulgar width. Yet my modification technique conquers these impossibilities. In short—mine alone deserves the name of true cosmetic science!"

Dr. Ohkawa’s deranged lecture began in this manner. The foundation of human appearance lies in bone structure and flesh distribution. To truly alter one’s appearance, one must first reform the very bone structure itself. Joining bones and shaving bones—in today’s surgical medicine, this was no impossible feat. To give an easy-to-understand example—were they not performing procedures like periodontitis surgery and sinusitis surgery, shaving bones as routinely as everyday tasks? It simply meant there were no bold surgeons willing to shave and join bones merely to alter appearances. That was precisely what Dr. Ohkawa had accomplished.

Altering the flesh composition was even easier. Varying the amount of nutritional intake to induce appropriate weight gain or loss was one approach, but there existed a far more expedient method. That was the paraffin injection actually used in rhinoplasty. To plump up the cheeks, instead of using cotton padding, one could inject paraffin into that area. The same applied to the forehead or jaw—all followed the same principle. However, as could be seen in conventional rhinoplasty, paraffin injections were prone to deformation. Over time, the paraffin beneath the skin would harden into clumps, resulting in unnatural contours. Furthermore, when heat was applied, it grew soft and malleable—pressing with a finger would leave indentations. Such crude methods proved wholly inadequate.

Dr. Ohkawa’s method involved repeatedly injecting extremely thin paraffin threads separately into the crisscrossed network of skin tissue, thereby achieving flesh-like integration of the paraffin and ensuring it permanently maintained the same shape. It would never form into clumps or melt and flow away. Excess fat could be skillfully transformed through intraoral fat removal surgery. Thus, by freely transforming the bone structure and flesh distribution, one could already drastically alter a person’s appearance—but of course, that alone was insufficient. Next came transformation and discoloration of the hair. To alter the hairline, hair growth techniques and hair removal techniques had to be applied. For straightening hair’s natural wave pattern, special electrical devices were employed; the use of hair dye, extraction of hair pigment, and procedures to create appropriately graying strands were performed.

For eyebrows and beards as well, there were methods of hair removal, hair growth, and discoloration. While procedures such as eyelid deformation and creation of double eyelids were indeed currently performed by ophthalmologists, Dr. Ohkawa had further expanded these surgeries to enable techniques for eyelash growth, enlarging or reducing the eye slit, and freely transforming eyes into round shapes, narrow slits, or any desired form. The nose could be reshaped at will through the aforementioned improved rhinoplasty and cartilage resection, while the mouth—like the eyes—could be freely widened or narrowed. For these surgeries, Dr. Ohkawa used electric scalpels and Bobby Units.

The interior of the oral cavity—particularly dental deformation—was of utmost importance in facial transformation. Surgeries to extract or implant teeth and alter dental alignment were already performed by dentists to some extent, but Dr. Ohkawa had researched them far more extensively and profoundly. Regarding skin color and luster, up to a certain extent they could be altered through electrical or chemical treatments, but beyond that one still had to rely on external cosmetics. In summary, Dr. Ohkawa’s “Human Modification Technique” contained no particularly original ideas in its individual principles. It was merely that no one before had ever attempted it—he originated a comprehensive medical technique. It was merely that he took the latest techniques from plastic surgery, ophthalmology, dentistry, otolaryngology, beauty methods, and cosmetics; added further refinements; combined them; and thus completed a comprehensive technique for facial transformation. However, there had never been a precedent of anyone attempting to so comprehensively utilize existing medical techniques solely for the purpose of facial transformation. Moreover, how many could have imagined that various medical techniques—unremarkable when applied individually—would yield such splendid results when concentrated toward a single purpose?

To create an exact replica of an actual human being's appearance, one must first locate a base material—a person whose height, bone structure, and facial features most closely resemble the model. Dr. Ohkawa had classified the morphology of human heads and faces into over a hundred standard types, much like fingerprint experts categorize fingerprint patterns. To produce imitation humans, both model and base material needed to belong to this identical standard type. For instance, when creating an Akechi Kogoro duplicate, they would first identify someone bearing closest resemblance to Akechi in features and demeanor (Aoki Ainosuke being that individual). The doctor himself would then move within the model's orbit, observing him with the meticulous scrutiny of a portrait painter studying his subject, return to the hospital, arrange multiple photographs of the model before him, and initiate surgical procedures. It was, in essence, a form of human photography.

To put it simply, Dr. Ohkawa recounted these general matters—as outlined above—in a bizarre, grotesque, deranged manner. It goes without saying that the people who heard this were overcome by an indescribable, uncanny feeling—as though they were being plagued by a nightmare.

Grand Finale

“So, the three people here have undergone your surgery as well, I take it?”

Akechi asked.

The three referred to here were the real Superintendent Akamatsu, Mr. Miyazaki Tsuneemon, and Secretary Nomura. Once they had released the counterfeit into the world, it would be dangerous unless they completely transformed the original into an entirely different person. There’s no way the criminals wouldn’t notice that. “Yeah, I’ve only just begun.” “To alter the skin’s color and luster, I applied medication, but the area became so inflamed that it was unmanageable, so I administered a sleeping drug.” Dr. Ohkawa answered. “May I remove the bandages from your face to take a look?”

“No! You mustn’t do that!” “If you remove those bandages now—it’ll undo everything!” “The medication will lose its efficacy!” “Don’t you dare take them off!”

The medication losing its effectiveness was precisely what we wanted. Whatever Dr. Ohkawa might say, they had to remove the bandages.

Akechi signaled to the detectives with his eyes, had them restrain Dr. Ohkawa to prevent interference, and proceeded to begin peeling off the bandages. “Stop it! I told you to stop! Stop it! Won’t you quit it?!”

The white-haired old doctor, trying to wrench his arms free from the detectives' grip, stamped his feet and roared with a terrifying glare. “Shut up! If you don’t quiet down, you’ll regret it!”

The detective shouted back. “Damn it, I can’t take this anymore!” Dr. Ohkawa growled like a beast and launched a frenzied charge at the detectives.

A terrifying struggle began. The madman proved unexpectedly formidable; even with two detectives working together, they couldn't subdue him.

But in his wild thrashing, the doctor's foot slipped. As he fell, the back of his head struck the iron bed rail with a sickening thud. Dr. Ohkawa groaned "Ugh..." and lay collapsed, unable to rise for some time. But when the detectives rushed over and lifted him up, he finally raised his face and suddenly burst into hollow laughter. The half-mad man had now become utterly insane.

Meanwhile, the bandages had been removed from the three, and the effects of the sleeping drug had begun to wane, but it was the commotion from the recent struggle that restored their consciousness. Their faces showed no changes yet. They remained the superintendent, the wealthy man, and the secretary—unchanged. Just at that moment,

“The thieves have escaped! Come quickly!”

A shrill scream. It came from the direction of the small room where they had locked up the thieves. The lookout detective was shouting.

Just as the group, startled, began rushing in that direction, unexpectedly, the three thieves came running toward them. Had they resigned themselves to the fact that even fleeing outside offered no escape? As if on cue, the group of detectives rushed toward the thieves.

It was later discovered that the door to that small room could be locked from the inside as well, and moreover, the thieves had another duplicate key. They had untied each other’s ropes, used that key to unlock the door, shoved aside the lookout detective, and fled. Even so, why hadn’t they fled outside and instead come running further in? Ah, now it made sense. They still had one last trump card remaining. Look.

Shinagawa’s doppelgänger, his face twisted in a visage of desperate fury, stood blocking the corner of the underground chamber—there he was, brandishing a black cylindrical object! A tail-like fuse sputtered and hissed as it burned. “Now, get out of this underground chamber! If you don’t, I’ll slaughter every last one of you!”

The thief shouted with contorted lips.

People gasped in surprise; among them, some had already started dashing toward the entrance.

“Ah, there’s no need to flee. Hey, you—do you think I didn’t notice that little toy of yours? It’s sputtering away nicely, isn’t it? But only the very tip of the fuse burns. Didn’t you realize I’d drenched the gunpowder? It’s utterly useless now.”

Akechi sneered. He had noticed this dangerous object before fleeing the underground chamber earlier and had properly dealt with it. “Look here. The flame’s color is growing stranger by the second, I tell you. Well, that’s an awful lot of smoke. It sizzled out, I tell you. Look here—the fire’s already gone out.” The thief’s face swelled purple as he stamped his feet in frustration.

“Blowing up this devil’s lair was quite the clever idea.” “Indeed, there’s nothing better than smashing such a detestable place to smithereens.” “But for now, you’d better give up.” “Because we can’t have innocent people getting caught in the blast now, can we?”

Thus, all members of the White Bat Gang were arrested. The two young men who had served as Dr. Ohkawa’s assistants were no exception.

Dr. Ohkawa, now completely insane, was transferred from Demon Prison Hospital into the cage of a mental asylum.

The den of thieves, along with the instruments and chemicals of the "human modification technique," went up in flames one night and was reduced to ashes. The devil’s conspiracy perished without a trace.

And so, even if this tale were dismissed as an absurd, baseless dream with not a shred of evidence, there would be not a word to say in its defense.

The art of freely altering one’s appearance. The art of disguise in its original form.

If such things were actually carried out in this world, what terrifying upheavals would be unleashed upon human life? One cannot help but shudder at the mere thought.

Let it remain a fantasy.

Let it remain a fantasy.

This story was serialized over one year in a monthly magazine. As was customary in such cases, the author picked up his pen each month to advance the narrative. Therefore, I must apologize for the monthly changes of heart, the plot's prolix progression, and its numerous other flaws. Furthermore, splitting the story into two parts, retitling the latter half, and completely altering everything from subheading formats to plot structure and narrative flow became necessary to accommodate the magazine's sales strategy and meet the editor's demands. The inclusion of amateur detective Akechi Kogoro likewise stemmed from these editorial requirements.

"The Fruits of Madness"

Another Ending (Continued from the conclusion of Part One)

The Old Scientist Expounds on the Human Modification Technique “Oh, a customer?” “Please come this way.” The figure was a white-haired, white-bearded old man wearing a white garment resembling surgical attire. Though dimly lit and hard to see clearly, he appeared as a strange old man with a face entirely covered in white whiskers, resembling a mangy dog.

Ainosuke entered the inner room unsteadily, feeling as though hypnotized. It remained dimly lit, but upon inspection appeared to combine elements of both a chemistry lab and surgical operating theater. There stood an enamel-coated bed; a glass cabinet displayed gleaming scalpels and similar instruments; one corner housed complex electrical equipment; a large table lay cluttered with test tubes and flasks; shelves stood lined with rows of assorted glass bottles.

“Now, please have a seat.”

The old man in white sat down in front of the desk where the microscope was placed and indicated the chair before him. Ainosuke sat there in silence. “You want to be reborn, don’t you?”

“Huh? You mean… be reborn?” When Ainosuke asked back in surprise, the old man smirked. “Yes. You want to erase yourself, don’t you?” “No need to confess any secrets.” “I’ve no desire to hear your circumstances.” “Fulfilling wishes without questions—that’s my trade.” “I’ve already taken your hefty advance.” “All I need do is stay silent and rebirth you.”

Ainosuke felt as though he had stumbled into some preposterous realm of madmen. When he too adopted the mindset of a madman and considered it, he somehow felt he could grasp the meaning of the old man’s words. But could such an absurd thing truly exist in this world? “If one could be reborn, I suppose anyone would want to, wouldn’t they? But what exactly do you mean by that?” “In other words, the person known as you will vanish from this world. You die, you see. And then a completely different person will be born into this world. The price for that is ¥10,000. What do you think? A bargain, isn’t it?”

“Is such a thing truly possible?” “Yeah, it can be done.” “It’s a hassle, but I suppose I should explain one thing.” “Every client who comes here refuses to consent to the surgery until they’ve heard my explanation.” “You’re no different, I suppose.” “Surgery, you say?” Ainosuke flinched and turned pale. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, you’re scared, aren’t you?” “Well, that’s only natural.” “At first, everyone makes a face like they’re heading to the gallows.” “Very well, I shall explain it in terms even a layperson can understand.” The old man slowly adjusted his posture and began to speak. “You are familiar with the disguise techniques used by thieves and detectives.” “Wearing wigs, attaching fake beards, putting on glasses—those are the conventional methods.” “Now what if one could truly alter a person’s face as it naturally is—without using wigs, fake beards, or glasses?” “Those childish disguises would become utterly unnecessary.” “My method is a true disguise technique that transforms a person’s natural face into something completely different.” “It works for men or women.” “Those born hideously ugly must spend their entire lives feeling ashamed.” “They fail in love, are scorned by others, and ultimately come to curse the world.”

“As methods to remedy this, until now there have only been various cosmetic techniques.” “Cosmetics are just slathering on coverings—they can never truly beautify you fundamentally.” “The eyes do not grow larger, the nose does not grow higher, the mouth does not grow smaller.” “However, my modification technique has accomplished this impossibility.” “In other words, my method is none other than the true art of cosmetics.”

The eccentric old man’s lecture continued on and on in this manner. To record its key points would amount to the following meaning.

The foundation of a person’s facial features lay in their bone structure and flesh distribution. To truly alter one’s appearance, one had to begin by reforming the bone structure. Bones were shaved down and spliced. With modern surgical techniques, this was by no means impossible. To give an easily understandable example, were they not performing procedures such as surgeries for periodontitis and sinusitis where facial bones were shaved as a matter of routine? It was simply that there were no bold surgeons who would shave and splice bones merely to alter one’s appearance. It was this that the eccentric old man had accomplished.

Altering the flesh distribution was even easier. Controlling nutritional intake to alter fat distribution was one method, but there existed a much quicker approach. That was none other than the paraffin injections actually used in rhinoplasty. To plump up the cheeks, one would inject paraffin into that area instead of using cotton padding. The same applied to the forehead or jaw.

However, as can be seen in traditional rhinoplasty, paraffin injections are prone to deformation. Over time, the paraffin hardens inside the skin into dumpling-shaped clumps, altering its form. When heat is applied, it becomes soft and pliable, and pressing it with a finger causes dents. Such methods were inadequate.

The eccentric old man’s method involved injecting extremely fine paraffin threads separately and repeatedly into the crisscrossing network of skin tissue, thereby achieving a flesh-like quality in the paraffin and ensuring it permanently retained its shape. It would never form into clumps or melt and flow away.

Excess fatty tissue could be skillfully reshaped through fat removal surgery performed from inside the oral cavity. Thus, by deforming the bone structure and flesh distribution alone, one’s facial features already underwent a remarkable transformation—yet this alone was naturally insufficient. Next, altering and recoloring the hair became necessary. To alter the hairline, hair transplantation and depilation techniques had to be employed. To straighten hair texture, there were special electrical devices; treatments utilizing hair dyes and extracting hair pigment to create appropriately white hair were performed. For eyebrows and beards as well, there were methods of depilation, hair transplantation, and recoloring.

The deformation of eyelids and creation of double eyelids were procedures already performed by ophthalmologists, but the eccentric old man had expanded these surgeries to include eyelash transplantation techniques, enlarging or reducing the eyelid slit, and freely transforming eyes into rounded or narrow shapes.

The nose could be reshaped at will through the aforementioned improved rhinoplasty technique and cartilage resection, while the mouth could likewise be freely widened or narrowed like the eyes. The transformation of the oral cavity, particularly dental restructuring, held critical importance in facial modification. Surgeries involving tooth extraction, addition, and realignment of dental arrangements were currently performed by dentists to some extent, but the eccentric old man had researched them even more extensively and profoundly. Regarding skin color and texture, alterations could be made to a certain extent through electrical or chemical treatments, but beyond that, external cosmetic applications must still be used.

In essence, the eccentric old man’s "human modification technique" contained no particularly original ideas in its individual principles. He had merely pioneered a comprehensive medical technique that no one before had dared to attempt. He had simply taken the latest techniques from orthopedic surgery, ophthalmology, dentistry, otolaryngology, cosmetic enhancement, and makeup artistry; added further refinements; and combined them to perfect a comprehensive technology for facial transformation. However, there had never before been a precedent for someone to so comprehensively harness existing medical techniques and systematically utilize them solely for the purpose of altering appearances. Moreover, when these various medical techniques—which were not so remarkable when practiced individually—were concentrated toward a single purpose, no one could have imagined they would yield such splendid results.

To create an exact replica of a real human model's appearance, one first had to seek out an individual whose height, bone structure, and facial features most closely resembled the model's as raw material. The eccentric old man had classified human cranial and facial morphology into over a hundred standard types, much as fingerprint experts categorize fingerprint patterns. To create an imitation human required both model and raw material to belong to the same standard type. When crafting a counterfeit of a particular individual, they would first locate another person sharing that individual's standard type. The eccentric old man himself would approach close to the model's vicinity, observe them as a painter studies a subject, return to his laboratory to arrange numerous photographs of the model before him, then commence surgery on the counterfeit candidate. It was, so to speak, a form of human photography technique.

The eccentric old man lectured on the aforementioned matters using a kind of bizarre, mad-like expression. Needless to say, Aoki Ainosuke—after hearing this explanation—found himself gripped by an indescribably strange sensation, as though tormented by a nightmare.

The Orchestrator of Grotesque Extremes Makes His Final Confession

As Ainosuke listened to the eccentric old man’s lengthy lecture, he had naturally come to realize something that should have been obvious. He could hardly wait for the lecture to end and found himself unable to refrain from asking about it. “So now I understand. That’s why there were two Shinagawa Shiro. You were the one who created the second Shinagawa Shiro, weren’t you?”

“No, names are forbidden. “I don’t even intend to ask your name. “Not inquiring about names, statuses, or anything while fulfilling requests—that’s my business policy. “I know nothing of someone like Shinagawa Shiro.” “Ah, I see. “That makes sense. “That’s how it should be.” Ainosuke marveled incessantly. “In that case, if I showed you a photo of Shinagawa, you’d recognize him, wouldn’t you? “However, unfortunately I don’t have a photo of that man with me now…………”

“Hmm, photographs might help me recall what sort of surgery was performed,” said the eccentric old man, peering into Ainosuke’s eyes. “But you—” “Photographs won’t be necessary.” “Understood?” “There’s something I must show you.” “Watch my face closely.” “Ready?” Then the old man began chuckling softly. It was a laugh that chilled the blood.

Ainosuke felt as though he were losing consciousness. Something like a premonition of an earth-shattering bizarre event leapt directly into his heart. The old man squinted his eyes and smirked as he grabbed his long beard, squeaking it back and forth—then the entire beard began to stretch like rubber. No, it wasn’t stretching. It came away. Like skin being peeled away, the beard’s roots began separating from the chin.

After removing all the facial hair, his hand reached for the tangled mass atop his head. It began peeling away from the left side in a spiraling motion. From beneath the white hair, black youthful locks emerged. Ainosuke sprang upright and tried to bolt. He didn’t want to see the face emerging from beneath the wig and false beard. But he’d already seen it. He no longer possessed the strength to flee. Limply, he sank back into his original chair.

From beneath the eccentric old man’s face, the newly born visage of another person was smirking. The grinning mouth seemed to stretch endlessly into infinity.

“Hahahahaha! How about that? Wasn’t Shinagawa Shiro’s face just like this?”

The old man’s voice transformed into Shinagawa Shiro’s voice. His face was now indistinguishable from Shinagawa’s by even a hair’s breadth. A third Shinagawa Shiro abruptly materialized here. “Oh, you are...?” “And you are...?”

He could no longer utter another word. Ainosuke was writhing in the throes of a terrifying nightmare.

“Hey, Mr. Aoki, how’s that? “So this is the culmination of your grotesque pursuits?” The third Shinagawa Shiro addressed him in Shinagawa Shiro’s voice, with Shinagawa Shiro’s familiar ease. “Wh-what? The culmination of grotesque pursuits?” “That’s right. “So this is where your grotesque obsessions have led you. “Well? Did you savor it thoroughly?” “Savor it?” “I’m asking if your chronic boredom has been cured.” “Boredom?” “Heh heh… You’d forgotten your boredom entirely. “You—the incurable boredom addict—had forgotten your own affliction. “That’s nothing short of miraculous. “And ¥10,000 seems a modest fee for such a miracle.”

“Huh? Ten thousand yen?” “The ¥10,000 you handed over to that rogue broker youth earlier.” “The Human Modification Technique’s a complete lie, you know.” “So I hired that young man with a face like a Noh mask to make the eccentric old man’s modification technique look convincing, you see.” “Ugh… So that’s it.” “So you also……” “Yes—the genuine article: Shinagawa Shiro, science magazine president Shinagawa Shiro doubling as pickpocket Shinagawa Shiro, Shinagawa Shiro who deceived your wife, Shinagawa Shiro who kissed severed heads—ha ha ha ha ha ha ha—isn’t that right? Truly, ¥10,000 is a bargain.”

Ainosuke sat there with his mouth hanging open, silent as a fool. “Does this require an explanation?” “It seems it does.” “Listen—you’re a chronic boredom patient.” “After exhausting every grotesque pursuit, only genuine crime remained. Only murder remained. But you lacked the courage to go that far.” “And that lack was your salvation.” “Otherwise you’d be in prison or on the gallows by now.” “I magnificently accomplished what you couldn’t.” “For your sake and mine.” “You got to forget your boredom completely for a time, while I thoroughly savored the pleasure of deceiving a clever bastard like you—see?”

Ainosuke’s eyes remained vacant. He was tormented, trying to believe things that should not be believed. “It was all a trick, you see,” the doppelgänger continued. “First, the Kudan pickpocketing incident—that was me. I had someone approach you on purpose and call out, making it look like a case of mistaken identity. The wallet in the stone embankment wasn’t actually stolen goods—just old wallets I’d asked antique dealers to gather for me.” “The whole story about me having lunch with you at a Tokyo hotel while being filmed in a motion picture in Kyoto that same day? A complete fabrication. I had a friendly movie director write that letter for me. The day I went to Kyoto to blend into the crowd and appear in the film was entirely different—another favor from that same director.” He chuckled dryly. “When you think about it, I’m quite the eccentric fellow, aren’t I?”

“The peeping incident in Kojimachi was my greatest masterpiece.” “When you first peeked alone, the one who pranced around like a horse was yours truly.” “An exhibitionist’s act, you might say?” “It was all a grand performance, I tell you.” “Unaware of this, when you invited me out and we peeked together, that was my double.” “Since we used the same woman, creating the atmosphere wasn’t difficult at all.” “I hired a man whose face differed but whose physique matched mine perfectly, you see.” “Just think back.” “That man acted skillfully and never once showed you his face.” “You only caught glimpses of body parts and my backside—with matching clothes and the same woman involved, it forged a flawless illusion for you.” “Then when I peeked myself, I pretended to come face-to-face with my exact double and feigned violent trembling—so in the end, you were thoroughly deceived, you see.”

“Then there’s the matter of the newspaper photo where two Shinagawa Shiro faces were lined up side by side, right? This one was simple too. I bribed a newspaper’s photo department staff member, had my face skillfully pasted into the crowd, and made them create the original photoengraving plate. No matter who’s among the crowd, the news value doesn’t change, you see. For the newspaper company, there was no harm at all. That’s why the photo staff obliged my bribery too.” “Ikebukuro’s mysterious house—that was the climax, right? That was nothing but an empty house. I borrowed it temporarily and rigged it up with various tricks. The man you killed? Yes—that was yours truly through and through. And so I finally let you fulfill your long-cherished wish for murder and treated you to the ultimate thrill.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha—you’ve gone completely vacant-eyed. Can’t believe it? That pistol fired blanks. I’d hidden a rubber pouch filled with crimson blood inside my dress shirt’s chest. When you pulled the trigger, the pouch split open and gushed out fake blood—that was the mechanism. That childish trick succeeded entirely through atmosphere. It was my artistic power creating illusions. I suppose I’m allowed some self-conceit here, don’t you think?”

It was truly an astonishing spectacle. While Aoki Ainosuke’s grotesque proclivities were one thing, Shinagawa Shiro’s relentless, profound mischief could rather be called pathological. He displayed a madman’s meticulous obsession unrestrainedly in orchestrating grotesque spectacles. Certainly, ¥10,000 had been a bargain. How the world’s grotesque enthusiasts must have craved such an ideal impresario.

“That kiss with the severed head back then?” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha, naturally it was staged.” “No actual decapitation—they concealed the body beneath that pedestal to simulate a disembodied head.” “Complete with gory effects.”

“Wait. Hold on, Mr. Shinagawa. If what you’re saying holds true, there’s something that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Ainosuke woke from his delusion and cried out in shock. “You deliberately avoided touching on that, but there’s the most crucial matter.” “You know what it is, don’t you?” Ainosuke’s pale face twitched spasmodically. Indeed, he awakened from his daze. He had noticed a grave issue—one so critical it jolted him from his delusions.

“I know.” “It’s about your wife, I suppose.” “You mean that I had been messing with your wife.” “The whispers in the darkness of Nagoya’s Tsuruma Park, and then the love letter your wife sent to me.” Even after Shinagawa Shiro cut off his words, Ainosuke said nothing. He couldn’t speak. He was glaring at his opponent with eyes wild with desperate fury. “Of course it was a trick.” “I can vouch for your wife’s chastity.”

“I want evidence.” Ainosuke had beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tersely made a single demand.

“Evidence?” “Very well.” “First, the love letter—simple matter. A forgery.” “I mimicked your wife’s handwriting quirks and penned it.” “Another infantile trick, as always.” “As for the man trysting in Tsuruma Park—when you hailed him, he feigned mistaken identity—but that was me.” “There cannot exist two identical beings like myself in this world.” “But set your mind at ease.” “The woman wasn’t your wife.” “A different person altogether—only her silhouette and voice resembled your spouse.” “I exerted considerable effort to unearth that woman.” “A waitress from a particular café.”

“Show me the evidence.” Ainosuke still couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it. “Very well. I have the evidence properly prepared. Wait—I’ll show you now.”

Shinagawa placed his finger on the call bell atop the table. A buzzer sounded somewhere. A door on one side of the room opened quietly. And beyond the door stood a tall, slender woman with her back turned. “Ah, Yoshie…” Ainosuke clattered up from his chair and made to dash toward her. “Look closely—that’s not Yoshie… See?” The woman slowly turned toward them and stepped calmly into the room. Her back was identical to Yoshie’s, but her face bore no resemblance whatsoever to Ainosuke’s beloved wife—though she too was undeniably beautiful.

Ainosuke’s tension drained away, and he slumped heavily into the chair. The woman drew near until she stood right before them. Then, bowing with an air of affectation, she revealed charming dimples and smiled bewitchingly through well-shaped rouged lips.