Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I: The Fruit of Grotesquerie

Preface

He was far too much of a chronic sufferer of boredom and a grotesquerie enthusiast. A certain detective novelist (he too was a man who, driven by extreme boredom, had begun writing detective stories as the sole remaining stimulus in this world) had expressed fear that someone might progress from one bloody crime to another until even fiction could no longer satisfy them, ultimately leading to committing actual crimes such as murder—and the protagonist of this story went and actually did what that detective novelist had feared. As grotesquerie escalated, he finally committed a terrible crime.

O devotees of grotesquerie, you must not become too enamored of being grotesquerie enthusiasts. This story itself stands as an exemplary warning. How truly terrifying is the fruit of grotesquerie.

The protagonist of this story was the second son of a wealthy family in Nagoya City, a young man on the cusp of thirty named Aoki Ainosuke. He had no need to work for his livelihood, possessed more than enough pocket money and vitality, and in matters of love—having married the beautiful woman he desired three years prior only to grow numb to her charms—in short, precisely because he lacked nothing in life, he found himself consumed by boredom. And thus, he ended up becoming what one might call a devotee of grotesquerie.

He began indulging in grotesque indulgences across all domains. Things to see, things to hear, things to eat—even women. Yet nothing possessed the power to heal his entrenched boredom. Being such a man, he naturally devoured the grotesque elements within detective novels. He cultivated an interest in crime. And he even commenced that peculiar game called the Grotesquerie Club—the very sort that devotees of grotesquerie eagerly attempt as stimuli bordering on criminality. But this too ultimately served only to make his boredom more irredeemable. The intensification of stimuli proportionally numbed the very nerves meant to perceive them.

Even so, when it came to stimulants apart from crime, this Grotesquerie Club was his final recourse. There, every conceivable grotesque diversion took place. Bloody and obscene short plays modeled after Paris’s Grand Guignol, various test-of-courage style spectacles, crime stories, etc., etc. At every meeting, a member would be assigned as the responsible party, and this designated individual had to devise macabre scenarios—such as solemnly confessing "I just murdered someone"—to shock and astonish the members, making them gasp in horror.

As their ideas gradually ran dry, they eventually even agreed to attach substantial reward money to those performances that could profoundly shock the members. Aoki Ainosuke provided nearly all of its funding by himself. However, such contrivances have their limits. No matter how starved for stimulation Aoki Ainosuke might have been, no matter however large a reward he might have offered, this was not something that could be controlled through money alone. Finally, as its ideas ran dry and members slipped away one after another, the Grotesquerie Club disbanded without anyone quite noticing when it happened. And then, in its wake, nothing remained but an even more unbearable boredom than before.

The author believes this was only natural. As long as a grotesquerie enthusiast remains a grotesquerie enthusiast, his grotesque desires can never be permanently satisfied. For he remains fundamentally a third party and observer. Merely engaging in or listening to crime stories will never allow one to taste true terror or shudder from the depths. If he wanted to taste that, he had no choice but to become a criminal himself. To take an extreme example, there is no choice but to either be killed by someone or kill someone.

That is the Fruit of Grotesquerie. But no devotee of grotesquerie—not even our Aoki Ainosuke—no matter how starved for stimulation they might be, would ever possess the courage to willingly stoop to becoming an actual criminal and reach the extreme of the "Fruit of Grotesquerie."

Shinagawa Shirō Enthralled by the Bear-Girl Spectacle

Aoki Ainosuke maintained a separate residence in Tokyo, and it was his custom to visit the capital about once a month for socializing, theatergoing, 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 began with events in Tokyo. There was a man named Shinagawa Shirō who had been a friend since university days (Ainosuke had graduated from the University of Tokyo). As he was the son of a poor man, upon graduating from university he immediately sought employment and joined a certain popular science magazine company, but before long he had made the magazine his own and began publishing it under his own management. It seemed to yield considerable profit. Given the nature of his business, he wasn’t entirely averse to grotesquerie himself, but being more of a conventional man at heart, he had always criticized Aoki’s reckless lifestyle. He was particularly opposed to things like the Grotesquerie Club and despised such foolishness, thinking no amount of it could cure boredom. He was a practical man.

His brand of grotesquerie consisted of factual accounts, and when dining at restaurants with Aoki, he would often recount thoroughly researched recent crime stories. Ainosuke, for his part, despised Shinagawa’s practicality. "Crime stories based on real cases are so dull—cut it out," he said. And he would recount his favorite absurd and fantastical dreams. In other words, while they mutually despised each other, they shared certain commonalities and thus maintained an unchanging bond.

Yet there now occurred a mysterious incident—one so aligned with their respective natures that both men became feverishly engrossed. Aoki was pleased with the mysterious and bizarre aspects of it. Shinagawa Shirō was drawn to it precisely because it was a vivid real-life occurrence. What made it so wondrously strange was that this incident proved both intensely realistic and simultaneously more bizarre than anything a detective novelist could ever dream up.

First, let us recount the events in order.

It was an autumn afternoon during the Spirit-Inviting Festival when Kudan’s Yasukuni Shrine was filled with tent-covered spectacles.

Aoki Ainosuke, ever the connoisseur of the bizarre, was not one to let a Spirit-Inviting Festival pass without visiting Kudan—indeed, he had even included this spectacle-viewing at Kudan in his schedule for that month’s visit to Tokyo. Despite the muggy, dusty, unpleasant weather, he disembarked from the streetcar dressed in a thin Inverness coat and carrying a cane, then began strolling up Kudanzaka Slope. This may be a slight digression, but he had developed a peculiar fascination with this place called Kudanzaka Slope. The reason was this: there existed a deceased painter named Murayama Kaita whom he greatly admired, and while Kaita had written about three detective novels, one such work featured a bizarre protagonist—a man with jagged, carnivore-like serrations on his tongue—who hid something like a will behind one of the stones in Kudanzaka Slope’s stone wall, wrote its location in cipher, and handed it to someone as part of the plot.

And so, each time Aoki ascended Kudanzaka Slope, he would recall Kaita’s novel; though the present-day scene had changed completely from that earlier time, he found himself unable to refrain from gazing at the stone wall by the roadside with an odd sensation.

“The shape of that stone looks slightly different from the others—could something still be hidden underneath it even now?” Ainosuke was the sort of man who conflated fact and fiction, reveling in such fanciful notions. The spectacle-filled scenery of Kudan needs no elaborate description here—common knowledge though it was—now fallen into disrepair, giving the impression of having scoured every corner of Japan to assemble antiquated amusements of the sort lingering on in some remote countryside.

Hell-and-Paradise automaton puppets, electric-powered Shuten-dōji of Mount Ōe dolls, female sword dances, ball-balancing acts, monkey shows, trick horseback riders, karmic curiosities, Bear-Girls, Cow-Girls, Horned-Men—between these great canvas-draped spectacles clustered oden stalls, ice vendors, orangeade and mint-water stands, ten-sen bargain toy shops, balloon peddlers’ booths, all swarmed densely together. Through this throng, for reasons unknown, people from all over Tokyo—inhaling dust, faces flushed—swarmed and squirmed about. In front of a karmic curiosities booth—one that occasionally lifted its curtain to offer fleeting glimpses inside—a sea of people gathered. The rearmost row of the crowd swelled until it nearly touched the food stalls on the opposite side, leaving only a narrow gap in the path barely wide enough for a single person to pass through. Through this gap, an endless stream of pedestrians kept passing from right and left, jostling shoulder to shoulder—it was truly unpleasant.

It was when Aoki Ainosuke attempted to pass through that wisdom-tooth-like narrow alleyway. Strangely enough, within that dusty crowd there appeared Shinagawa Shirō in his business suit—wearing a black winter bowler hat tilted at an angle, his face crimson with exertion and glistening with sweat—being jostled by the throng.

The reason it seemed strange was that Shinagawa Shirō was no connoisseur of the bizarre like Ainosuke—a man utterly disinterested in antiquated spectacles. As a bachelor, he couldn’t have been dragged there by children either. Yet if he’d come seeking material for his commercial magazine, no editorial staff accompanied him. After all, what president would personally gather such trivialities? What shocked most was Shinagawa himself: sleeves rolled up in a striped cotton haori, neck veins throbbing crimson as he stood transfixed before the Bear-Girl stall, raptly listening to some grubby carnival barker’s spiel. Truth held stranger fancies than fiction.

I looked again carefully, but it was definitely not a case of mistaken identity.

The President of a Science Magazine Commits Pickpocketing Aoki Ainosuke was not the sort of man to innocently call out someone's name in such situations. He thought he would quietly observe what Shinagawa was going to do in this crowd. A profoundly sinful deed born of grotesque curiosity.

Then, after wasting nearly half a day, he tailed Shinagawa like a detective. It was a task requiring considerable patience, but this grotesquerie enthusiast possessed ample reserves of such perseverance. Unaware of being followed, Shinagawa Shirō weaved his way through crowd after crowd. Even before the electric-powered puppet displays, before the Hell-and-Paradise exhibits, before the female sword dance performances—he stood transfixed for long intervals like a country bumpkin, gaping in a daze.

This guy came sneaking off to indulge his bizarre tastes while trying to hide it. Because it’s such a shameful hobby, he’d kept it secret even from me. You talk big, but you’re one of us after all! Ainosuke felt he’d grasped his friend’s weakness and grew delighted. Shinagawa Shirō passed numerous spectacles after merely hearing their spiels, but paid admission to enter the largest tent housing a girl equestrian troupe. There he endured cramped mat seating—jostled by country bumpkins’ shins and young women’s hips—as he watched a full program of trick riding and acrobatics. Needless to say, Aoki Ainosuke shadowed him throughout while avoiding detection.

It was already evening when they left that place. At the spectacles, acetylene gas lamps were lit with a sweet-smelling glow—that liminal hour between day and night where the attractions’ illuminations flickered amidst the lingering sunlight, the faces of the crowd fading dimly into a moment as beautiful as a dream. Shinagawa Shirō descended Kudanzaka Slope with a body utterly exhausted from viewing bizarre spectacles. Midway up the slope, a telescope vendor conducted business in a Dutch-import style, offering glimpses of the moon’s face. They had set up a cheap astronomical telescope and were attracting customers at ten sen per peek. When he looked, unbeknownst to him, the moon—appearing elliptical in shape—had revealed itself in the midheaven.

Shinagawa stopped at the crowd and listened for a while to the telescope vendor’s spiel, but suddenly began doing something peculiar.

Directly behind the telescope vendor stood a stone wall. The stone wall where Kaita’s novel had hidden his will. At that spot—made particularly dim by the surrounding crowd—Shinagawa turned toward the stone wall and nimbly crouched down. "Oh ho," I thought. "Is he crouching down to take a piss or something? The man grows more vulgar by the day." Thinking this,I kept watching stealthily.Shinagawa remained crouched restlessly scanning his surroundings until—sheltered by the crowd where no passersby lingered and no observers remained—he seemed reassured.Placing both hands on one stone in the wall he pulled it out with a scraping sound. In its place now gaped a pitch-black hole about fifteen to eighteen centimeters square—so distinct it was clearly visible even in the dim light.

He suspected he might be seeing some bizarre dream.

Now, Shinagawa Shirō was none other than the esteemed president of a science magazine. This Shinagawa Shirō, concealed by the twilight and the crowd, glanced around thief-like while prying stones from the wall of Kudanzaka Slope. It was an impossible scene.

"Ah... So that's it. That's how it was." Aoki muttered a strange soliloquy deep within his gut. "Kaita's novel was true. There is something hidden behind that stone. Shinagawa discovered that hiding spot and is trying to take out what's inside." But of course, this was merely a momentary madness on his part—there could be no reason for such an absurd thing. Moreover, Shinagawa wasn't taking something out but rather putting something into the hole in the stone wall he had opened. After swiftly replacing the stone exactly as before, he proceeded down the slope with feigned nonchalance.

Seething curiosity overcame his malicious urge to keep tailing him. Moreover, the other party was already making ready to leave. Aoki Ainosuke trotted down the slope until he caught up with Shinagawa Shirō, then tapped him on the back. “Shinagawa-kun?” he called out. The man jolted and spun around. Even at close quarters, he was undeniably Shinagawa Shirō. Yet he adopted a vacant expression and withheld any immediate reply. “Hey, what’s wrong? Come for a look at the show?”

Ainosuke called out again.

However, Shinagawa remained blank-faced, still glancing about with an uncomprehending expression. And then he began uttering something peculiar.

“Who are you? You mentioned ‘Shinagawa’ just now, but I am not such a person.” Ainosuke was left dumbfounded. Taking advantage of that opening, he— “You must have mistaken me for someone else. Good day.”

With that parting remark, he stomped off into the distance. Aoki was so startled he thought he might be dreaming—a sensation entirely new to him. This marked his first truly uncanny experience.

This was absolutely not a case of mistaken identity. Since I had tailed him that long, I would have noticed if he were merely a lookalike. Yet equally certain was that he wasn’t Shinagawa Shirō himself—the man had flatly declared it. Strange. Ainosuke felt his heart begin pounding at this bizarre turn of events.

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

The grotesquerie enthusiast had now taken his first step into the world of grotesquerie he had so ardently desired. He hurried back behind the telescope shop and, taking care not to be seen by anyone, tested moving various stones in the stone wall. Only one shifted. With both hands gripping it, he pulled out that stone and timidly reached into the pitch-black cavity. Sure enough, something brushed against his fingers.

He pulled it out. One, two, three… A total of six—and lo and behold, they were purses! He opened them one by one, but all were empty.

Ainosuke hurriedly put them back and covered the hole with the stone. And then, as if he himself were a thief, he nervously looked around. Since the man from earlier—the one who looked exactly like Shinagawa Shirō—had hidden such things there, he must have been a thief. Moreover, he was quite the professional. For someone who exercised such thorough care even in disposing of empty purses—not discarding them in a communal toilet but hiding them behind a stone wall where there was absolutely no risk of discovery—this could hardly be some amateur’s impulsive act. And though I didn’t know whether it amounted to hundreds of yen in gains, there were six purses.

No wonder that bastard kept choosing to walk through crowds. Putting on an act of being absorbed in the show, he was actually targeting the wallets of people nearby.

"This is utterly absurd. I must harass that Shinagawa bastard. The guy I mistook for you and called out to was a pickpocket. From face to build, he wasn't the slightest bit different from you. Take care not to get mistakenly arrested, you hear?"

Ainosuke, delighting in an unexpected harvest beyond the spectacle, walked toward the bus stop.

But wait. He suddenly noticed something and stopped. How absurd—this isn’t some Makkarei novel. Could there really be two people in this world who are not the slightest bit different from each other? Moreover, I haven't heard any talk about Shinagawa Shirō being a twin. This guy might be…

And there, he let out a malicious smile, rejoicing in his friend’s misdeeds. After all, that must have been Shinagawa Shirō. Even the president of a magazine company wasn’t necessarily above committing theft. That Shinagawa bastard acted all saintly, but he might actually have had some compulsion like that. After all, there was even a princess who had licked the oil from an andon lamp at midnight. When I thought about it that way, it seemed strange that a pauper like Shinagawa had managed to acquire his current magazine. I wondered if the funds were coming from some outlandish source. He might not only be committing theft but even more crimes beyond that.

That’s right, that’s right. Because he thought I’d discovered his compulsion, that bastard feigned ignorance and pretended there existed a perfect lookalike. "Since he goes so far as to steal, his acting must be masterful."

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

Aoki and Shinagawa both went to watch motion pictures in the outskirts.

About a month passed without any notable incidents.

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

It was three days after the Kudanzaka Incident. "So how’s it been lately—still bored as ever?"

Shinagawa spoke in a bright, unreserved tone.

Something was off. To think that this cheerful, ordinary man was committing such misdeeds in secret—the sheer skill of his act was terrifying.

After talking for a while, Ainosuke suddenly ventured to say such a thing.

“Last Sunday, you know, I went to see the festival at Kudan.” “And watched the girl acrobatic troupe.”

As he spoke, he stared intently at his interlocutor’s expression.

However, to one’s astonishment, Shinagawa did not move a single muscle in his face and answered with perfect composure. “Ah yes, that was the Yasukuni Festival the other day.” “Your usual grotesque indulgences, I presume?” “It’s been quite some time since your last escapade.”

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

Now one month had passed since Kudanzaka Slope when a certain day arrived. It was the end of November. Aoki Ainosuke went to Tokyo and on his second day there went out shopping at a department store. The department store was bustling with Christmas goods for sale.

After arranging for the purchases to be delivered home, he entered the elevator heading to the first floor. A massive elevator—the department store’s pride and joy—three or four times the size of a regular box. “It’s quite crowded here, so please step back.”

The elevator was so packed that one couldn’t move an inch—to the extent that the elevator boy had to push back against the surging passengers as he announced. When he suddenly noticed, there was Shinagawa Shirō amidst the crowd once more.

He was squeezed between an obese gentleman and a modern young lady in the far corner of the elevator car, making himself small. Ainosuke widened his eyes like Inspector Cladoc who had found Sam in the subway. He hid his face behind the backs of others so as not to be noticed by his target and fixed his attention on Shinagawa’s movements. He found himself thinking that the obese gentleman was being done in quite pitifully.

When they reached the first floor, they were pushed out of the elevator by the crowd. Turning around but hesitant to risk an awkward encounter should he meet Shinagawa’s gaze, Ainosuke feigned nonchalance as he walked toward the exit. Then came a voice from behind calling his name. “Isn’t that Aoki-kun?” “Hey, Aoki-kun.” He turned around—ah, the sheer audacity of this man! There stood Shinagawa Shirō, smiling as if nothing were amiss.

“Oh, Shinagawa-kun?” Aoki said with feigned surprise, as though noticing him for the first time, “It’s terribly crowded, isn’t it?”—a remark dripping with sarcasm. “Perfect timing running into you here. “There’s something I absolutely want you to see. “It’s something from your domain. “And actually, I was planning to visit you, but I didn’t know whether you’d be here.”

Shinagawa walked shoulder to shoulder with Aoki toward the exit and suddenly broached the subject. “Hoh, what on earth is that?” Ainosuke stood utterly aghast at the man’s domineering demeanor.

"No, you'll understand once you see it," said Shinagawa. "It's truly an astonishing incident." "If this proves to be as I suspect, it would be an unprecedented incident." "But perhaps this is my misunderstanding. That's why I want you to confirm it for me." "Will you come?" "It's a bit far, though." Aoki thought he was initially making an excuse to hide his embarrassment. But the man's tone was quite serious. Moreover, its content was profoundly bizarre, intensely stimulating his appetite for the grotesque.

“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 on the outskirts.” “It’s a motion picture theater called Hōraikan in Honjo.” The reply grew ever more unexpected.

“Huh, is there something at the motion picture theater?” “What do you think? It’s motion pictures.” Shinagawa said with a laugh, “They are motion pictures, but there’s something odd about them. It’s a work by Nikkatsu’s Modern Drama Division—a run-of-the-mill thriller called *The Mysterious Gentleman*.” “*The Mysterious Gentleman*, hmph. It’s a detective drama, huh? What’s so special about that?”

“Well, you’ll understand once you see it. It’s better if you see it without prior knowledge. That way you can make an accurate judgment. You’ll come, won’t you? There’s no one but you I can consult about such matters.” “You’re being oddly suggestive. But since I don’t have any particular business anyway, I suppose I can go.” In truth, the grotesquerie enthusiast Aoki Ainosuke was already fidgeting with anticipation to go.

Thereupon, the two boarded a taxi called by Shinagawa and headed toward Honjo’s Hōraikan, during which the following conversation took place. “I didn’t know you had an interest in motion pictures,” Aoki said quizzically. The fact was that Shinagawa Shirō seemed like a man far removed from novels and plays. “No, someone told me about it, so I went to see it for the first time in ages,” “You often say real events are boring, but this one will surely surprise you.” “It’s an incident that corroborates my theory—that truth is stranger than fiction, as they say.”

“Is it about the plot of the motion picture?” “Well, you’ll understand once you see it. By the way, before we view that film, I’d like to confirm your memory—you should have been in Tokyo on August 23rd this year, correct?” Shinagawa kept coming out with one strange statement after another. “August? In August I was at Bentenjima until the 20th. I came to Tokyo immediately after leaving Bentenjima. And since I should have stayed about ten days, I was of course in Tokyo on the 23rd.”

Ainosuke didn’t understand the man’s meaning but answered nonetheless. “Moreover, you met me exactly on the 23rd—I looked through my diary and realized it. We ate at the Imperial Hotel’s Grill that day. You dragged me to that vaudeville theater afterward.”

“That’s right. Did that really happen? We listened to a cello performance, didn’t we?”

“That’s right. I checked with the hotel just to be thorough—confirmed it was indeed the 23rd. No mistake about that.” Aoki Ainosuke’s curiosity intensified further. What possible reason could Shinagawa have for attaching such grave importance to August 23rd?

“Now then, kindly read this.” Shinagawa took out a letter from his pocket and handed it to Ainosuke.

When he opened it and looked, the text was as follows on the left.

In reply, The scene you inquired about is Kyoto’s Shijō Street. The filming date is August 23rd. As I am answering this based on the filming diary, there is absolutely no error. Respectfully submitted, Saitō Kurao Mr. Shinagawa Shirō “Saitō Kurao… he’s the director at Nikkatsu, isn’t he?” “You know him?” Ainosuke returned the letter to Shinagawa and said.

“That’s right—the director who made *The Mysterious Gentleman*. I don’t actually know him personally. I abruptly sent a letter of inquiry, you see. To my admiration, he replied immediately. Now then, this letter constitutes Evidence Number Two. Through it, we’ve definitively established that a particular scene from *The Mysterious Gentleman* was filmed on August 23rd along Kyoto’s Shijō Street.”

Shinagawa spoke in a manner reminiscent of a judge or detective. He was attempting to research August 23rd from every possible angle to make it irrefutable. But what on earth was the purpose of all that?

“Oh, this is getting interesting!” Ainosuke was dimly able to grasp the situation. Indeed—this was just as Shinagawa had said—it was undoubtedly an extraordinary incident, I thought. His curiosity swelled to near-bursting. “By the way, the time we went out to the hotel together on August 23rd was a little past noon, wasn’t it?” “I think it was around two o'clock.” Shinagawa was still fixated on August 23rd.

“Yes, that was around the time.” “Since we had dinner together after that, I parted with you at dusk.”

“Yeah, it must have been getting dark.” “Kindly commit these facts firmly to your memory.” “This temporal relationship is extremely crucial.” “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 crux of the matter, Shinagawa’s tedious explanation felt grating. More than that, I couldn’t stand not seeing the photograph of this *Mysterious Gentleman*.

“Ah, here we are! Here!” Shinagawa stopped the car. When they alighted, there stood a crudely built, quaintly provincial movie shack on a desolately wide main street. The two men bought first-class tickets, had damp zabuton cushions laid out on the tatami in the second-floor seats, and sat down. Fortunately, it was just about time for *The Mysterious Gentleman* in question to begin.

The film began to play. It was an outdated film that had already been released in Asakusa's main district two weeks prior. Detective dramas are never any good. The protagonist, the so-called Mysterious Gentleman—in other words, Lupin—was a man who looked like a student in a tailcoat. That and the detective staged their climactic action-packed scene. Of course, Ainosuke had no intention of watching the film's plot or anything of the sort. He watched the screen without following the story. He held his breath, waiting for Kyoto's Shijō Street scenery to appear at any moment.

“Now then, keep your eyes peeled.” Shinagawa next to him pressed a knee against Ainosuke’s and signaled. It was Lupin’s pursuit scene. Two automobiles raced through Kyoto’s streets. Lupin leapt from the automobile to shake off the detective. Lupin in a tailcoat, cane in hand, ran through the town in broad daylight. Behind him appeared the familiar Minamiza Theater. Shijō Street. An automobile drove. The errand boy’s bicycle sped. Citizens walked along the pavement as usual. A grotesque-looking man wove through them.

Then, suddenly in the right corner of the screen appeared a hulking monk-like figure facing away. One of the citizens watching the action-packed scene must have carelessly stuck their head in front of the camera. Ainosuke's heart pounded with a certain premonition. Sure enough, the hulking monk-like figure turned around and looked at the camera. Occupying about a quarter of the screen, a man's face alone stared fixedly in this direction.

It was a mere instant. Perhaps having been warned about being in the way, no sooner had the face turned this way than it vanished from the screen. In that moment, Ainosuke gasped, his breath catching. He had mostly anticipated it, yet the sensation of Shinagawa Shirō's face—sitting next to him in the audience—appearing on the screen before them at roughly tatami-mat size felt utterly bizarre. The spectator who had coincidentally appeared in *The Mysterious Gentleman*'s frame was none other than Shinagawa Shirō himself.

The existence of two Shinagawa Shirōs in this world.

It was established that the scene had been filmed on August 23rd on Kyoto’s Shijō Street. At the same time, on that very day, Shinagawa and Ainosuke ate lunch together at Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel. Both facts were beyond dispute. Thus, Shinagawa Shirō would have been in both Tokyo and Kyoto on the same day. But between the two cities lay a ten-hour journey by limited express. Having watched the filming in Kyoto’s city streets and then having eaten lunch in Tokyo on the same day was utterly impossible.

Therefore, the conclusion was reached that there existed another man in Japan who was identical to Shinagawa Shirō. The pickpocketing in Kudan must also have been committed by that other Shinagawa Shirō.

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

After exiting the movie shack and walking through an unnamed town on the outskirts, Shinagawa Shirō spoke to Aoki Ainosuke in a state of bewilderment. “Regarding that matter—I’ve just recalled something—you didn’t attend this autumn’s Kudan festival, did you?”

Ainosuke checked just to be sure. "Nah, I'm not particularly interested in those kinds of things." As expected, the man from Kudan the other day wasn't Shinagawa. Thereupon, Ainosuke explained the pickpocket incident in detail and finally added: "Since it looked exactly like you no matter what, to tell the truth, I suspected you." "I thought you might be secretly working as a pickpocket." "Hahahaha, how absurd! So out of consideration, even when we met afterward, I deliberately didn't bring it up."

“Huh, so that’s what happened?” “So finally, that means there’s another me out there.”

Shinagawa looked somewhat frightened.

“It might be twins, you know. Even if you don’t know about it, couldn’t there be a twin you were separated from as a baby?” “No, that’s impossible. My family isn’t that secretive. If there were twins, we would have known long ago. Moreover, even if they were twins, could there really be such an exact look-alike?” “If they are not twins, then the question becomes whether two completely unrelated people who resemble each other more than twins could possibly exist in this world.”

“But I cannot believe such a thing.” “Just as there are no two identical fingerprints, there cannot be two identical human beings.”

Shinagawa Shirō was through and through a practical man. "But you—no matter how much you say you can't believe it, there's irrefutable evidence. There's no helping it." "The pickpocket incident and this motion picture." "Moreover, I don't think such a thing is entirely impossible." "It may sound like a dream, but during my student days I had such an experience." Aoki Ainosuke, who had now finally attained the grotesquerie he craved, was utterly beside himself. "Wakatake-tei near the university—the vaudeville theater—during my student days, I used to drop by there now and then. Every time I went, there was this one gentleman I'd invariably see." "He always sat properly in his fixed corner seat, listening attentively." "No companions—always alone." "That gentleman's face and figure...they were exactly like the photograph." "From his haircut to his mustache's shape, even the slight hollows in his cheeks—a perfect replica." "And you know what I often thought... Life is something we can never fully grasp. Even here in Japan, we might unexpectedly have phenomena like Stevenson's *Suicide Club* or Mark Twain's *Prince and the Pauper*." "That gentleman might very well be truth itself...in disguise." "So rather than watching the stage, I found myself fixated on that gentleman's movements." "Of course this is just my delusion—he must simply be a look-alike stranger—but given that such exact replicas exist... I don't think we can assert there are no two people with completely identical faces in this world."

“Now that you mention it，I do have some experience of my own.” Shinagawa Shirō spoke through twitching pale cheeks，his voice dropping conspiratorially low. “About three years back—in Osaka’s Dōtonbori—I was jostling through crowds when someone tapped my shoulder from behind. ‘Why if it isn’t Mr．So-and-so! Long time no see!’ he declared. Naturally，that wasn’t my name. Even when I insisted on mistaken identity，he refused relenting. ‘Come now—didn’t we share desks at such-and-such company?’ he pressed，though I knew neither firm nor face. We parted unresolved—yet now I wonder：mightn't that have been my other self roaming this earth?”

“Hoh, so that happened.” “If that’s the case, then that man must have experienced the same uncanny sensation I did at Kudan, wouldn’t you agree?”

Contrary to Shinagawa himself being disheartened, Aoki Ainosuke looked terribly delighted.

“You speak so carelessly, but from my perspective, it’s quite an unpleasant matter.” “Just consider—there’s another man out there in this world who’s exactly like me.” “It’s a truly disagreeable feeling.” “If I were to meet that fellow, I’d want to beat him to death on the spot.” “That’s not all—there’s something even more dreadful.” “According to your account, that man seems to be a villain.” “If it were mere pickpocketing, that would be one thing, but should a more heinous crime occur—murder, for instance—since I’m an exact replica of him, there’s no telling when suspicion might fall upon me.” “Of course I can’t prevent his crimes—I can’t even foresee them.” “Consequently, there may be situations where I cannot provide an alibi.” “When I think about it, it’s utterly terrifying.” “It’s all the more horrifying precisely because I don’t know who or where this person is.”

Then came another consideration he had to make. "In other words," he thought, "while I don't know that man on my end, there's also the scenario where he knows me on his end. Since my photo appears in magazines, he's in a far more conspicuous position than I am. And what's worse—he's a villain. When a villain discovers someone who's his exact double... what horrors might he conceive? Do you grasp this?" he pressed aloud. "If I had a wife—he could even steal her."

The two men forgot to call a carriage and continued walking aimlessly through the outskirts of the city, talking animatedly all the while.

As Shinagawa Shirō continued to conjure up one eerie scenario after another while talking, the unspeakable grotesquerie of "two Shinagawa Shirōs" gradually began to take on an utterly terrifying reality, until his eyes began radiating an uncanny light—like those of someone hearing a ghost story.

Ainosuke Meets the Mysterious Rogue Gentleman

Both Aoki and Shinagawa had been completely captivated by this strange incident. As mentioned before, for Aoki the Grotesquerie Enthusiast, this was precisely because it constituted a vivid grotesquerie unattainable through the likes of the Grotesquerie Club. As for Shinagawa, the practical man, precisely because it was a real-world enigma and moreover directly his own problem.

They wanted to find the other Shinagawa Shirō if at all possible. But that was utterly impossible. They considered placing a reward-based missing person advertisement in the newspaper, but since the other party was a criminal who committed thefts, seeing such an ad would only put him on guard. “If you happen to encounter that guy this time, please tail him and find out his address.” “I of course intend to keep that in mind as well, but—”

“Sure—not for your sake, but I’ll certainly do it purely out of my own curiosity.”

In the end, when the two of them walked through entertainment districts, they had no choice but to remain vigilant toward passersby and patiently seek out that man. It was a story like grasping at clouds.

However, dear readers—as the saying goes—"The world may seem vast, but it’s surprisingly small."

Then, on a day about two months later, not only did they finally discover that other Shinagawa Shirō, but in a most mysterious setting, the two Shinagawas came to have a confrontation of an uncanny sort—ah, how utterly bizarre that confrontation was!—thereby bringing matters to such a pass.

But before we recount that, I must beg your indulgence to digress slightly—though in proper sequence—and devote some pages to a certain bizarre experience of Aoki Ainosuke’s (as it is by no means uninteresting).

The incident originated in December, the month following their viewing of the film *The Mysterious Gentleman* at Hōraikan, when Aoki Ainosuke happened to stop by a gloomy café in Ginza’s backstreets.

Although he had hesitated about traveling to Tokyo—it being nearly cold-weather season when one typically avoids the capital—whether through some premonition or not, he found himself inexplicably yearning for Tokyo's atmosphere and ultimately made the journey regardless. This incident occurred during his stay in the city. Having walked through Ginza's streets at night—resplendent with year-end decorations—

“To think there are young men and women who come out for strolls every night in such a dull town,” Aoki Ainosuke belatedly marveled, yet the Grotesquerie Enthusiast found himself sensing something hidden in those dimly lit corners of the backstreets, wandering through the alleys toward ever darker shadows with lingering reluctance.

As he walked through a certain backstreet, what suddenly caught his eye was a small café. Even though it had caught his eye, it was by no means because the establishment was grand or lively or possessed any other striking features. In contrast to the renowned cafés on the main street, it was far too lonely, gloomy, and insubstantial. Feeling pity for its extremely dejected state, Ainosuke nonchalantly trudged into the café. In an earthen-floored area of about ten tsubo, three or four tables stood scattered apart, with large potted evergreens arranged between them like a dense bamboo thicket. Though not adorned in gaudy reds or fashionable purples, the electric lights hung dim—not so much like candles as traditional paper lanterns—casting an utterly silent stillness over the space, where neither a single customer nor any waiter at the counter could be seen. It was a café like a graveyard. Yet there must have been some heating system, for a gentle warmth permeated the space—it wasn’t unpleasantly cold.

Aoki, thinking it would be uncouth to call out loudly for the waiter, first moved to sit down in a chair and made his way into the shade of a potted plant in the corner. When he settled into his seat, he unexpectedly discovered there was already another customer at the same table. The corner was particularly dim even within the already shadowy room, and since that customer remained utterly still, he had completely failed to notice him.

“Excuse me,” he said and tried to change seats when the customer interjected, “No, please stay as you are.” “I was just wanting some company myself,” he added with a restraining hand gesture. When he looked properly, it was a middle-aged gentleman in Western clothes—a man who seemed somehow congenial. Moreover, he wore an elaborately tailored suit that clearly wasn’t inexpensive. Aoki—with his bourgeois instincts—imagined the man’s social standing from these trappings and felt reassured enough to keep him company. Before long, the waiter—who he’d thought absent—appeared like a shadow from somewhere and brought their orders. The food was by no means unpalatable. The liquor too consisted of premium varieties. Add to this a genial conversationalist— Ainosuke became thoroughly cheerful.

“This place isn’t uncomfortable.” “Right? I’ve grown quite fond of this place myself.” From such exchanges, their conversation gradually grew more animated. Ainosuke wasn’t much of a drinker, so after slowly sipping two glasses of whiskey, he was already drunk and feeling pleasantly fuzzy. So, as was his wont, he began to speak about “boredom.”

The gentleman, appearing to share his sentiments, listened while nodding in agreement with repeated “I see”s, but after a while, he inquired about Ainosuke’s social standing in an exceedingly roundabout manner. Since Aoki was drunk, he had unwittingly been swept along by the man’s pace and found himself recounting his own circumstances, but even he eventually noticed this and, making a strange face, inquired: “Oh dear, 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 put on a slightly formal air and proceeded to say something unexpected.

“You see, I’m a sort of sandwich man—which is why I’m about to start distributing handbills to you.”

What an impressive sandwich man he was! "No, this is absolutely no joke," the gentleman continued. "In truth, my duty involves patrolling cafés like this to seek out those such as yourself—grotesquerie... enthusiasts, shall we say? That is, curiosity-driven individuals." "That alone is how I properly receive my monthly salary." "A respectable-sounding sandwich man—or to put it another way," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "in essence, a pimp."

Aoki stared fixedly at the gentleman's face with a bewildered look, finding his words too strange. "There's a secret establishment, you see," the gentleman explained. "Members of high society—wealthy individuals, high-ranking officials, even... (both gentlemen and ladies, mind you)—come and go there secretly." "You likely grasp the general idea." "Normally, gold-spectacled old women or rickshaw pullers loitering at crossroads would handle such introductions. But you see, since the other party consists not of professionals but ladies of status—" "—a pimp's appearance naturally ends up like this." "Ha ha ha! That secret establishment merely provides the venue for a gratuity. But in exchange for guaranteeing absolute safety, said gratuity isn't exactly modest." "This is why selecting clientele requires such pains." "Do you understand?" "Forgive my bluntness—but someone like you possesses fully sufficient qualifications." "Your distinguished bearing, your social standing, and not least your rare distinction as a grotesquerie enthusiast—"

As he listened, Ainosuke's drunkenness completely wore off. It wasn't fear of the world's underbelly that sobered him, but rather joy at having encountered that most mysterious Rogue Gentleman. Thereupon he grew solemn, leaned forward on one knee, and set about negotiating the particulars. A Heike-style house containing a second-floor tatami room.

It was impossible to know in advance what sort of person the other party might be. Neither party knew the other’s name, age, or social standing—those who chanced to meet that night formed a pair. And they absolutely avoided holding gatherings of more than one pair per day. “The room fee is fifty yen per night, and that amount gets split equally with the other party.” (This splitting had its value—since the other party also spent a substantial sum.) From the second occasion onward, whether one chose the same partner or tried drawing a new lot remained each person’s own discretion. Such were the basic regulations of what the Rogue Gentleman called his “secret establishment.”

At that establishment, there was another Rogue Noblewoman, and it was said that that woman recruited same-sex clientele.

“Well then, allow me to show you the way.” Ainosuke, concealed by his drunkenness, bravely ventured forth.

“Understood.” “By the way—though I must insist—the room fee requires advance payment.” “This is by no means because I doubt you, but rather to avoid detectives skillfully disguising themselves to make inquiries.” “Speaking of advance payment for the room fee—that’s money from detectives’ own pockets.” “It’s a bit troublesome, you see.” “I see, I see—taking every precaution, then.”

Ainosuke then paid the specified amount.

Well then, after driving some twenty minutes from the café by car, they reached their destination. To their surprise, it was a quiet residential neighborhood in Kōjimachi Ward. They alighted from the car two blocks short of their target and walked through a desolate, peopleless town.

“Here it is.”

When he looked where the gentleman was pointing, there stood a middle-class residence with a small gate—the sort of place that gave the impression of being a rented house with an elevated entrance. The distance from the gate to the entrance was barely three meters at most, and the house was an old-fashioned single-story structure. The Rogue Gentleman stood before the gate, peered restlessly left and right, and upon confirming no pedestrians were present, urged "Come on—quickly!" while pushing Ainosuke into the entrance.

“Please do come in.” The woman who welcomed him by placing three fingers on the entrance platform—likely a housewife around forty years old with an elegant marumage chignon—held a plain wooden box resembling a tiered jubako lunch container. When Aoki stepped onto the platform, she swiftly deposited his geta into the box and, cradling it under one arm, led the way. After passing through approximately two rooms’ worth of space, they reached what seemed to be a family parlor. The housewife wordlessly opened the closet’s sliding door there. Hmm—could there be a secret room inside? Aoki wondered—but no, it remained an ordinary closet containing traveling trunks and similar items.

The housewife opened and left the sliding door; that must have been the signal. She gave an odd cough. Then, what do we have here? A gaping hole had opened in the closet’s ceiling, and from it streamed crimson electric light. Appearing to be a ceiling board, it was in fact a trapdoor.

"But this house is a single-story structure. There can’t possibly be a second floor, but…" As he was thinking this, a rope ladder slithered down from the ceiling. Climbing down it came a young woman—likely a maid. She bowed to him and left the spot.

“This is rather precarious, but please take this.” As the housewife instructed, Aoki climbed the rope ladder.

When he climbed up and looked around, there was a strange room. The floor was tatami mats, but the ceiling and all four walls consisted uniformly of new wooden planks, with no windows, alcoves, or closets—like an inverted masu box. Yet, in the very center of the room lay something new… A large cylindrical paulownia brazier blazed with cherrywood charcoal glowing crimson, while a silver kettle boiled furiously. From the ceiling hung a small yet luxurious decorative electric lamp. Was there some reason why the lamp’s color was blood-like crimson?

I see! They had constructed this secret room anew within a single-story house's attic—what brilliant foresight! Since externally it appeared ordinary enough that nobody would question its integrity provided nothing seemed amiss with the lower rooms' interiors—who could conceive of a windowless chamber hidden beneath eaves? Moreover,the passageway leading upstairs had been engineered with precisely those meticulous precautions previously described.

“With this, it’s completely safe, right?” When Aoki offered a compliment, the housewife who had followed him up smiled amiably and whispered, “But just in case something should happen, we’ve installed a secret door here, you see.” With that, when she pressed a certain spot on one of the wooden walls, it creaked open like a crawl door to the other side. “There is a low-pitched electric bell installed here, you see.” “In the unlikely event of an emergency, we will ring it from below. When you hear a low hum, please take your belongings and conceal yourself inside here. Oh no—such a thing could never happen—but this is simply a precaution against the ten-thousandth chance.”

Aoki found himself thoroughly impressed by what seemed like excessive caution. “Please wait a moment—the person will arrive shortly.” “Also, please pull up this rope ladder from above and restore the trapdoor to its original state.” “When the person arrives, I will give a cough from below like before.”

After preparing tea, the housewife left those words behind and went back down. Aoki restored the trapdoor as instructed and sat down on the... zabuton cushion. He did nothing but sit there. When it came to women of questionable appetites, Aoki had considerable experience. The brokers of foreign women in port towns, amateur girls in tobacco shop attics, flower arrangement masters' untrained disciples—all lured society's curiosity-seekers with plausible flattery. Yet however prim their façades might appear, most proved mere wanton professionals.

He thought, "Tonight will be another of those routine affairs, I suppose," yet on the other hand, the secret room’s elaborate contraptions' excessive meticulousness made him feel inclined to trust the Rogue Gentleman’s words. At least for him, an affair as ostentatious as tonight’s was a first. From the Rogue Gentleman’s imposing demeanor to the house’s refined appearance and the painstakingly devised contraptions of the secret room—everything felt distinctly different from anything he had experienced before.

"The Rogue Gentleman had said that 'wealthy individuals, high-ranking officials...' were their clients." When he realized this must also mean the wives of wealthy men and daughters of high-ranking officials..., Ainosuke—despite his age—could not suppress a naive shiver.

Before long, that peculiar cough reached his ears. “Here she comes,” he thought—and in that instant, a gust of cowardice swept through him, chilling his heart. But having come this far, he couldn’t afford to hesitate. Ainosuke timidly approached the trapdoor, softly opened it, and—squeezing his eyes shut—lowered the rope ladder. Below, there was a sense of hesitation. It appeared the housewife was quietly encouraging from behind.

After a moment, the rope ladder stretched taut. She climbed up. A woman—climbing a rope ladder. But according to what I later heard, this savage rope ladder—as if symbolizing romantic adventure—was said to be greatly favored by both men and women among the luxury-accustomed upper class. The first thing visible was a beautifully combed rounded chignon with distinct part lines. Then came a glossy crimson face (due to the red 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 manner of person she was, what her status might have been, what words they exchanged upon first meeting, how the red lamp’s glow surpassed even that mirrored wall in its………………—all such matters held no bearing on the central thread of this tale and concerned topics too delicate for elaboration. Thus we shall omit them entirely, merely noting that on that night, Aoki Ainosuke was not disappointed as had become his custom.

However, regarding the low-pitched electric bell incident that fortuitously occurred that very midnight, for the sake of narrative sequence, it must be recorded here. Just as they were beginning to drift into a drowsy slumber, suddenly, the low-pitched electric bell installed behind the wooden wall rang out ominously—zzzz...—as if rising from the depths of water. It was a danger signal. Ainosuke was startled and suddenly sprang up. It was the astonishment of a criminal facing a police raid.

“This is bad! Take your kimono… Don’t leave anything behind… Hide.” He roughly shook the other person awake. Though bold in love games, a sheltered woman of good family is utterly graceless in such situations. …………………………, …………………………, ……………, …………………. In her utter panic, she couldn’t find where she had taken off the kimono. Under normal circumstances, had he witnessed such a sight, he would have burst out laughing at its absurdity; on the other hand, his appetite might well have been whetted. But now, there was no room for such indulgences. He quickly grabbed up the other person’s clothes, bundled them together with his own, took their hand, dragged them along as he opened the hidden door they knew, and fled into the darkness beyond.

Inside had no ceiling; thick beams covered in cobwebs slanted low and stretched across the space. It was utterly impossible to stand up and walk around. Moreover, the floor consisted solely of roughly nailed planks with jagged edges, upon which rat droppings and dust had accumulated in high mounds. He thought it was a dreadful place, but since it couldn’t compare to the danger, he closed the hidden door as it had been, crawled as far back as possible, and curled up.

It was true darkness. They had no energy left to exchange whispers. Their violent heartbeats were audible to each other. The feeling of waiting—thinking a demon might come at any moment—was truly terrifying. One minute, two minutes—time pressed in upon them through the darkness and silence. They quivered in terror at each moment—now? now?—but then a faint cough sounded near their ears: undoubtedly a signal meaning "Beware—they’re ascending now." Both of them curled up even tighter. He could clearly tell the woman was trembling.

Two or three more times, the same cough sounded, causing the two hiding figures to curl up tighter—yet strangely, there remained no sign of anyone approaching. Ah, he realized—the rope ladder had been pulled up. But even without it, there were plenty of other ways to climb up from outside. As this thought crossed his mind, a clattering noise came from the trapdoor area. They were poking at it from below with a stick. The trapdoor must have opened. Then that sound—perhaps them pulling down the rope ladder from underneath. Sure enough, before long came the creak of someone ascending the rope ladder.

Ainosuke could not endure the agony. His heart felt like it would burst. Like a cornered beast, he darted his gaze about in the darkness. Then, within the ink-like darkness, he discovered a thin beam of light resembling a crimson thread. When he looked closer in surprise, he found a small knothole in the wooden wall and realized the familiar red lamp's light was seeping through from there. Ainosuke instinctively crawled toward it and pressed his eye to the knothole—to observe the bastard now climbing up. Meanwhile, by the trapdoor, the creaking sound had stopped. He must have finished climbing the ladder. The man was already on the other side of a single wooden wall. But because the knothole was small, his line of sight couldn't reach that area. All he could see was the opposite wooden wall framed in a circle.

The approach of footsteps, an eerie shadow cast on the wooden wall, the shoulder of a kimono, then finally a close-up view of a woman’s upper body—it was the face of this house’s mistress.

“Honored guests, you may emerge now.” “I truly have no excuse.” “I was briefly concerned it might be something serious, but it turned out to be someone of no consequence.” “Please rest assured.”

“What nonsense.” “Ridiculous!” “So that cough earlier was just a signal to lower the rope ladder?”

Now, disenchanted by this anticlimactic affair, both of them found themselves feeling somehow awkward………………………,………………and unable to wait for dawn’s arrival, they parted ways.

It was merely a single failed episode, but when you consider how cause and effect intertwine in unexpected places, it feels uncanny. This ridiculous mistake actually became the thread leading to the confrontation between the two Shinagawas. Had Aoki Ainosuke not encountered his Rogue Gentleman, come to this secret house, and had the low-tone bell incident not occurred by chance, he would certainly never have discovered the other Shinagawa Shirō so quickly. The reason was that because the bell incident had occurred, he had entered the hidden room behind the concealed door. And it was precisely through entering that secret room that he discovered the small knothole and came to feel this strange fascination with it.

However，it was three days after the aforementioned incident that he discovered that strange idea． It was truly ridiculous． However，when he considered it，this was an unprecedented haul！ Even just the experience of trembling in that darkness，breaking into a cold sweat from terror，was worth twenty-five yen． And how about that house’s elaborate structure？ While pleasurably ruminating on how it was just like a detective novel，he suddenly noticed it． And he became utterly ecstatic over that strange idea．

"Splendid, splendid! This has become truly fascinating!"

With that, he immediately prepared to go out and had the car take him to the secret house. For caution’s sake, imitating the Rogue Gentleman, he alighted from the car about two blocks before the destination and even when entering the gate waited for a moment when there were no passersby. The housewife exclaimed in surprise when she saw him. “Oh my, you’ve already made arrangements?”—meaning she was asking whether he had managed to schedule a meeting there today with the lady from the other night.

“No, that’s not it.” “Today I have a brief consultation with you.” With that, Ainosuke grinned slyly.

With that, he was led to the inner room; the sliding door was shut tightly, and they faced one another.

“Madam, you’re doing this for profit, aren’t you?” Ainosuke pivoted from pleasantries to his proposition. “One might say so.” “Then I possess an ingenious scheme to quintuple your current room fees.” “Is that so?” “Might you deign to hear my proposition?”

“Oh my! That does sound promising.” “But you’re already charging higher rates than normal by selling absolute secrecy. If you get too greedy and let even a hint of that secret slip…” The housewife grew guarded. “No need for secrecy concerns. “The truth is—it’s about making money from that darkness beyond the hidden door. “Don’t misunderstand. “I’m not asking for a single yen’s cut just because I came up with this brilliant scheme.”

“Oh? Making money in the darkness, you say?” “You don’t understand? In that secret room there are two people, and one in the outer darkness—three customers simultaneously.” “That’s because there’s a knothole in that wooden wall over there, so small it goes unnoticed.” “Now you get it, don’t you?”

“Well, I never!” the housewife said with a look of utter disbelief. “There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” he countered. “In foreign countries there are countless houses running this very business.” Here Ainosuke launched into meticulous explanations about these overseas examples.

“But if those inside notice, it would be disastrous.” “It’s perfectly safe—that knothole is minuscule. While slightly inconvenient, enlarging it would risk exposure, so it’s best left as is. Well, why don’t you give it a try? I’ll be the inaugural customer. This is no jest—if my trial proves unsatisfactory, we’ll simply terminate the arrangement after me. As earnest proof...” He produced banknotes with a flourish. “...this should suffice for one night’s use. Not an unfavorable proposition, wouldn’t you agree?”

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

Ainosuke Plans the Confrontation with Both Shinagawas In the end, the housewife was persuaded by Aoki. In other words, he was a customer in the darkness outside the knothole, from where he would steal glimpses of the mysterious movements of two other customers inside the red room—customers distinct from himself.

What astonishing scenes Aoki Ainosuke witnessed there, what unhealthy raptures he indulged in—these would remain a shadowed tale for now. The story began approximately one month after his first night in the attic room (during which interval he once returned to Nagoya), when he wandered listlessly to visit Shinagawa Shirō. As the reader knows, through motion pictures and various other unexpected facts, Shinagawa Shirō—editor and publisher of a popular science magazine—could no longer avoid believing that somewhere in this world there existed another man whose face matched his own down to the last detail.

That matter had been kept a secret between just Shinagawa and Aoki, but the magazine’s editors had recently begun sensing something amiss in President Shinagawa Shirō’s demeanor. “He isn’t thinking of shutting down the magazine, is he? The old man’s lost all his drive lately.” “He’s not giving the magazine a single thought. Something’s completely consumed his mind. Might be a woman.” The employees murmured such speculations among themselves.

The editorial office had rented several rooms on the third floor of the Toa Building in Kanda Ward, but President Shinagawa once again arrived only around noon today. As was his habit, he lapsed into brooding silence, entered the president’s office, sank into the swivel chair there, and began intensely contemplating something.

It was then that Aoki Ainosuke, whom he hadn’t seen in some time, came to visit.

Aoki turned pale with an intensely serious expression and, after taking his seat, kept glancing warily at the door bordering the editorial room behind him.

“They won’t hear us over there, will they?”

he inquired restlessly.

On Shinagawa’s side as well, when he saw Aoki enter, he appeared startled and his lips turned pale, but—

“It’s safe. It’s a glass door, and the noise from the trains and cars outside is terrible… So, what’s this all about?” he lowered his voice. “Do you remember where you slept on the night of the 15th?”

Aoki asked a strange question.

“Speaking of the 15th, that was last Saturday, wasn’t it? Where else would I have slept? If I was in Tokyo, I’d naturally have slept at home.” “You’re certain? You didn’t stay somewhere strange, did you?”

“Certainly.” “But why are you asking such a thing?”

“Well then—last night. “Where were you last night?” “Between eleven o’clock and around twelve.” “By eleven o’clock, I was in my living room’s futon.” “And I stayed there until this morning.” “Surely you’re not lying,” said Aoki, still suspicious. “Then let me ask—do you know a house in Kōjimachi called Miura’s? The red attic room there.”

"I don’t know," Shinagawa Shirō replied. "But are you saying you met him there?" He blurted it out, then turned deathly pale. Needless to say, "that guy" referred to the other Shinagawa Shirō. "I met him," Aoki said. "And it was a very strange way of meeting." "Tell me," Shinagawa demanded fiercely, as if about to seize Aoki’s arm. "Who the hell is he? What was he doing there?"

There, Aoki restrained the impatient Shinagawa and briefly explained his strange experience—from encountering the Rogue Gentleman the previous night to discovering the peephole— “After persuading Okami, from that night onward I became a guest in the darkened secret chamber outside the scarlet room." "And as of today, that makes five pairs in total." "Since each time it’s a gentleman and lady—neither being professionals—meeting for the first time, the effect becomes indescribably uncanny." "How awkwardly shy they act with each other at first." "And how shamelessly bold they grow by the end." “Watching this transition of human emotions is more dreadful than reading any lurid novel.” “I’d say that spectacle alone justifies spending dozens of yen.”

“So, when did that guy appear in the red room?”

Shinagawa had no patience to listen to such a story at leisure. “It was last night,” “The fifth night of my peeping.” “When your face suddenly appeared within that circular blurred field of vision—I nearly screamed.” “So that fellow did the same as the outsiders after all?” Shinagawa turned his mustached adult face crimson like a naive child’s and stammered haltingly.

What a thing. A man indistinguishable down to the last detail from him had been thoroughly observed by his close friend engaging in bedroom games. A man indistinguishable from him down to the last detail—that’s who it was. It was no wonder Shinagawa had turned red. “That’s right. And what’s more, it was no ordinary affair.”

Aoki stared fixedly at the other’s face, “Do you have the courage to witness your own disgrace? If you do, tonight we can make that happen.” In truth, Aoki had purposely come here because he wanted to say this. It wasn’t malice. For Aoki the Grotesquerie enthusiast, merely imagining this most uncanny confrontation between two Shinagawa Shirōs was enough to make him squirm with anticipation, his mouth watering as his appetite was whetted.

“Is he coming to that house tonight?” Shinagawa was directly involved. He couldn’t remain as carefree as Aoki. Licking his lips repeatedly, he rasped: “That’s right. I couldn’t wait for his return and questioned Okami. Naturally I don’t know his address or name. Their business policy keeps such details hidden. When I asked when he first appeared—she said his initial visit was on the fifteenth of this month, last night being his second, and tonight he’s scheduled for a third. Will you join me there? Tonight I mean to trail him, uncover both residence and identity—”

Shinagawa did not respond for quite some time. But after a long hesitation, he finally made up his mind and shouted.

“Let’s go. I can’t rest until I’ve confirmed that bastard’s true identity myself.”

The Two Men Witness a Bizarre Equestrian Display

Around eleven o'clock that night, Aoki and Shinagawa were already hiding in the darkness outside the red room of Miura’s house. Okami had been reluctant to agree, insisting that bringing two people was dangerous, but Aoki finally persuaded her by brandishing banknotes. Shinagawa was disguised with tinted glasses and a false mustache. For if two guests with completely identical faces were to arrive, it would rouse Okami’s suspicions. Aoki kept his eye pressed to the solitary small knothole, poised to await the actors’ entrance any moment. Shinagawa lacked the courage to relieve him at the peephole and instead huddled motionless in a trash-strewn corner of the wooden floor like some black lump.

Before Aoki’s eyes appeared a section of the room divided into a perfectly circular frame like a crimson magic lantern. Against the plank wall on the far side, with its background of narrow-patterned wallpaper, a round paulownia-wood brazier and the edge of a scarlet damask futon—swollen thickly like a temptress’s lips—entered his field of vision. The silver kettle atop the brazier seethed violently, its white steam blurring the wallpaper’s pattern. “No matter how grotesque a thing you see,” he warned, “you mustn’t make a sound that lets them realize.” “Just mind that warning above all else.”

Aoki, worrying about any eventuality, repeatedly emphasized his warning. Shinagawa nodded repeatedly in a voice barely above a whisper.

After some time, the creaking sound of someone climbing that rope ladder reached their ears. Man or woman? ……Aoki waited in readiness, motionless, with such intensity that he felt he might stop breathing. The heartbeat was deafeningly loud to the ear. Shinagawa, sensing this too, stiffened his body even more within the ink-like darkness. What appeared in his field of vision was a woman he recognized. A large-framed woman over thirty with a well-developed physique. Dark gold-threaded silk garments clung damply to her skin. Beneath glossy Western-style hair lay long eyes, a low nose, and thick glistening lips—yet she was by no means unattractive. It was a face possessing an uncanny allure. She seemed drunk, her features slack and disheveled.

She plopped down right there and, despite the cold, didn’t even attempt to warm her hands over the brazier. “Oh, it’s hot!” she muttered to herself, slapping her cheeks repeatedly with both hands glittering with rings.

When Aoki grew tired, he would take his eyes away from the hole and stretch his back, but even knowing there was no change, he couldn’t help but soon return to his original posture. The interminable time dragged on—ten, then twenty minutes passing by. But finally, the signal cough was heard from downstairs. The woman started, vanished from view, opened the trapdoor with a clatter, lowered the rope ladder—then came the creaking sound of someone climbing up it. Aoki reached his left hand out into the darkness and gently tapped Shinagawa’s shoulder as he crouched. This was the signal that he was coming now. Shinagawa’s body jerked and stiffened.

In Aoki’s field of vision, the woman returned first. “I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.” Ah, that was Shinagawa Shirō’s own voice! “It wasn’t that long.” The woman’s lips moved and chattered like in a talkie. The coat was tossed aside with a *flump*, and only its collar portion entered the field of vision. Then, an arm clad in a black Western-style sleeve swished through the air in an arc before Aoki, and soon the man’s entire body—perhaps he too was drunk—staggered and collapsed there in a heap. Though he was facing away, there was no mistaking him—he was undoubtedly the man from last night, that is, the other Shinagawa Shirō.

Even Aoki's heart began pounding. Now was when the bizarre confrontation between both Shinagawas would occur.

He stealthily removed his eye from it, groped for Shinagawa’s arm in the darkness, and upon grasping it, gave a light tug. But Shinagawa trembled violently and wouldn’t even try to stand. Aoki scolded him through the fingers he had seized—“What are you dawdling for?”—and pulled with sharp, insistent tugs. As he was pulled along, Shinagawa’s face drew near the peephole. A crimson beam of light sliced diagonally across his sweaty forehead. And finally, his eyes—as if magnetically drawn—latched perfectly onto the small hole.

Aoki fixed his eyes in the darkness, listening with bated breath to Shinagawa’s increasingly erratic breathing, terrified it might betray them to the other side.

On the other side of the plank wall, low whispers and occasional noises suggesting movement could be heard. After a while, Shinagawa’s erratic breathing suddenly ceased. Ah—finally he saw the face of Shinagawa on the other side. The two Shinagawas now faced each other directly.

Shinagawa’s right hand firmly grabbed Aoki’s shoulder. It was a signal that he had seen. When his breath, which had stopped as if dead, returned to normal, his whole body heaved with even more violent breathing than before. Ah, could there ever again be such a bizarre confrontation in this world? Shinagawa Shirō now stared intently at his own figure within the perfectly round, crimson-lit field of vision, separated by no more than a room’s distance. And yet…………. He clung to the peephole as though force-fed, showing no sign of moving away no matter how much time passed. By the expression of his fingers gripping his shoulder—his………………………, ………………………—Aoki could imagine the scene beyond the plank wall more vividly than if he had seen it with his own eyes. Precisely because it was imagination, it tormented him more than reality ever could…………………………. He had discovered for the first time the allure of such indirect glimpses.

It had been a long, long time. In the profoundly still depths of a winter night, within the darkness of the attic, yet they felt no cold. ……………………………… The intensity of it all had left them nearly insensate.

Shinagawa finally tore his eyes away and pulled Aoki's shoulder toward him. It was a signal to switch places and look. He could no longer bear to witness his own bizarre actions any further.

Aoki took his turn, and the bright red circular magic lantern image was before him once more. But what an utterly unexpected spectacle it was! The noblewoman wore glittering attire like scales—the kind circus troupe women would don—and had mounted the prostrate Shinagawa Shirō’s back. Of course, the man serving as the horse wore a kimono— The noblewoman rider’s so-called costume was merely nominal, resembling those worn by revue dancers that had become popular recently— And then, to his astonishment, Shinagawa Shirō—serving as the horse with the noblewoman rider astride him—lowered his head and began crawling round and round the room.

From the horse’s mouth hung a bright red sash serving as reins. The rider tugged it forcefully, swaying her hips rhythmically to the chant of "Hyah! Hyah!" as she pressed onward. A masterful equestrienne. Before long, the pitiful lean horse finally exhausted its strength and collapsed flat onto the tatami mats.……………………, ………………. The female rider who had stood up laughed in evident delight upon seeing this, but what followed was a cruel dance upon the collapsed lean horse. Savagely trampled and kicked, the horse was now gasping its last breaths. Because it had been facing downward for some time now, …………… he couldn’t see its expression, but from the way its limbs feebly thrashed, he could sense this unfamiliar Shinagawa Shirō’s state of mind.

In a flash, the female equestrian performer planted both hands on the man’s shoulders and buttocks and executed a magnificent spread-eagle handstand. And in the moment that it collapsed unsteadily, she flipped her body with a swift motion onto the prone man’s head,…………………………. A clockwork mechanism—……, …………, ……………………. Thus bathed in crimson light, the two silhouettes that appeared rose-tinted continued their endless dreamlike duet, exhausting every possible posture.

The shady figure vanished from within the automobile like smoke.

“When’s next time?” The woman, having finished dressing in her kimono, asked in a coquettish tone.

“Next Wednesday. Any conflict?”

Outside the peephole’s field of vision, the man also answered while putting on his coat.

“Well then, I’ll count on it—same time as tonight.” The woman said this and seemed to set her foot on the rope ladder; once again came that peculiar sound.

The man and woman had descended, and after a while, the housewife’s cough could faintly be heard. It was a signal that it was now safe to come down since they had already left.

After descending to the lower floor, Aoki and Shinagawa hurriedly exited to the street, their greetings to the housewife kept perfunctory. Needless to say, this was to tail the other Shinagawa Shirō.

At a street corner about fifty meters ahead, the two had just parted ways—the man walked away to the right, the woman to the left. Proceeding with their tailing undetected, they saw the man emerge onto a nearby streetcar thoroughfare. But since it was already past two o'clock, there would be no streetcars running. Only the occasional overnight flat-rate taxi sped down the broad avenue as if owning the road, engines whining. The man caught one of them and climbed inside.

Though he surely hadn’t noticed their pursuit, at this sudden maneuver both Aoki and Shinagawa gasped and dashed from their hiding spot toward the streetcar thoroughfare. And, opportunely, there was a single empty automobile there. The two men promptly boarded it and, “That’s the car ahead. Do not lose sight of that car. Follow it wherever it goes, I implore you.”

he commanded. “You needn’t worry. At this late hour, with no other cars to blend into, there’s scarcely any chance you’ll lose sight of it.”

The driver started with a knowing look. Two white streaks of light flew in V-formation down the midnight avenue, smooth as a whetstone. The chase was on. Aoki and Shinagawa were crouched in the automobile, staring fixedly ahead without glancing aside. Several lengths ahead, the monstrous automobile raced. In its rear glass window, a fedora-like hat was swaying. “Ah, damn it! He’s noticed us!”

Shinagawa shouted. The fedora in the car ahead abruptly turned to look back. A pale face appeared dimly. No sooner had this thought occurred than the automobile ahead suddenly accelerated. In the blink of an eye, the distance between the two cars grew by five, then ten lengths. “Keep chasing! Is our speed sufficient?” “No problem at all. That piece of junk—this here’s a brand-new six-cylinder.”

On they raced. The world became consumed by the deafening roar.

But after running at full speed for about ten minutes—whether they realized it was futile—the lead car came to an abrupt halt.

“Where are we here?”

“Sanno-shita, Akasaka.” “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 side street there. Needless to say, Aoki and Shinagawa abandoned their automobile and gave chase. But to their great astonishment—having followed him into the alley intending to continue their pursuit—when they swiftly rounded the corner, there stood the very man facing them. The two men started and recoiled. Observing this reaction, it was the man who first spoke.

“Do you have some business with me?” “You’ve been following me for some time now, haven’t you?”

An utterly bizarre incident occurred. When they looked closely, it was clearly a case of mistaken identity. In the man’s face, there wasn’t even a trace of Shinagawa Shirō. But despite never having lost sight of him since leaving Miura’s house, they felt as though they were bewitched by a fox—when had the man changed? Having no choice but to apologize, they asked whether he had indeed gotten out of that car over there for confirmation. When they confirmed this, his answer was affirmative.

“Strange,” “It’s just like a magician.” “Even if it were a disguise, someone’s face couldn’t change that much.” “……What about the clothing?” “Was that what he wore in the red room?”

“I can’t say for sure. It was under red light, and I saw it through a small peephole, you see. I do think they look similar, but when it comes to overcoat colors—there’s no shortage of identical ones out there.”

The two men parted ways with the man and walked back toward the tram line, discussing such matters as they went. The automobile that had brought the questionable man had already departed and was moving half a block ahead.

“Ah, damn it!” Suddenly, Shinagawa Shirō shouted. “Hey, stop that automobile!” As Shinagawa broke into a run, Aoki—though unaware of the reason—nonetheless followed his lead, calling for an automobile as he ran. Even if they tried to give chase using another automobile, the one they had arrived in had long since departed and was now running far ahead of the vehicle in question. In the end, they had no choice but to resign themselves after running barely ten ken.

“Why did you chase that automobile?”

While following the receding taillights with his eyes, Aoki asked. “I thought I’d get a look at the driver’s face,” Shinagawa answered. “The man we didn’t once take our eyes off turning into someone else—that’s impossible. I thought that perhaps the man who shares my face had switched seats and fled by impersonating the current car’s driver… But he wouldn’t go so far as to pull something straight out of a motion picture. After all, there’s no reason they need to fear us and run away.”

In the end, this pursuit ended inconclusively. They could not determine whether they had mistaken the automobile or whether his man had intentionally deceived them and given them the slip. In other words, they felt as though they’d been bewitched by a fox. The entire events of that night even began to seem as though they had witnessed some preposterous illusion.

Shinagawa Shirō's Clandestine Rendezvous in the Shadowy Park

Aoki Ainosuke remained in Tokyo for about a week after that, but he had to return home still uncertain about the true identity of the other Shinagawa Shirō. He remembered that in the red room, the man had promised the woman “next Wednesday,” so he waited for that Wednesday and went out of his way to visit Miura’s house, but for some reason neither the man nor the woman showed even a shadow of themselves. The proprietress expressed suspicion, saying, “But there was supposed to be an appointment tonight.”

“After all, it seems that guy was in that automobile. “Your conjecture that someone impersonated the driver might be correct. “That guy probably doesn’t realize a man with his own face was being chased, but he’s up to no good either way. “He must’ve thought it was too risky and decided against coming to that house.” When Aoki said this, the habitually worrisome Shinagawa adopted an intensely troubled expression, “If that’s all it is, then fine… But what if he’s caught on to us? What if he’s realized that the man we chased that day looks exactly like him—so much so that you can’t tell them apart?” “If that’s the case, we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.” “The other man is a villain.” “Using me as a substitute, there’s no telling what schemes they might be plotting.” When I think about that, I feel an indescribably strange sensation. “It’s terrifying.”

Such was the conversation exchanged between the two men, but it later became clear that Shinagawa’s anxiety had been no mere overreaction.

Be that as it may, about two months then passed without any particular incident. During that time, Aoki made two trips to Tokyo, each lasting about a week, but the other Shinagawa Shirō did not show his shadow anywhere. It had reached the point where one might think the very existence of such a grotesque figure in this world had been nothing but a dream. However, Shinagawa thought the opposite—that even now, somewhere in the shadows, that man might be using Shinagawa as the perfect substitute to orchestrate some grand scheme of evil—and this possibility alone tormented him.

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 spent the night at a café with friends and was on his way home after parting ways. Aoki’s house was located in what felt like the suburban outskirts behind Tsuruma Park, but as it was an unseasonably warm evening and he was also drunk, he deliberately took a detour instead of riding in a car, wandering leisurely through the park’s abundance of trees.

Passing by the fountain and climbing further up the slope, there existed an area so densely wooded with large trees that it could be called a forest. At its center, the path became a dead end where a clearing of about fifteen to eighteen square meters abruptly opened up, with two or three benches placed there as a rest area for those who had climbed the slope. Being a secret place within the park entirely surrounded by woods, it made an ideal spot for young citizens' clandestine rendezvous. The Grotesquerie enthusiast Aoki had once experienced there the sinful pleasure of peeping on clandestine rendezvous.

Since it lay at the dead end he had just described—a place unnecessary for returning home—the mischievous god of fate must have lured him, for Aoki suddenly felt compelled to venture toward that clearing.

It was nearing midnight, and since he had seen almost no one after entering the park, he assumed the clearing too would likely be a deserted, hollow darkness—but the allure of shadows and a curiosity that whispered *What if there’s some marvelous discovery?* led him there.

However, having climbed up the slope and peered through the trees—what was this?—there was prey. It was said that detectives assigned to such cases could effortlessly apprehend one or two clandestine couples any given night simply by going to a designated spot in the park and lying in wait beneath the bushes. Indeed, indeed—the words of those with experience were terrifying, Aoki thought as he halted. Mimicking those very detectives, he used a large tree trunk as a makeshift shield, straining his eyes toward shadowy figures in the darkness and pricking his ears.

Dimly, two pale faces were visible. But neither their clothing nor the shapes of their faces could be discerned at all. Only their voices seemed almost tangible. They were speaking in normal voices, reassured that no one was around. "Well then, we must part for now." "Once I return to Tokyo tonight, I won’t be able to come back for some time." A man’s voice said. "Don’t forget what you mentioned at the inn, okay?" A woman's voice cooed. "You will send letters to that house, won’t you?" "If you don’t at least send letters often, I simply won’t be able to bear it."

“Yes, as many as you like.” “You mustn’t forget either.” “Well then, let’s part ways here.” “It’s almost time for the train.”

Dimly, white 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 all right. He’ll never notice, I assure you. Your husband has no idea I’ve come to Nagoya. Besides, isn’t he supposed to come home late tonight? Now, hurry back home. You must get back before that person does.”

He was not a delinquent youth. From his manner of speech, he was quite the gentleman. The woman too was by no means the sort to engage in clandestine trysts in such a place. The woman said, “Inn.” After meeting there—whether the man had brought the woman or the woman had brought the man (geographically speaking, it was likely the former)—they must have found it unbearable to part ways at the “inn.”

"Does 'feeling guilty toward that person' mean she has a proper husband?" he wondered. Seeing her say "Please send letters to that house," he surmised there must be compromising circumstances if correspondence arrived at her home. By any measure, this was adultery with a married woman. What’s more, the man had specially come from Tokyo for their tryst. "Well now, this is no trifling matter." Still oblivious to the truth, Aoki remained utterly delighted by this unexpected windfall—

The man and woman soon parted ways, and when the man began descending toward him first, Aoki—startled—involuntarily retreated over a dozen steps. Just as he abruptly turned beneath a streetlight at their encounter’s onset, the approaching man’s face was illuminated by its glow, becoming unmistakably clear. That was such an unexpected turn of events! Wasn’t that the face of Shinagawa Shirō—whom I had thought was in Tokyo all this time? “Ah, Shinagawa-kun!”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. “Huh?”

The other man had also stopped but was staring fixedly at Aoki’s face with a peculiar expression. Thinking he must be feeling awkward, he pretended to know nothing, “What’s wrong with you? What are you doing in a place like this at this hour?”

Even when addressed, the man still did not relax his stiff expression and said something strange. “Who are you? Aren’t you mistaken?” “Me?! I’m your friend Aoki! Pull yourself together!” “Just who in the world do you think I am?”

“What do you mean? Of course I think you’re Shinagawa Shirō.”

Having said that, Aoki suddenly fell silent. For he had remembered a terrifying fact he had long forgotten. “Shinagawa Shirō? I’ve never even heard of him.” “I am not such a person…I must be going.”

Watching the retreating figure of the man who had brushed off his sleeves and left, Aoki stood dumbfounded. That was him—the other Shinagawa Shirō who had vanished like a magician from the automobile two months prior. What an unexpected place this had been to meet again. Aoki followed the man’s trail almost unconsciously. He descended the entire slope until reaching the fountain’s vicinity. But upon reflection, this man was returning to Tokyo. He must be heading to the station. Even a grotesquerie enthusiast of Aoki’s caliber lacked the courage to tail him all the way to Tokyo in this state. Moreover, his funds were insufficient. Checking his watch revealed barely enough time to catch what must be his Tokyo-bound express. There was no possibility of returning home to prepare travel gear.

Aoki gave up, stopped the futile tailing, and trudged toward home.

Exiting the park and proceeding five or six blocks along the broad new road brought one to his mansion. Lost in thought, when he had walked halfway along that road, he was suddenly struck by a terrifying idea and jolted to a halt. Perhaps because the encounter had been so unexpected, until that moment he had forgotten about the man’s voice—but now that he thought of it, even without seeing the figure, hadn’t that unmistakably been the voice of the other Shinagawa Shirō, the one familiar from the red room? It was unmistakably that voice—so very similar to the real Shinagawa’s yet somehow different—wasn’t it? Why hadn’t he noticed that until now? As he pondered this, he suddenly recalled the woman’s voice associated with the man.

“No—that isn’t an unfamiliar voice either!” The instant he did so, a shudder-inducing thought flashed through his mind like lightning.

"That's absurd—there's no way such a thing could happen! You've lost your mind. What a preposterous delusion, like something straight from the Arabian Nights!" Yet even as he tried to dismiss the thought, that woman's coquettish vocal mannerisms clung stubbornly to his ears. However impossible it seemed, hadn't the very Shinagawa Shirō he'd deemed impossible materialized from the park's darkness? In this shadow realm beyond his comprehension, there was no telling what unimaginable events might be unfolding.

Aoki suddenly began walking as if running. He fixed his eyes on the distant second floor of his Western-style mansion and began walking with terrifying momentum—panting and stumbling over pebbles in the darkness.

The matter of Shinagawa Shirō appearing alongside another in the evening edition’s photograph Aoki Ainosuke had been plagued by nightmares of late. His friend Shinagawa Shirō—president of the science magazine—would blur into a double image like one afflicted by soul-separation sickness, existing both here and there. Moreover, from their faces to their figures—even their voices—the two bastards showed not a hair’s breadth of difference, and they had even met face-to-face in the same room. He would join Shinagawa Shirō in pursuing this other Shinagawa Shirō, but their target—carrying some monstrous air—would skillfully elude them and vanish from sight. Both Aoki and Shinagawa had spent several months utterly consumed by their pursuit of this detestable creature.

But until now, the doubles hadn't caused any real harm—as unnerving as they were eerie—but recently something utterly inconceivable had occurred. This was because one evening Aoki Ainosuke had stumbled upon the other Shinagawa whispering with a certain married woman in Nagoya's Tsuruma Park. Moreover, while the wife's face remained unclear, her voice had struck an oddly familiar chord. The moment the thought occurred—"Could it be...?"—Aoki turned deathly pale and couldn't help but dash home to verify the truth.

But his beautiful wife showed no particular change in demeanor and welcomed him with a smile. He entered the entranceway and stood in the small coat-hung hall, his heart racing. Then a door opened on one side, bright electric light spilling out from which Yoshie's small, neatly shaped head peered. "Oh dear, whatever is the matter?"

In fact, she was the one who grew suspicious of his strangely pale complexion.

Aoki silently entered the room and burrowed 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 grown close enough to banter. Shinagawa had visited his residence in Nagoya on two or three occasions. Therefore, it was not unimaginable that the other Shinagawa Shirō had taken advantage of this—posing as their old acquaintance Shinagawa Shirō—to approach Yoshie and draw her into a compromising situation.

As for his wife, though he himself had grown desensitized to her, by common standards she was quite a beauty. If that enigmatic Phantom Man had become aware of Shinagawa Shirō’s existence—identical to him in every detail—and sought to exploit it for some evil scheme, then Aoki’s wife would undoubtedly have been the most alluring prey. Even from Yoshie’s perspective, that was not entirely an impossibility. Due to his grotesque obsessions and fickle nature, Aoki had been living while almost ignoring his wife’s existence. He would spend about ten days each month in Tokyo, and even when in Nagoya he often stayed out late, making opportunities for intimate conversations with his wife exceedingly rare. That Yoshie was starving for love was only natural. Moreover, she was by no means one of those old-fashioned, stiffly proper women from the Onna Daigaku mold. In other words, she too had ample vulnerability. The devil had only to lay a hand.

Ainosuke remained sunk into the sofa, deliberately avoiding looking toward Yoshie as he turned these thoughts over once more. But how could she stay so composed? "Why are you sitting there so silent?" "Are you angry?"

She was utterly innocent. "It's not that, but... Have the maids already gone to bed?" "Yes, they just went to bed." "Did you go out somewhere tonight?" "No, nowhere."

She answered thus and cast her eyes upon the red-covered novel lying face down on the table. Her manner was perfectly natural. Ainosuke couldn't believe his wife was a woman capable of such acting. "I must be going mad. I'm being gripped by an outlandish delusion. Even that man earlier—was his face really Shinagawa Shirō's?" The more he tried to recall it, the vaguer it became.

“I just met Shinagawa Shirō-kun at the park.” Having said that, he observed Yoshie’s reaction. “Mr. Shinagawa Shirō?” “The one from Tokyo?” She was truly surprised. “Why didn’t he come to our house?” Of course, she still knew nothing about the strange second Shinagawa Shirō.

After talking for a while, Aoki Ainosuke became completely reassured. What could such an innocent woman possibly do? He felt almost scornful of her.

About a week passed without incident. During that time, no incidents occurred that would renew suspicions toward Yoshie. Although he had been keeping watch, there was no sign of any letter arriving from the Phantom Man. And so, one day—a fine, almost oppressively spring-like day—Ainosuke boarded the Tokyo-bound limited express train with Yoshie. The afternoon train was dusty, muggy and hot, and on top of that, boring. Quintessential farmhouses, fields, forests, and billboards continued endlessly to the point of tedium. His wife had nothing particular to talk about.

At Numazu, he bought the Tokyo evening edition. A large photographic plate occupied the second page. Dr. S arriving at Tokyo Station with a welcoming party of assorted Mr. So-and-Sos. This Dr. S was a German scientist renowned even in Japan—having traveled from Shanghai via Osaka, he had reached Tokyo that morning. The article noted there would be a lecture that evening. Ainosuke cared little about the silver-haired academician until noticing Shinagawa Shirō—editor-in-chief of Popular Science Magazine—in morning coat at the party’s periphery among more Mr. So-and-Sos. This changes everything, he realized. Shinagawa appeared slated to interpret at the event.

"He’s quite the activist,"

Grinning to himself as he continued scrutinizing the photograph, he discovered something strange. “That Shinagawa bastard’s gotten so greedy he’s showing up twice!” The thought made him gasp. There was no way the same person could appear twice in a single photograph. Once again, it was that Phantom Man. In the photograph, beyond the doctor and the welcoming party, the faces of unrelated onlookers peered in from behind, and among those faces, another Shinagawa Shirō was clearly smiling.

Indeed, it was the Phantom Man who had noticed Shinagawa Shirō and was now stalking him. He was plotting some misdeed. “Yoshie, take a look at this.” Because Ainosuke still somewhat suspected his wife, he had suddenly conceived the spiteful idea of testing her with this photograph. “Oh, Mr. Shinagawa.” “He’s serving as Dr. S’s interpreter.” “That’s all well and good, but take a look at this face peering from behind.”

Having said that, he pointed to the Phantom Man with his finger. “Hmm, now that you mention it, he does look just like Mr. Shinagawa.” “Oh my, he looks just like him!” Well, well, how cheerful she was. “The truth is, there exists a man who’s not one iota different from Shinagawa Shirō—and what’s more, he’s a villain—somewhere out there. I’ve encountered that fellow many times.” And taking this opportunity, he told her the general outline of what the readers already know. (though he had omitted the matter of peeping into the red room for convenience)

Outside began darkening into mouse-gray. Tree trunks like great mountain priests lumbered past outside the window. The ceiling lights mingled with the outer twilight, appearing strangely reddish-brown as grotesque shadows formed on the carriage passengers' faces. Amidst this, he related his tale with maximum menace, periodically fixing his gaze upon her eyes.

“Oh, how creepy. Is he planning something?” She appeared somewhat pale. But it was the kind of story that would frighten anyone. The fact that she had turned slightly pale was no reason to suspect her. If she had been unknowingly committing adultery with this Phantom Man, she would have been unable to conceal her extreme panic. Just as Shizuka Gozen was startled upon learning Kitsune Tadanobu’s true identity, she should have gasped in shock. But no such reaction was visible.

Maybe it was just my misunderstanding after all. Well now...

And so, there, Ainosuke had deepened his relief—but whether this relief ended as true relief remained uncertain.

Aoki and Shinagawa cowering before the real-life epidiascope projection. Upon arriving in Tokyo, Ainosuke called Dr. S’s lecture venue from the station, informed Shinagawa of the situation, confirmed when his business would conclude, and visited the Shinagawa residence late that night.

“I didn’t notice at all. “However, surprised 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.” When Ainosuke entered, Shinagawa was waiting in the eight-tatami guest room and said, On the rosewood desk lay a magic lantern-like apparatus of peculiar shape and, beside it, a single glossy photograph without a backing. When he looked, it was the same photograph from the aforementioned evening edition.

“What’s this device?” “It’s called an epidiascope—a magic lantern apparatus that projects opaque objects in large size. With this, I thought I’d enlarge the other fellow in this photograph and take a look.”

That was an actual magic lantern apparatus which his magazine company handled for distribution as part of their business. There was no real need to confirm such things, but both men were the type to feel a certain fascination with things like magic lanterns, and they couldn’t help but take a probing interest in each wrinkle of the enlarged faces before them. When the lights were turned off, the facial portions of both Shinagawas from the photograph were projected onto the plain torinoko-papered sliding door in startlingly large dimensions.

The real Shinagawa wore a solemn expression while the other figure smirked, their unretouched forms—with blotchy, mottled shadows—seeming to creep menacingly toward the two men in the darkness. "I'll try laughing here, so compare them with that face in the photograph." Shinagawa said this and brought his face to the rear part of the device where light leaked out, then grinned like a specter from a rakugo ghost story, baring his teeth. "They're identical. It's as if your face right now were being projected directly onto that sliding door over there."

While Ainosuke was speaking, a chill ran down the back of his neck.

“You.” “Let’s stop this already.” “I’m starting to feel really uneasy.”

Ainosuke had always harbored a peculiar terror toward magic lanterns. There, combining shadow and reality, were three Shinagawa Shirōs, identical down to the last detail. It was no wonder he was frightened like a child. When the light was turned on, Shinagawa himself had also gone pale.

“That guy clings to me like my own shadow.” “Well, there’s no other way to see it.” “At first it feels distant—creeping closer bit by bit.” “Now, now—don’t try to scare me like that.” Shinagawa flinched involuntarily. “I haven’t suffered actual harm yet, but I can’t ignore this any longer.” “The danger feels acute.” “Not knowing his designs—nor even his origins or true nature—makes it all the more dreadful.” “I’m considering placing an advertisement about this in my magazine—”

“An advertisement?” “We’ll publish this photograph, you see. “There exists a human being who looks exactly like me. “I feel tremendous danger regarding this second self’s existence. “Please come forward and identify yourself. “Furthermore, we’ll print this statement in bold letters: ‘Anyone who knows this person must report it.’ “By doing so, I believe it will serve as some preventive measure.”

“It would make a perfect article for your magazine, you know.” “But the danger you’re worried about may have already begun, you know.” “The thing is…” And then, Ainosuke resolutely recounted every detail of what had transpired at Tsuruma Park the previous night.

“So, do you still suspect your wife?” When he heard this, Shinagawa asked with a strange expression that was neither bashfulness nor fear.

“No, I hardly suspect her anymore. “It was probably another woman. “But the place was right in my neighborhood, you see. “It also seems to suggest some sort of meaning.”

Shinagawa suddenly fell silent, deep in thought. Muttering “Perhaps…” to himself, he abruptly stood and left the room, returning moments later clutching a sealed letter. “Read this.” Ainosuke accepted it with feigned nonchalance, though puzzled by the request, and unfolded the stationery within. There lay words penned in distinctly feminine script:

Though knowing full well this path is forbidden, that very knowledge fills me with such reckless joy that I care neither for body nor world. Each time I recall that night—your noble gestures, your noble words, down to the slightest detail—my cheeks flush anew as if it were happening afresh, my heart leaping within me. Pray do not mock me. Until that night—that very night—I had never even dreamt such love could exist. Like some naive maiden, truly, utterly, I am consumed. Yet when shall we meet again? With East and West now dividing us, your lordship burdened by weighty affairs, and this illicit love’s sorrow barring me from your side—the torment is unbearable. Now at last I feel I’ve come to understand love’s true agonies and frustrations. I beg you to divine [the rest]. ………………………

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 name of the addressee. To the presence of Lord Shirō　　　　　　　　From one known to you

It read. It was unmistakably a love letter from a married woman addressed to Shinagawa Shirō.

“I haven’t the slightest clue, you know.” “However, the envelope is clearly addressed to me.” “I must be committing adultery with someone’s wife.” “Since it was such an unexpected matter, I thought it was someone’s malicious prank, but after hearing what you just told me, this letter might have a far more terrifying meaning.” “In other words, the letter intended for the fake Shinagawa Shirō from the woman who was talking at Tsuruma Park might have ended up reaching the real me.” “The reason being—look here—although neither the sender’s address nor name is written, the postmark is unmistakably Nagoya.” “Oh… What’s wrong with you?”

Ainosuke’s lips lost their color, and goosebumps rose around his jaw. But he said nothing. “This letter, right?” “…………” “Hey, what’s wrong? Ah—you’re looking at the handwriting, are you?” “It resembles,” he said. “Sadly, I had memorized this unconventional abbreviated form of the character for ‘love’.” “Your wife’s? But you—women’s handwriting tends to look pretty similar anyway. …It’s exactly according to the models they teach at girls’ schools, you see.”

“Right. Now I finally understand why she insisted on going to Tokyo this time of all times.” “That woman planned to meet here with you—no, with some other man—as much as she pleased. That was her scheme all along.”

And beyond that, they could find no more words to say to each other. In the late-night eight-tatami room, the two sat wordlessly facing each other.

“I’m leaving now.”

Ainosuke said very brusquely and stood up. “I see.” Shinagawa likewise refrained from offering hollow words of comfort. After descending to the entrance and slipping into his geta, Ainosuke suddenly turned around. Leaning against the shoji screen of the entrance hall, Shinagawa was seeing him off. “Just one thing I need to ask you.” Ainosuke, his face expressionless, uttered something outrageous. “Are you really Shinagawa Shirō?” The other man, startled, instinctively turned around. And then he laughed—a strangely hollow laugh.

“Ha ha ha... What are you saying? Enough with your jokes.”

“Ah, so that’s how it was. “So you are Shinagawa-kun, then.” “So you weren’t the other man after all.” Having said that, Ainosuke abruptly went out through the lattice door. As though he were a man seized by a nightmare, his legs staggered unsteadily.

The fact that his chronic boredom had been blown away

When he returned to the annex, within the compact house that had been thoroughly cleaned, Yoshie was keeping watch modestly with an old maidservant.

Because the house was small, the couple's bedroom was separated by only a single sliding door. In the eight-tatami guest room on the second floor lay Ainosuke's bedding; in the six-tatami adjacent room lay Yoshie's. When Ainosuke entered his bedding, lay on his back smoking a cigarette, Yoshie leaned against the mulberry-wood square brazier beneath his pillow and began chattering about various matters. This mainly concerned their entertainment plans during their Tokyo stay—how she looked forward to seeing Kabuki after so long, wanted to visit Fukusuke soon, mentioned which pianist's performance at such-and-such concert would be most worth hearing, and for a woman, how eagerly she wanted to try Tokyo-style beef hot pot—all delivered with remarkable cheerfulness and volubility.

She wore a showy yellow-hachijō haori—a traditional jacket she even took on trips by her own preference—and beneath her slightly disheveled waves of Western-style hair, which still maintained the shape of her well-formed head, the smooth line of her nape peeked through. It was indeed true that since the incident, Aoki’s concern for his wife—or rather, his attachment to her—had been growing more intense with each passing day. But it was not for that reason; seeing her placed before his eyes like this, he could not imagine such an innocent woman being capable of infidelity.

“Hey, could you bring me a pen and some paper?” Ainosuke suddenly hit upon such an idea. “What are you doing? Writing a letter?” “A letter?” “Just bring it here.” When Yoshie brought the fountain pen and stationery, “Now then, you—try writing the character for ‘love’ there.”

Ah, what an innocent woman she was. When Yoshie heard this, she didn’t for a moment suspect she was being tested; with a bashful look, the edges of her eyes reddening, she laughed that particular indecent laugh shared between spouses. “Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho~! That’s so silly.” “What’s the matter with you?” “Anyway, just write it down.” “Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho~! It’s like practicing calligraphy in front of a teacher.”

Obediently, she took up the pen and wrote 'beloved.' Then setting down the brush, she looked up at Ainosuke and laughed her characteristic laugh. “What should I write next?”

To Ainosuke, her being so docile meant she was starving for his affection. It seemed evident she was now relishing this rare conjugal play between them. Yet his reply stayed vicious— “To Lord Shirō”

he declared. “Oh!” Yoshie started, her face turning grave. For an instant, her eyes went vacant as she seemed to search her mind, grasping at the meaning of “Lord Shirō.” Her innocence was absolute. However one considered it, she couldn’t possibly have performed such an artful deception. Ainosuke felt wholly reassured. The cursive style of the “love” character might resemble another’s hand, but this meant nothing—mere coincidence, as Shinagawa had said. They’d simply learned from the same copybook by chance.

“Lord Shirō—just who are you referring to?” Yoshie grew slightly pale and asked in a pressing tone. “It’s nothing. It’s completely better now. Shirō? The likes of Shirō-san are lying around everywhere. Even in elementary school readers—” Ainosuke said in a thoroughly good mood.

Some time later—strange as it may seem—Ainosuke was riding a streetcar.

The streetcar was packed. He couldn’t move and was hanging onto the strap. Human heads—gentlemen, merchants, wives, the proprietress, young ladies—overlapped in a jumbled mess, pressing forward before his eyes. But when he suddenly looked, Shinagawa Shirō’s face peeked out with a glimpse from between those heads. “Shinagawa-kun—you! You’re Shinagawa-kun, aren’t you?” Ainosuke shouted in a loud voice.

Then, instead of responding, the man swiftly pulled his head back and hid himself in the crowd.

“Ah, that’s him! “It’s the Phantom Man! “Ladies and gentlemen, please step aside for a moment. “Because we have to catch him!”

But he couldn't move at all. "Catch him! Catch that guy!" Because Ainosuke had shouted so rudely, every face in the streetcar turned abruptly toward him. Jumbled and overlapping, they stared at Ainosuke. Moreover, what made his blood run cold was that every last one of those faces—each and every one—had transformed into Shinagawa Shirō's. "Yikes!" he cried out and tried to flee, but something obstructive—something soft yet heavy—was pressing down on his chest. Even when he tried to push it away, it bounced back with rubber-like elasticity. When he suddenly noticed, he realized it was Yoshie's warm arm.

“What’s wrong? You looked like you were in pain.”

“I had an unpleasant dream. “……It’s because you were placing this hand on my chest.”

So she hadn’t been sleeping in her own bed in the next room after all. But after about an hour had passed—at one critical moment—Ainosuke pushed her away and leapt to the corner of the room.

Yoshie, unable to comprehend her husband’s attitude that had changed so abruptly and utterly, remained crouched in a daze. She perceived a terrifying hostility in her husband’s pallid face. She saw bloodshot eyes burning with anger. She felt a kind of unbearable insult, prostrated herself, shook her body, and burst into tears.

Ainosuke made no attempt to comfort her. Suddenly putting on his kimono, he left his pitiful wife behind and went out into the near-dawn night. He walked blindly through the deserted, ruin-like town. “Indeed, indeed, women are of a different race—some deity from a land of monsters. When telling lies, their very complexion changes to match the lie. If they want to cry, tears will well up anytime.” He felt it as though it were too late.

"But she'd carelessly revealed her tail." "That act was absolutely not something I taught." "I'm no masochist." "She learned it from the Phantom Man." "And before I knew it, she'd come to love sadism."

This was by no means his delusion. There existed irrefutable evidence. He had vividly remembered that perverse play between the Phantom Man and a certain woman in the red room. Tonight's act by Yoshie differed not one iota from that particular scene. Had she not made him into a horse and mounted him? Had she not tried to wrap the red cord—substituting for reins—around his neck? That he turned deathly pale and leapt back could hardly be called unreasonable.

Even Ainosuke, the grotesque enthusiast, was far from bored. From this, it became clear that his supposed weariness with his wife was a misunderstanding, and that in truth, he had loved her deeply—so deeply—in his heart. But to him, this change of heart was no small surprise. He couldn’t help but find it strange that he had come to loathe the partner in adultery—that is, the Phantom Man—so intensely.

“Damn you! Damn you!”

He, like a rogue or a ruffian, while thinking of tearing his opponent to pieces and while visualizing gushing torrents of blood, strode briskly onward with no particular destination in mind.

the self-styled miracle broker—a handsome young man

Ainosuke had rushed out of the house without ever returning home—visited friends, gone to the club to play billiards, mingled with crowds in Asakusa Park, wandered back and forth through the entertainment district—all while feeling extreme agitation inwardly yet maintaining an utterly carefree exterior outwardly, until before he knew it, the day had ended.

And then, from around ten o'clock that night, the following tale began.

At that moment, Ainosuke—having walked until exhausted—was leaning against a pillar beneath the wisteria trellis facing the pond in Asakusa Park, blankly gazing at the illuminations reflected in the water. Beneath the wisteria trellis, on the several benches lined up there, a shadow-like group of homeless people sat quietly and silently. They all appeared terribly starved, having even lost the strength to plead their plight, utterly resigned and limp. Among them, only a single young man stood out with a remarkably distinguished appearance compared to the surrounding homeless people. Rather than an Asakusa youth, it was the demeanor of a Ginza youth that caught Ainosuke's attention. Speaking of which, even Ainosuke was not at all of the Asakusa type. All the more so, standing idly beneath such a wisteria trellis was hardly fitting for him. Thus, these two—Ainosuke and the Ginza-style youth—had unwittingly become aware of each other’s presence.

And then, Ainosuke fleetingly recalled a certain matter. This referred to the Asakusa Street Boys that he had long known about. For he, being a grotesque enthusiast, could not possibly be unaware of such things' existence. Ainosuke had lost the Twelve-Story Tower and Egawa Musume’s Gyokunori, and thus held little interest in an Asakusa that had grown unnaturally vast and empty. If one were forced to name them, it would be the decadent Yasugi-bushi folk songs, the Carousel Hall, the two monstrosities on the second floor of the Carousel Hall and Aquarium, the clusters of vagrants in the park, and these Street Boys—these alone retained faint remnants of Asakusa’s strange allure. It was the atmosphere exuded by such things that, at most about once every two months, finally compelled his feet toward Asakusa.

The young man was staring fixedly at Ainosuke. Clad in a dark blue spring suit and a hunting cap of the same color that resembled a student’s hat, from beneath its deep visor emerged a faintly pale face with soft lines in the darkness. He was a handsome young man. Ainosuke was by no means a pederast, so he felt no joy, but neither did he feel particularly uncomfortable.

“I wish I could hibernate like a snake.”

Suddenly hearing such a faint voice right beside him, he looked and saw a young, malnourished day laborer sitting on the bench before him, speaking to an older beggar-like man next to him. “What’s this ‘hibernation’ thing?” The uneducated older man asked in a feeble voice.

“They can hibernate underground all winter without eating a thing.” “Without eating anything at all?” “Yeah, snakes’ bodies are just built that way.” And both fell silent. It was a conversation like a small stone plopped into a quiet pond. From the shadowy woods across the pond came the unceasing strains of the nineteenth-century band from the Carousel Hall. The wind carried their music in capricious bursts—sometimes swelling to absurd volume, sometimes fading until only the thump-thump of drums blended with street vendors’ cries. Behind them in a vacant lot, a violin’s student ballads and a blind beggar’s naniwa-bushi chants each drew their own swarms of listeners, creating an eerie duet. To call it a duet missed the truth—the entire park thrummed like some great orchestra. A cheap yet sweetly nostalgic orchestra, one that might linger in a boy’s memory, formed from countless instruments: the jinta band’s brassy clamor; Yasugi-bushi drums throbbing; cowherds shouting about footwear; student ballads’ warbling verses; beggars’ nasal chants; ice cream vendors’ singsong calls; banana sellers’ raucous yells; balloon whistles shrilling through air; wooden clogs clattering on pavement; drunkards’ slurred mutterings; children’s wails piercing dusk; and the wet slap of carp leaping in shadowed ponds.

“Hey!” Suddenly, near his ear, there came a voice calling out in an old-fashioned manner, as if whispering. When he turned around, the handsome young man from earlier had stood up and come over, and before he knew it, had drawn near his side.

Ainosuke started in bewilderment—he had once been burned by invitations from the Asakusa Uruning. “What?” Strangely enough, he responded in a woman-like accent, exactly as if speaking to a prostitute. “Excuse me,” came the young man’s voice, “but might you be troubled by something? Could there be something utterly impossible for you to resolve? Yet that can be managed. There exists a place where miracles are crafted. There—well—we could likely provide what you require for around ten thousand yen.”

The young man whispered something strange and riddle-like. Even so, ten thousand yen was an absurd amount of money. Wondering if perhaps the man was some pitiable lunatic, Ainosuke stared intently at his face. The illumination from the activity hall reflected in the pond dimly lit the young man’s face from beneath his jaw. He was beautiful. But it was a strange beauty. Like a Noh mask, it was perfectly symmetrical, with an artificial quality—expressionless yet permeated by an eerie intensity that seemed to seep from its depths. He really must be a madman, Ainosuke thought.

“Ah, I’m not one of those,” “I’m not a woman.” The young man said with a laugh, sensing Ainosuke’s apprehension. “I’m engaged in a business far more valuable than that—one you could never have imagined.” “Since ancient times, what only gods could achieve—I am a broker of terrifying miracles.” “But aren’t you troubled by something?” “Didn’t you need a miracle?” “What’s this ‘miracle’ you’re talking about?”

Realizing that the man wasn't a street boy brought some relief, but Ainosuke couldn't understand a word he was saying. However, the young man didn't seem to be a lunatic. "Are you inquiring about a miracle?" "Then you have no need for it." "Those who truly desire it would never speak in such a manner. Goodbye."

The young man swayed unsteadily back among the homeless people.

In bustling places like Asakusa, such strange occurrences happened from time to time. For Asakusa was a garish festering flower blooming upon the skin of the metropolis called Tokyo. There, all things not in their normal state swarmed thickly. But Ainosuke had never before encountered such a bizarre man. A face beautiful yet unnervingly reminiscent of a Noh mask lingered stubbornly in his mind’s eye, impossible to forget.

Who was this young man? He was not someone who would appear and vanish here without reason. When this story reached its latter stages, he was sure to reappear before the readers once more. It was then that readers would clearly understand what his so-called miracle truly meant.

Ainosuke became frightened for no particular reason and emerged from beneath the wisteria trellis. Then he wandered aimlessly toward the brightly lit entertainment district. Does shock summon its own kind?

And then, as he walked through the crowd before the colored stills in the glass window, amidst the multitude of bobbing heads, he spotted a face that made him gasp. It was none other than Shinagawa Shirō. Ainosuke parted the human tide to avoid detection and followed in pursuit. This couldn't be the real Shinagawa. He'd never seen the science magazine president dressed in such clothes. Moreover, what would Shinagawa Shirō be doing walking through Asakusa at this hour? It had to be that impostor. As this conviction took hold, Ainosuke felt excitement coursing through his veins. He wouldn't let him slip away this time.

The Phantom Man laughed raucously as he wove through the crowd, twisted through narrow alleys, and finally emerged onto Kaminarimon’s tram-lined avenue. A line of en-taku taxis. The man accepted one of these solicitations and vanished into a vehicle. Ainosuke also chose one and leaped into it. Once again, it was an automobile chase. But this time, I won’t make a blunder like that time at Akasaka Mitsuke. And he continued his sharp surveillance of the car ahead.

The Man Who Toyed with the Blood-Drenched Severed Head

After driving for nearly an hour, the man’s automobile came to a stop in a desolate clearing in suburban Ikebukuro—ten blocks from the station. The one who alighted was undoubtedly that bastard. Ainosuke finally succeeded. He too abandoned his car and, crawling through the darkness, stalked 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 building with a stone gate. The man entered through that gate, unlocked the front door with a key, and slipped inside, vanishing from view. Judging by these circumstances, there seemed to be no watchman keeping guard within the house. Was the Phantom Man living completely alone in this haunted mansion?

Even after waiting some time, not a single window showed even the shadow of a lamp, and the interior remained hushed, devoid of any human presence. Had that bastard gone to bed without even lighting a lamp? Ainosuke resolutely entered the stone gate, circled around to the side of the house, and searched for any spot he could peer through. There were windows, but all were pitch dark inside; even when he pressed his face against them, he couldn't see a thing. When he finally gave up searching and turned around, he noticed part of the garden trees floating out with an eerie faint glow. A very faint light was coming from somewhere. Ah—he realized—he's on the second floor! Stepping back from the building and looking up, sure enough one of the second-floor glass windows appeared dimly red. But what a dim light that was! It wasn't electric light. It must be candlelight.

Seeing there were no electric lights either, it really must be an empty house after all. So why did the Phantom Man have a spare key to the entrance? What on earth was he trying to do, lighting an old-fashioned candle in this empty house? But when he thought about it, this was an ideal hideout for the Phantom Man. That bastard hid from prying eyes in this haunted mansion, sneaking out to unexpected places and committing all sorts of misdeeds. Finally, Shinagawa Shirō’s deductions were proving accurate. There was no telling what horrifying conspiracy this monster might be hatching within this haunted mansion, using Shinagawa Shirō’s doppelgänger as his pawn.

The night's darkness, the uncanny silence, the old-fashioned Western-style mansion, and the candlelight suddenly made him associate something strange. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde! The man called Shinagawa Shirō engaged in earnest work like editing popular science magazines and appeared upright, but with another demon dwelling in his heart—might he not sometimes become Mr. Hyde? No matter how he looked at him, Shinagawa didn’t seem like such a terrifying man—but that was precisely the problem. Hadn’t Dr. Jekyll himself been an irreproachably virtuous scholar? Moreover, once the Mr. Hyde within him manifested, hadn’t he transformed into a peerlessly vicious monster—knocking down an unrelated child in the street, trampling their head, and killing them as casually as one might crush a fly or an ant?

In the darkness, Ainosuke involuntarily shuddered.

"That's absurd. You’re out of your mind. You coward! Such things exist only in the morbid fantasy worlds of novelists. First of all, isn't it scientifically impossible for this Phantom Man and Shinagawa Shirō to be the same person? How could the same person have two faces lined up in a newspaper’s photographic plates?" "On one hand, while dining at the Imperial Hotel, it was a miraculous feat beyond human capability for the same man to be walking along Shijō Street in Kyoto that very day. Airplane... Ah, there is such a thing as an airplane. But even using a passenger plane—considering the distance from the Imperial Hotel to Tachikawa and from Osaka Port to Shijō in Kyoto—there was no possibility of the same individual appearing in Kyoto within a single day. Moreover, since Ainosuke and Shinagawa had dined at the hotel just past noon, this feat became all the more impossible."

"No, no—there's no need to dwell on such things. Ainosuke had indeed witnessed Shinagawa Shirō and this other Phantom Man having that utterly bizarre encounter in Kōjimachi's red room, their faces barely three feet apart."

As Ainosuke stood in the dark garden, listening intently toward the second floor while his mind raced with such thoughts, a startling noise suddenly erupted.

For a moment, he couldn't determine whether it was an object's sound or a human voice. But with a second short scream, it was confirmed to be a woman's voice. It came from the second floor where that familiar candlelight seeped through. It felt as though something extremely cruel had been carried out. And then the voice ceased abruptly, returning to the original deep eerie silence. No matter how long he waited, there was naturally no human voice - not even the slightest sound.

Ainosuke could no longer stay still. He resolved on an uncharacteristic adventure. If he entered through the front entrance, he would be noticed by the other party and might suffer some terrible fate. Rather than that, he resolved to first observe what was happening in the room from outside by using the glass window to his advantage.

Just outside that window, about twelve feet away, stood a large pine tree. He abruptly climbed up the trunk like an electrical 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 door was shut tight, but since dust had clouded the entire pane into translucence and something blocked the candlelight, for a while he couldn’t discern anything at all. Yet through careful scrutiny it became clear: a man wearing nothing but a white shirt and trousers stood with his back to the window, engaged in some activity. The candle remained hidden behind the man’s form. That this was unmistakably the Phantom Man became evident through his physical build—a perfect replica of Shinagawa Shirō.

The room was indeed like an empty house, devoid of any decorations or furniture, with only one end of a table-like platform visible beyond the man. The man occasionally shifted his position. He bent his upper body and bowed his head, appearing as if praying to something. What on earth could he be doing? The object of his worship must have been placed on the table hidden in his shadow, but it made for a strange scene—this reverent bowing in an empty-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 to the darkness, finer details gradually came into focus. First, he noticed the man had rolled up his white dress shirt sleeves above his elbows—the posture of someone who'd performed strenuous labor. Next came the realization: red stains dotted the shirt cuffs. Blood. Upon closer inspection, terrifying rivulets of congealed blood ran down the exposed forearms like river channels. Ainosuke imagined the object being venerated. Could the source of that earlier scream—a corpse—be lying there? But whatever lay before the man didn't seem large enough for a full body.

Ainosuke's curiosity reached its peak. Ah, that's not worshiping, he realized. He's kissing it! The man's gesture suddenly gave that impression. But what on earth was he kissing? A corpse? When he kept watching patiently, the man finally moved his body. The small table that had been hidden until now and the object atop it were revealed. At the same time, the pine tree rustled noisily and shook violently. Ainosuke had nearly slipped off the branch in his shock. But he instantly regained his composure, secured his physical position, and stared intently at the object.

There lay upon the table nothing but the severed head of a young woman. Freshly separated from its torso, it appeared raw and smeared with clotting blood. When Ainosuke first saw it, his shock stemmed from that split-second fear it might be his wife Yoshie's head—but he quickly realized this was not so. It belonged to some unknown girl from who knows where. The Phantom Man held an unfamiliar metal candlestick in his hand, thrusting it repeatedly toward the head as he stared fixedly at the woman's remains.

The head had its eyes half-closed, eyebrows drawn together, mouth agape, the tip of its tongue visible between its teeth. It was an expression of anguish bordering on obscenity. The candlelight cast a reddish-brown glow, creating strange shadows. The blood stained the white teeth, gushing from the lips down to the chin. At the severed edge where it met the table, flesh hung slimy and messy like fish intestines, from which protruded something eerie—a white cord-like substance that might have been a nerve—oozing thickly outward. There was no way such minute details should have been discernible, yet Ainosuke felt as though he saw them vividly.

Then, something bone-chilling happened. The Phantom Man began doing something bizarre with his free hand. At first, he repeatedly prodded at the woman’s protruding tongue with his fingertips, making gestures as if trying to push it back into her mouth. But when the tongue slipped between her teeth and disappeared, he inserted his fingers into the gap, pried them apart—one finger becoming two, then three—until finally he forced his entire hand from the wrist down into the corpse’s mouth. Then came the sight of blood that had pooled within the mouth—bubbling up and cascading down his wrist like some grotesquely beautiful spring gushing forth.

One after another, cruel and lewd acts too horrific to record here were carried out. And the Phantom Man’s macabre game with the severed head showed no sign of ending. The Phantom Man had once been a masochist in the red room and toward Yoshie; thus, it could not be said that he was not a sadist. Examples of those who combine both are not scarce throughout history and across regions. This Phantom Man undoubtedly combined refined (strange as it may sound) minor masochism with ferocious sadism, being moreover what should be called the ultimate shudder-inducing murderer.

When he suddenly noticed, there was a strange, cough-like sound at the base of the pine tree. And what startled Ainosuke was that as the noise grew louder and higher by the moment, he realized it was the barking of a dog. The devil had prudently kept a watchdog. The watchdog that had been away somewhere had returned and caught scent of the mysterious figure in the tree. When he looked, the Phantom Man—appearing to notice the sound—turned toward this direction, revealed a look of terror directly facing him, and began walking toward the window.

“It’s hopeless,” he thought, but resolved to flee as far as possible, Ainosuke suddenly leapt down toward the ground. As he landed, a resilient warm mass of flesh came charging at him with tremendous force. The creature was surprisingly large.

Ainosuke struggled with the animal for a while but finally dealt a fatal blow and dashed toward the front gate at full speed.

But by then, it was already too late. When he came to the gate, he found that man in the rolled-up white shirt had outmaneuvered him and was standing ready, lying in wait. In his hand, a small pistol glinted. "If you run, you'll get hurt." The Phantom Man called out with perfect composure.

“There are some things I’d like to discuss with you. Would you come inside the house once?”

Ainosuke had no choice but to move as the man commanded. The man pressed the pistol against Ainosuke’s spine, pushed from behind to make him ascend the entranceway, and led him to a secluded room on the lower floor.

It was a sprawling, dust-covered room devoid of furniture. “What do you intend to do with me?”

When he entered the room, Ainosuke finally spoke. “Nothing at all. While I make myself scarce, I want you to stay right here. Because it would be dangerous if you had free use of your limbs, I intend to bind your body.” The man, indistinguishable down to the last detail from Shinagawa Shirō, delivered his declaration in Shinagawa’s very voice.

The pitiable Aoki Ainosuke soon had his limbs bound and lay sprawled on the dust-covered wooden floor. At his head stood the triumphant Phantom Man. "I know your name without needing to ask." "You're Aoki-kun, aren't you?" "I know your friend Shinagawa-kun—and not just him. I even know your wife Mrs. Yoshie." "Ha ha ha ha ha ha! My name, you ask?" "Why—Shinagawa Shirō." "Ha ha ha ha ha! Is there any part of my body that isn't Shinagawa Shirō?"

On the man’s hands and the sleeves of his white shirt still clung dark, coagulated blood. Ainosuke was overcome with an indescribable feeling. The man who had subjected him to such torment and now mocked him was indistinguishable down to the last detail from his close friend Shinagawa Shirō. Moreover, he was both the villain who had stolen the wife he could never hate enough and the ultimate murderer of unparalleled cruelty.

“I implore you to tell me the truth. You’re not Shinagawa-kun at all?” Ainosuke could not refrain from asking. “Well now, what do you suppose?” replied the villain brazenly. “If I were Shinagawa, what would you have me do?”

“If by chance you are Shinagawa-kun, I implore you,” he said. “I will never speak of what I just saw to anyone—absolutely never. Only about the relationship between you and my wife—I beg you to tell me the truth. Hey, Shinagawa-kun, I’m begging you.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha! You’ve finally gone and called me Shinagawa-kun, haven’t you?” replied the Phantom Man with mocking triumph. “But I’m afraid I’m not Shinagawa. Are you asking 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, stay put like a good boy. Farewell." The Phantom Man threw out his words, dashed out of the room, slammed the door shut, and from outside clack-clack locked it securely. Ainosuke remained lying on the wooden floor, overwhelmed by the events and having lost even the ability to gather his thoughts; for a while, he simply lay there in a daze. He had never imagined that the Phantom Man was such a terrible murderer. First, the theft at Kudanzaka Slope; next, the bizarre game in the red room; the adulterous whispers in Tsuruma Park—I had thought he was undoubtedly a villain, but I never imagined he was this much of a fiend. When he thought about it, the fear that Shinagawa Shirō might once have been plotting some grand conspiracy was not unfounded.

Ainosuke stalking his own wife to the mysterious house

Ainosuke spent the night in a room of the mysterious house. And since detailing the circumstances leading up to his eventual rescue by police officers would prove utterly uninteresting, they shall be summarized here as concisely as possible. After the demon locked the door and left, there remained only a long, long 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, what stood out most was an auditory hallucination of something drip-dripping down from above. This started and stopped throughout the interminable night. In other words, he had hallucinated a scene where—in the room directly above—the severed torso of that woman with her freshly cut head lay sprawled obscenely in a pool of congealing blood.

Though the restraints—not particularly strict—had come undone during a night of torment, even had he regained freedom in his limbs alone, with the door locked like a beast's cage and the iron-barred window blocking his path, escape remained beyond conception.

He had not slept a wink. When dawn broke, he waited solely for any sign of people passing through the vacant lot outside. Since it wasn't a main road, there was hardly any foot traffic, but at last a boy of fifteen or sixteen passed by outside the hedge beyond the window, playing a harmonica. Because Ainosuke believed the demon was still in the same house, he hesitated to call out. He tore a page from his notebook and wrote a letter, wrapped a silver coin as a weight, and threw it out the window toward the boy's feet.

Fortunately, his message got through, and the boy immediately rushed to the nearby police box. And before long officers arrived; however—in a truly strange turn of events—when they investigated based on Ainosuke’s report, they found that house completely empty: there were no signs of habitation in any room; neither trace nor shadow remained of the Phantom Man, that blood-drenched severed head, or the woman’s torso; and not a single drop of blood could be found on any floorboard.

What was most unexpected was that the police officer who rescued him did not need to break down even a single door. In other words, not only the entrance but even the door to the room where he had believed himself confined had not been locked. He tried repeatedly throughout the night to open that door, but it always felt as though it had been locked from the outside. When had the demon removed it, and for what purpose? Or had Ainosuke, in his frenzy, simply been mistaken in believing so?

With the morning sunlight, it felt as though the specters had vanished, and all of last night’s events seemed nothing more than his dream or illusion. The police officer also made a strange face and stared at him intently.

And so, in the end, the mysterious incident at the mysterious house was left unresolved. To the police officer, Ainosuke's own mental state seemed far more bizarre than the strange events he had recounted. Therefore, this incident was undoubtedly buried without thorough investigation as nothing more than a grotesque fantasy conjured by a mentally disturbed individual. In fact, the psychological aberration that drove Ainosuke to ultimately commit that heinous crime at the culmination of his grotesque pursuits may already have been gestating at this very moment. In a state of utter bewilderment, unable to determine whether the previous night's events had been dream or reality, he staggered back to his villa. And there, Yoshie—whom he believed to be his adulterous wife—awaited his strange morning return.

The story jumped ahead to the night three days later. To describe the psychological conflict between Aoki Ainosuke and his wife during this interval would have proven tedious. Around eight o'clock that night, as Aoki Ainosuke walked along the streetcar thoroughfare on his way back from strolling through a local festival, something abruptly startled him.

He was surprised—thoroughly surprised. But to tell the truth, it was also something he had been waiting for with bated breath. In other words, his wife Yoshie stood alone, hailing a passing taxi and making to board it. She had seized upon his absence to arrange an illicit rendezvous.

“At last, I’ve caught you.”

Ainosuke, his heart pounding, hailed another automobile without alerting his target and climbed inside. Needless to say, he was tailing her. He had grown thoroughly accustomed to these automobile chase games. He burned with jealousy. His wife was gradually becoming more strikingly beautiful. Even if she were 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 stimulated his grotesque curiosity. The pursuit itself seemed tinged with something almost erotic. From the rear window of the car ahead, the white nape of his wife’s neck flickered intermittently into view.

However, after about thirty minutes of continued pursuit, when Ainosuke suddenly turned his attention to the rows of houses outside the car and realized—Ah, these look familiar—a terrifying thought surged into his chest. The car was indeed passing through the same town as the previous night, heading toward Ikebukuro. The station was now visible ahead. Then, the location of the illicit rendezvous was undoubtedly that eerie vacant house. He vividly recalled the strange events of the previous night. The cleaver gripped by the Phantom Man, the blood-soaked severed head of a woman, and the grotesque 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 from the previous night now lay in wait for her. Perhaps the two of them were truly in love. But no matter how much they loved each other, that bastard wasn't a normal human being. It was a terrifying final madness. From his perspective, it might be precisely because he cherished her that he wanted to suck her living blood.

As expected, Yoshie's car stopped before the eerie vacant house. Ainosuke abandoned his car at the edge of the vacant lot and crouched in the darkness to watch when the faint white figure of his wife vanished as if being sucked into the vacant house that loomed like an ink-black monster. Needless to say, inside waited that monster, poised to claim its beautiful prey. A violent jealousy tangled with desperate concern for his wife's life—forgetting all caution, heedless of his own peril—Aoki Ainosuke abruptly gave chase after Yoshie into the vacant house.

As usual, the door wasn’t locked, so entering was no trouble, but the corridor of the Western-style house was pitch-dark, and he couldn’t tell which room Yoshie was in. But groping his way toward the back regardless, he suddenly heard low voices. Though their meaning escaped him, he was certain one voice belonged to Yoshie and the other to that monster—the one who looked exactly like Shinagawa Shirō. He followed the voices through the darkness, stifling his footsteps, but then—startled—tripped over something and raised a terrible clatter.

The voices stopped abruptly; simultaneously came the clatter of boots and a flash of light. Ainosuke stood frozen in terror under the electric light’s direct glare. The door right before him flew open, revealing that monster standing silhouetted against the light behind him. “Oh, if it isn’t Mr. Aoki.” “You’ve certainly taken a liking to this house, visiting so often.” “Do come in.”

While the man glared at him with frightening eyes, only his words were uttered in an eerily polite tone. Ainosuke, however, had not been cowed. His wife Yoshie was involved here. This was an entirely different affair from the previous night. He obeyed and strode briskly into the room. With bloodshot eyes, he wildly scanned about for where his adulterous wife might be hiding.

Ainosuke finally committed the heinous crime of murder.

But within the deserted room, his wife was nowhere to be seen. Since their voices had been speaking just moments ago, there should have been nowhere for her to escape. The window had the usual iron bars fitted. The only escape route was the door leading to the adjacent room. Ainosuke heard—or perhaps imagined—the rustle of fabric beyond that door. Moreover, judging from the room's structure, that space must undoubtedly be the bedroom. When he thought there might even be a bed placed there, he grew even more enraged and suddenly charged at the door.

“Hey now—you can’t go poking through someone else’s house like some detective, Mr. Aoki.”

The Phantom Man swiftly spread large hands before the door, grinned with Shinagawa Shirō’s face, and stared at Ainosuke, who stood frozen.

The man’s unshakable composure only inflamed Ainosuke’s rage further. He wanted to leap forward and throttle him then and there, but he knew brute strength alone would never prevail. His eyes darted frantically about as if seeking divine intervention. Then a glint pierced his vision. What miraculous fortune—there on the table, left in reckless abandon, lay a pistol.

He lunged at the table like a bullet, desperately grabbed the pistol with his nearly numb hand, whirled around, and leveled the barrel at the villain’s chest. “This is quite the oversight, old boy. I carelessly left the pistol behind. Ha ha ha ha!” The monster didn’t flinch. He remained standing there calmly, his large hands still spread wide. Ainosuke, startled by the enemy’s unfazed boldness, suddenly realized something and froze.

“So it’s you! This pistol’s empty, isn’t it?” “Ha ha ha ha, you’re quite the observant one. It’s not empty. Properly loaded with a bullet. But have you ever fired a pistol before? Do you know how to use it? And look—your hand’s trembling like an old man with palsy. Ha ha ha ha! A pistol’s only as frightening as the hand holding it.”

“Step aside. If you don’t move, I’ll really shoot.” Ainosuke desperately shouted, struggling to keep his voice from trembling. “Go ahead and shoot.” The monster was still grinning slyly. He was underestimating his opponent, thinking he lacked the courage to fire. “Should I shoot you? If I pulled the trigger, it would go off with a bang. But if I shoot, something terrible will happen. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.” However, the more he thought he mustn’t, the more his finger on the trigger curled of its own accord. While on the verge of crying out for someone to stop him, the trigger finally gave way. “Oh! Damn it!” By the time he thought this, a dull, shuddering thud rang out, and the acrid smell of gunpowder assaulted his nostrils.

He tried to look away, but as if his eyes were nailed in place, he stared at his opponent and couldn’t move.

The Phantom Man stood rigidly silent with an alien expression that made him seem like a different person entirely. His eyes gaped wide toward Ainosuke, yet strangely there was no sensation of being glared at - only vacant ocular direction. The fingertips of his outstretched hands twitched slightly as if attempting to clutch something, then abruptly went limp and hung slack at his sides. On the white shirt's chest yawned a small charred-looking hole. An unfathomably deep black puncture. Instantly, arterial blood thick as oil paint came bubbling and spurting from the cavity, forming a narrow crimson rivulet that trickled smoothly downward.

At the same time, his large body fell forward limply, as if melting or crumbling away. To Ainosuke’s eyes, those split-second events appeared with an uncanny slowness, like slow motion in a motion picture, yet every minute detail stood out with clarity. With the obstruction 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.

Though it was too dark to see clearly, 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 demon in a game of hide-and-seek, walked around from corner to corner. And instead of Yoshie’s limp body, he came upon another gaping exit. What he had assumed to be a bedroom from its single entrance was a grave mistake—the room actually had an exit leading outside. Frantic Ainosuke prowled from one dark room to another, searching for any sign of a person. He realized belatedly that he had matches in his pocket. He struck one match after another and searched the entire house again. He went up to the second floor as well. But nowhere was his wife’s figure.

She had fled. Where could she have fled to, I wonder? Surely she couldn't have gone home. Where? Where? While thinking such things, he found himself back in the original room. And there lay the Phantom Man's corpse, face down exactly as before. "Ah... I'm a murderer." An icy chill crawled up his spine. Only then did he finally feel the weight of his crime.

“Ah... It’s over.” In his mind, every aspect of his past quaked and crumbled like an earthquake. He stood motionless for a long time, devoid of any capacity for thought. “But what if this bastard’s feigning death and plans to leap up any moment to startle me?” Suddenly seized by this bizarre notion, he approached the corpse, wrenched its face toward the light, and peered closely. Yet the pallid parchment-like face did not laugh. Instead, from some accidental jolt, the jaw dropped slackly open, and between the white teeth of that gaping maw, a silken thread of blood streamed smoothly down the cheek.

Upon seeing this, Ainosuke swiftly released his grip, collided with the nearby wall while recoiling, suddenly rushed outside, and dashed across the open space toward the houses with tremendous force.

The act of a murderer recklessly bar-hopping in a fit of self-destructive despair.

About an hour later, Ainosuke stood before the latticed door of his villa. Where he had gotten out of the automobile, where or how he had walked—it all passed in a daze. While constantly sensing pursuers at his back and wondering if Yoshie might have returned home, he had finally come all the way to his house. When he resolutely opened the latticed door with care, Yoshie’s familiar sandals immediately caught his eye. She was safely back.

For some reason, he made sure not to make a sound as he ascended the entryway and stepped into the parlor. There stood Yoshie, having started to rise. The moment their eyes met, both bodies turned to stone—Ainosuke remained blocking the way, Yoshie frozen mid-motion with one knee raised. “When did you get back?”

“After a long while, Ainosuke spoke as though letting out a sigh.”

“Oh, I didn’t go anywhere at all.” Yoshie answered with a terrified expression, as though she had seen a ghost, her breath coming in gasps.

“Is that true? Do you mean to stubbornly insist you never went out?” “Could it be you’re the one who’s done something? I’m not telling any lies.” Yoshie answered brazenly with her usual eerie innocence. Ainosuke was struck by his wife’s astonishing artifice. It was positively terrifying. Suddenly feeling as if he had been struck across the cheek, he was left utterly disoriented. He silently went up to the second-floor living room, took out a bank check and his registered seal from the document box, stuffed them into his pocket, and went straight outside. He sensed Yoshie chasing after him to the entrance and saying something against 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 while the automobile was moving, he changed his mind. He both wanted to meet the real Shinagawa Shirō and felt he had to meet him. He told the driver Shinagawa’s home address. As it was past ten o'clock, Shinagawa had already gone to bed, but he was awakened by the sound of someone knocking on the door as frantically as a telegram deliveryman and, through the mediation of an old servant, came out to the entrance in his nightclothes.

“Do come up. What brings you here at this hour?” Ainosuke stared holes into Shinagawa’s face as he spoke— “You... you’re Shinagawa-kun, right? You’re alive then.”

And he blurted out something preposterous. “Huh? What are you talking about? “Ha ha ha! Dragging me out of bed at this hour—spare me the jokes. “Anyway, come on—why don’t you come up?”

Shinagawa looked flustered and spoke with mild irritation. "No, this is fine." "As long as you're alive." "By morning, everything will be clear." "Well then, goodbye." The way he uttered "Goodbye" carried such an oddly plaintive tone, like a permanent farewell, that Shinagawa watched him suspiciously,

“You seem rather strange.” “You’re not drunk, are you?” “Well, just come up already.” Shinagawa urged him, but Ainosuke didn’t listen to half of it—he dashed outside, leapt into the waiting automobile, and without even stating a destination, had it depart as he frantically urged the driver to hurry. After that, he changed destinations one after another and spent about two hours riding around nearly all of Tokyo. In the end, even the driver became exhausted to the point of pleading, “Please have mercy on me!”

“Hey sir, the garage is quite a ways off. Could you please stop this already?” The driver had reduced the automobile to its minimum speed and was droning on in that tedious manner. When he suddenly looked out the window, he saw a large liquor store just then closing its shutters. “I’m getting out. I’m getting out.”

Ainosuke suddenly had the automobile stop, paid a fare of nearly ten yen, exited the vehicle, and then abruptly rushed into a liquor store that was just closing its shutters. “Let me have a drink.” “We’re closing up now.” The shop clerk stared intently at Ainosuke’s disheveled appearance and replied curtly.

“Just one drink. I’ll knock it back and be gone in a flash—please, just one.” Because he pleaded so much, the manager in the back interceded, and the clerk brought a cup of sake. “No, serve it in a masu. I want the masu.”

Then, receiving a five-gō masu filled eighty percent with sake, he pressed his mouth to its corner and gulped it down with a slurp. Though not one to be weak against alcohol, having never drunk like this before made it feel eerily akin to swallowing poison. Suddenly his face burned hot. When he demanded another drink and the liquor store staff flatly refused out of annoyance, he had no choice but to stagger out unsteadily. He felt an overwhelming urge to roar at full volume—"I’m a murderer! I just killed someone!"—but stifled it through clenched teeth.

I'm a murderer! I just killed a human being!

But to his credit, he did not actually shout. Instead, he walked along, deliberately staggering unsteadily while groaning an old-fashioned student song like a drawn-out sigh. Walking two or three blocks through the deserted late-night streets where streetlamps stood conspicuous, he found a bar still open, entered it, and drank heavily—a haphazard mix of Western liquor and sake. Mumbling incoherent grumbles all the while, he remained planted in his seat until the waitress finally drove him out.

“If you want to drink so badly, go to Yoshiwara Embankment—that place will let you drink till morning.” When the waitress snapped at him and he came to his senses, he found himself right by what they called Yoshiwara Embankment. He started walking again, staggering unsteadily and humming a strange tune as he searched for a bar that was still open.

A dimly lit, shabby bar caught his eye, so he went inside. Ordering hot sake and gulping it down, when he glanced toward the corner, a young man in Western clothes had turned his face this way and was grinning slyly. Since there were no other customers outside, he thought it strange and, tormenting his confused head, was in the midst of trying to recall his memory when he suddenly remembered. It was the beautiful young man he had met beneath the wisteria trellis in Asakusa Park some time ago. He might be some delinquent who’d made this area his haunt.

“Ah, we meet again.”

While saying this, the young man stood up and moved to the seat next to him. “Shall I keep you company?” “Ugh... Go ahead. “You know, today I have something incredibly joyful. “Hey, shall we sing?” “But you don’t look the least bit happy.” The young man said meaningfully. “Far from that—you look terribly troubled. “You’re trying to mask it with alcohol, aren’t you?” “So what—does my face say ‘I’ve just killed someone’ or something?”

Ainosuke said with reckless abandon and guffawed. "Ah, that might not be so far from the truth." The young man remained unfazed. "But such things are trivial." "I know something tenfold more dreadful than murder." "You understand, don't you?" "The miracle I mentioned before." "Somewhere in Tokyo..." "There exists a terrifying place where they perform miracles freely—absolving sinners, resurrecting corpses, erasing lives without trace," the young man's voice gradually lowered until it became a whisper. "Don't you require such a miracle now?" "But do you possess the means to purchase it?" "As I mentioned previously—ten thousand yen." "Not a single sen may be omitted."

“You seem to think I’m a murderer or something.”

“Ah, yes. I do think so.” “People don’t end up with such a terrifying expression as yours unless they’ve killed someone.” “But there’s no need to be so jumpy.” “I’m on your side.” “So?” “Won’t you confide the truth to me?”

The young man whispered in his ear and gently stroked his back like a mother soothing a child.

The young man’s mask-like symmetrical features exerted some mysterious influence over him. It seemed this youth might indeed be his savior dispatched from Yomi. His strained heart began unraveling at the edges, sweet tears welling up that made him want to cling. “To tell the truth, I shot and killed a man with a pistol tonight. That man’s corpse is still lying in an empty house right now. But you’re truly on my side, aren’t you?”

Ainosuke fixed his bloodshot eyes on the other man's face with terrifying intensity and whispered as seriously as if preparing for a duel. "It's alright. Please look into my eyes. These aren't a detective's eyes, are they? I am an ally of criminals. I'm a miracle broker who caters to criminals, you see. But I don't deal with petty thieves. My clientele consists solely of major criminals capable of paying the ten-thousand-yen fee."

The young man was dead serious as he blurted out something dreamlike.

“Alright, I’ll tell the truth. I’ll tell you in detail what I did.”

Ainosuke, with determination, pressed his liquor-tainted lips against the young man’s shapely earlobe.

Ainosuke Finally Spends a Fortune to Purchase a Miracle After slurring through an account of the incident, Ainosuke made no effort to hide his welling tears and continued sniffling like a maudlin drunk. "He was a murderous fiend." "My wife was about to be killed." "So my actions were nothing more than self-defense." "But the law doesn't consider such things." "There's no evidence." "My wife denies having gone to that empty house." "She'd never give testimony favorable to me." "To her, I'm her lover's enemy." "One of the adulterers has died." "And no one else knows about their relationship." "In short—here lies a murder." "The man I killed was a terrifying Last Madaraa." "But nobody knows." "There isn't a shred of evidence." "And as nothing but a murderer, only I will mount the gallows."

“Understood.”

“Understood,” the young man interrupted Ainosuke’s repetitive talk and said. “So ultimately, you just want to avoid being punished as a murderer. Now, it’s a deal. Do you consider ten thousand yen too expensive?” “Tell me then,” pressed Ainosuke. “What does one buy with ten thousand yen?” “A miracle,” came the reply. “A miracle beyond imagining. I can explain no further. Should you judge me untrustworthy, we part ways here.”

The young man said this and, just as he had done that other night, seemed about to leave the spot. “Well, here’s a check. I’ll write in any amount you want.” Ainosuke now regarded money as nothing more than garbage or something of the sort.

Seeing the checkbook, the young man pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket and handed it to him. “Exactly ten thousand yen will suffice.” “Well, ten thousand yen.” “But it won’t convert to cash until tomorrow morning.” “But my crime might be discovered before then.”

“That is fate.” “In any case, let us proceed.” “At nine tomorrow morning, once you’ve converted this to cash, I’ll take you straight to the place of miracles.” The young man looked at his wristwatch and said, “It’s now two-thirty.” “It’s just over six more hours of endurance.” “Ah, well, if you drink some sake, the time will fly right by.”

But since they could not possibly spend the night at the bar, Ainosuke stayed at a cheap lodging near Yoshiwara under the guidance of the mysterious young man. The room was not as filthy as he had imagined, but between the agony of his hangover and an inexplicable restlessness, exhaustion failed to bring sleep. Each time he dozed off, indescribably terrifying dreams tormented him. Startled awake by his own screams, he would bolt upright to find his entire body drenched in an ominous sweat. In this manner, he did not sleep a wink until morning.

Unable to wait for delivery, he had someone bring the newspaper, but he was afraid to look at it—and yet he couldn't not look. He steeled himself and opened the society section, but the moment he did, he flung it to the bedside as though it were some loathsome insect. After a while, he picked it up again, began to open to the third page, and once more flung it away. He finally managed to read through it only after repeating this process four or five times.

However, there was not a single line about either the strange house in Ikebukuro or the Phantom Man’s corpse. "Oh, something’s off… Ah, right! There was no way last night’s incident would make this morning’s paper." Realizing this, Ainosuke was crestfallen. The thought that he would have to endure until the evening edition came out felt unbearable. "Ah, let it be as it will be. It’ll be found out anyway. It’s the gallows anyway." Muttering such things to himself, he rolled over heavily onto his back and buried his face in the greasy-smelling collar of the futon. His mind was like mud in utter despondency.

But before long, an unexpected gust of happiness visited his sweat-stained bed. Around ten o’clock, last night’s mysterious young man entered, his perfectly symmetrical mask-like face beaming.

“Good news. Everything went well. The money was obtained without any issues. Look—a bundle of ten thousand yen bills.” The young man took out a bundle of 100-yen bills from his pocket and tapped them demonstratively. Before long, the two left the cheap lodging together. Ainosuke insisted that he disliked going out in daylight, fearing the sun, but the mysterious young man met his protest with a dismissive laugh. “That’s precisely what’s wrong. Foolish criminals choose dark streets at night and skulk around like thieves—that’s why they get caught so quickly. In broad daylight, go ahead and walk with your head held high. Even those familiar with wanted posters would never suspect it’s him. This is the crux of it, you see. That’s why even when guiding people to the place of miracles, I make it a point to choose the brightest hours of daylight as much as possible. Now, let’s go. The car is duly waiting.”

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

After leaving the lodging and walking two or three blocks under the dazzling April sun, there on the main street waited a splendid automobile. The driver also appeared to be part of the mysterious young man’s group; they exchanged glances, signaled to each other, and nodded in agreement. Before long, the car started off with Ainosuke and the mysterious young man inside. “It may be somewhat unpleasant, but I must ask you to wear a blindfold. Since it is an extremely secret place, we do not wish even our most valued clients to know its whereabouts. This being our rule, we earnestly request your understanding.”

After they had driven a short distance, the young man said something strange, but Ainosuke, resigned to his fate, agreed without hesitation. Then the young man took out a roll of bandage from his pocket and wound it tightly around his head from eyes to crown like a wounded patient. An ordinary blindfold might have drawn suspicion from onlookers—this medical guise would better conceal their purpose. It was indeed a flawless stratagem. After thirty minutes of breakneck driving, the car halted. Guided by the young man's hand, Ainosuke stepped onto unfamiliar stone pavement.

“We must descend a short flight of stairs.” “Please watch your step.” With the young man’s whispered words, they had already reached the top of the stone stairs. It was an extremely long stone staircase.

They descended and turned, descended and turned, apparently having gone down a full two ken (about six meters) underground. Before long, they emerged into a spacious flatland. The place was no longer stone pavement but had become a slippery wooden plank floor.

“You’ve been very patient.”

The young man’s voice sounded as the bandage around his head was removed. When the blindfold came off and he looked around, there—in stark contrast to the glaring midday brightness of the streets they had walked after leaving the lodging—lay a shadowy subterranean world of night. It was a simple Western-style studio with wooden plank floors spanning about ten tsubo (33 square meters). Though an electric light burned, countless shadows resembling supernatural entities clustered about, creating an uncanny sense of being in another realm altogether. For lining all four walls stood life-sized nude dolls of men and women arranged like ranks of the Five Hundred Arhats.

“You look rather startled.” “But this isn’t a doll factory.” “This isn’t some ordinary place—you’ll understand soon enough.” “You’ll understand soon.” The Handsome Young Man spoke, a peculiar faint smile playing across his own too-perfectly symmetrical face—so doll-like it was. Behind the dolls stood numerous shelves lined with countless medicine bottles like those in a scientist’s laboratory. The two gaps in those shelves marked both the entrance they had just come through and the door leading deeper within. What facilities lay beyond that inner door? Who could possibly dwell there? Ainosuke found himself assailed by an indescribable demonic presence—something nameless—and shuddered uncontrollably.

After standing there for a while, the handle of the door at the far end turned with utmost caution—with a creak—until finally the door opened halfway without a sound, and in the dark shadow beyond, the faint outline of someone’s figure materialized.

Latter Part: White Bat

The Third Shinagawa Shirō

Now then, what became of this pitiful grotesque enthusiast? As for what bizarre events occurred in that strange laboratory and so forth—we shall leave those as a pleasure to be savored for later. Here, we will instead survey the entire incident from a different vantage point. For these dual Shinagawa incidents were not merely the personal tale of a single grotesque enthusiast, but rather formed what might be called the prologue to an enormous criminal case that had once stirred up all of Tokyo—no, all of Japan—and which now stood poised to shift to its main stage. The author, too, could no longer afford to proceed with the pen as slowly and steadily as before.

Aoki Ainosuke’s wife Yoshie couldn’t comprehend why he had been acting so strangely that evening. As readers had already surmised, she was entirely innocent. But because Ainosuke wore such a terrifying expression, she unwittingly stiffened her own countenance—a reaction that ended up corroborating his misunderstanding. It was Ainosuke who had grown so madly consumed by the monster’s deception.

Even after waiting until the evening of the following day, since Ainosuke had not returned—combined with his terrifying expression from the previous night—she felt it was no ordinary matter and could no longer remain still. Therefore, Yoshie resolved to visit Shinagawa Shirō, her husband’s closest acquaintance in Tokyo, to consult with him. For there was a chance he might be staying over at Shinagawa’s place. Having prepared herself and entrusted the house to the old woman, she walked about two blocks along the road to the office of her usual taxi company—and what do you know? As if by prior arrangement, just as Shinagawa Shirō came approaching from the opposite direction, she suddenly encountered him.

"Oh, Shinagawa-san!" “Where are you headed?”

“I thought I would call at your home.” “The truth is, Aoki left acting strangely and hasn’t returned, so I wondered if he might be at your residence.”

“Ah, I see.” “Oh, there’s no need to worry.” “The truth is, there was a mahjong game—he’s been staying at a house in Ikebukuro.” “I stayed there last night too, and now that I’ve finished work today, I’m heading back there.” “So I thought I’d invite you.” “They’re all people you know.” “Won’t you come?” “Aoki-kun will certainly welcome you too.” “Oh, was that so? Well, since I’ve already come out, I’ll accompany you as I am.”

And so, the two of them walked side by side toward the taxi office—but what was this now? Which Shinagawa was this Shinagawa in the end? The fact that his words were utter falsehoods from start to finish was something the reader knew well. But the Phantom Man had been killed by Aoki and should no longer exist in this world. So was the real Shinagawa Shirō telling such lies in an attempt to lure Yoshie out? The destination was Ikebukuro. Speaking of Ikebukuro—it was the location of that notorious Last Marudaraa's lair, the strange house where he had run rampant. This man seemed to be trying to take Yoshie there, but there was no way the real Shinagawa would ever do such a thing. There was no reason for Aoki to lie about being in Ikebukuro. Then, if the man here was neither the Phantom Man nor the real Shinagawa Shirō, had a third Shinagawa Shirō—strange, strange—appeared once again, entirely different from the others? It might sound strange to put it this way, but just how many bodies did this man Shinagawa have? (But dear readers, do not grow too angry at how absurd this seems. This mystery will soon be resolved quite simply.)

Without any conversation along the way, the car arrived at a certain house in Ikebukuro. As expected, it was that strange house, but Yoshie, unaware of this, followed behind the Shinagawa look-alike man and entered inside. “My, what a strange house,” she said. “It’s just like an empty house, isn’t it?” Yoshie looked around the large wooden-plank-floored room—devoid of any furniture and thickly layered with dust—and asked uneasily.

“Where is Aoki?”

The Shinagawa look-alike man locked the door behind him with a click and answered with a sly grin.

“Aoki? Are you referring to Aoki?” “Oh…” Yoshie lost all color from her lips and stood frozen. For a truly terrifying realization had begun to dawn on her—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 aren’t Mr. Shinagawa… are you?” With dry lips, she finally spoke.

“Shinagawa Shirō. “Ah, are you referring to that good-natured science magazine president?” “No, that’s not it.” “I am that man’s shadow.” “Because I’m a shadow, I have no name.” “In other words, the second Shinagawa, you see.” “However, I do consider myself just a bit cleverer than the original.” The monster explained nonchalantly in polite language, all the while maintaining a constant smile.

“Does it seem strange to you?” “You must find it strange.” “If we weren’t twins, you’d think there couldn’t possibly be two men who look so alike. Right? You’d think so.” “There it is—right there lies the great weakness of us humans.” “I simply can’t fathom why criminals of old overlooked such a glaring weakness.” “Wouldn’t it be a lie not to exploit this?” “If you exploit this, any grand scheme—even overturning a nation from its very foundations, or plunging the entire world into chaos—becomes child’s play.” “For example, even if I were not Shinagawa Shirō, just consider if I had a face a hundredfold more indistinguishable from ××××× than his own.” “…You see, you understand, don’t you? Just how utterly terrifying the implications are…”

He was gradually slipping into a lecturing tone as he faced this beautiful listener, growing self-satisfied and preparing to divulge something. Had they allowed him to continue just a little longer, he might have disclosed some dreadful secret. But at this critical juncture, an outrageous interruption intruded.

*A snap of an inch—a crack of five minutes* At that moment, Yoshie—who had been absent-mindedly listening to the demon’s lecture—must have seen something. She suddenly let out a shrill “Eeek!”, a scream so primal it cast aside all shame and propriety, and clung spider-like to one of the walls.

“Oh my, what’s the matter?”

The man asked with feigned surprise, though he had anticipated her startled reaction from the very beginning. “Ah, those dark reddish stains on the floor? “Just as you imagined—it’s blood.” “Ha ha ha ha! But blood though it may be, it’s not human!” “Nor is it an animal’s.” “It’s stage blood used for plays, you see.” “Look, here it is.” “Take a look.” As he spoke, he took a small gelatin capsule from his pocket and smacked it against the wall. The gelatin ruptured, and thick blood paste trickled down as though the wall were the chest of a living human.

“Ha ha ha ha! Do you understand now?” “This is my most precious weapon.” “An empty pistol and these blood paste capsules—with these two tools, when the critical moment arrives, I deliberately let myself be shot, crush one inside my shirt’s chest area, and stage a most convincing death.” “Far safer than killing them outright, wouldn’t you agree? And infinitely more fascinating.” “The mere pleasure of watching them flounder in panic, believing me dead—see? Ha ha ha ha!”

The man kept laughing as if thoroughly entertained, but when he finally ceased, he resumed his garrulous speech.

“You might not grasp this from words alone, but in fact, last night—right where those bloodstains are—I was killed by your husband.” “You see, your husband was so blinded that he fell for my masterful performance, became convinced he’d actually committed murder, and went completely mad.” “In his desperation, he was wandering around drinking in Yoshihara’s bars when my subordinate took him and has now hidden him away in a secret location.” “In other words, these are the traces of that murder carried out there.” “However, my being shot was just an act, but in this house, it’s not only performances that take place.” “There may well be even more terrifying things—and blood that isn’t stage blood flowing.” The man grinned slyly and let out a loud laugh. “To tell you the truth, your husband witnessed the place where real blood flows.” “Look, you can see it, can’t you? “He climbed up that large pine tree in the garden, you see.” “And so, to keep that secret sealed, I decided to let him kill me.” “I orchestrated it that way.” “It worked perfectly.” “So then, not only has the man your husband was pursuing as the criminal died—leaving him no one to denounce—but he himself is now half-mad, utterly convinced he’s committed the grave crime of murder.” “What a brilliant method, don’t you think?” “Who would have thought these gelatin capsules could achieve such a splendid dual effect?”

The monster stared fixedly at Yoshie’s expression after saying this much, then continued in an eerie tone: “Ah, you’re trembling. Are you frightened?” “Frightened that I’m laying everything bare like this?” “You’ve discerned there must be some ulterior motive behind my calmly revealing these secrets.” “How perceptive you are.” “Exactly as you imagine.” “But there’s no need to cling so tightly to the wall.” “It won’t happen immediately.” “I’m not the sort to carelessly slaughter precious prey.” “I still have so much more to tell you.” “Now—come here.” The monster’s tentacle-like simian arm stretched out to seize Yoshie’s soft nape, pulling her close with viscous strength through sheer force.

The monster’s tentacle-like simian arm shot out, seized Yoshie’s soft nape, and with viscous strength pulled her close to him. Yoshie felt all strength leave her body; she could neither scream nor resist, left only with the sensation of being trapped in a nightmare.

“I wasn’t always such a villain from the start.” “At first, I merely blended into motion picture crowds to mock that pompous Mr. President of the Science Magazine—showing off this face in close-up shots or letting people catch glimpses of my bizarre appearance in secret houses—all for petty amusement. But then your husband appeared.” “And then, more than Shinagawa Shirō himself, he began to find my existence peculiar and take an interest.” “So I thought, ‘Let’s have some fun with this,’ acquired a girl whose voice closely resembled yours to stage a mock seduction—and your husband fell right into the trap.”

“See? How about that? Isn’t it magnificent? I never imagined it would go this smoothly. There you had the dignified president of a science magazine and your detective-obsessed grotesque enthusiast of a husband—perfect practice dummies for my scheme—and it all succeeded splendidly, don’t you think? With things progressing this smoothly, I became tremendously confident I could do anything. That’s when I began putting into practice what I’d only done in dreams. I started indulging in pleasures no emperor could ever mimic. And when this gets exposed to the world, there’s someone who’ll take full responsibility for the crimes. I’m a man with no legal existence in this world—nothing but Shinagawa Shirō’s shadow. All my sins will be borne by Shinagawa Shirō himself. How magnificently perfect!”

“You ask what pleasure truly is?” “That will become clear soon enough—soon enough.” “...Now, to continue our story,” he said, pulling Yoshie closer until they were nearly cheek-to-cheek, “as I performed this seduction act with your counterfeit, something peculiar happened—I grew dissatisfied with mere counterfeits.” “I’ve come to crave the real you.” “You see, subjecting your husband to that ordeal was partly because he’d uncovered my secret—but at heart, my true aim was to eliminate my obstacle and make you wholly mine.” “Ah, your hands are cold and trembling.” “Delicate beads of sweat glisten on your neck.” “What a lovely creature you are.” “Now then, a seat for a delightful game awaits in that room over there.” “Let us go.” “...Can you imagine?” “...what manner of game it might be.”

And then, the pitiful little sparrow—still clamped under the arm of this unknowable monster—was taken away to another room. What transpired there remains unknown to anyone. But doubtless, it was as everyone could imagine. We cannot forget that bloody spectacle which Aoki Ainosuke once glimpsed from the pine treetops.

Modern One-Handed Beauty

Several days after the aforementioned events—as for the season, it was now late May, already about half a year since the story's beginning—on a certain sweltering day.

At the western edge of Ushigome’s Edogawa Park lay what was colloquially called the Great Waterfall—now merely a dreary concrete sluice gate, yet still retaining a section where water cascaded down like a grand cascade. A stream flowing from the west of Musashino became a waterfall there, transformed into the Edogawa River—once a renowned cherry blossom viewing spot—made a great bend at Ōmagari, and flowed into the outer moat at Iidabashi. By that Great Waterfall stood several boat rental shops, and though it became a minor suburban attraction where many people maneuvered small boats to enjoy the evening coolness in summer, on that day—a stiflingly hot late spring afternoon as previously mentioned—nearby children had already rented out boats, steering poles through shallow muddy waters to battle the churning torrents swirling back beneath the waterfall’s base while amusing themselves in the struggle. Among them were some savage-like mischievous boys who, with unseemly eagerness, stripped naked and were leaping into the filthy water.

The Great Waterfall spanned ten *ken* in width (around eighteen meters), with a drop perhaps two *jō* high (roughly six meters). Its colossal mouth resembled a pane of glass, white waves gnashing against each other in the basin below as a thunderous roar shook the surroundings. Though small in scale, it possessed every beauty befitting a waterfall. People, carelessly trusting the sluice gate, would venture their boats close to the waterfall basin—and there were one or two each year who ended up losing their lives. The waterfall basin was so deep that baseless ghost stories had even arisen about something demonic dwelling at its depths.

But the local children were like water imps—they knew every dangerous spot and swam without a trace of fear. Then from one of the small boats came a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old imp leader who had stripped completely naked. Spinning around, he plunged headfirst into the deep waters near the waterfall basin with a loud splash, his jet-black body inverted. “Wait there!” he barked at his companions. “I’ll go find something good 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. For wallets dropped by pleasure boaters would occasionally sink deep into the muddy bottom. He kept his eyes wide open underwater as he descended further and further down. Though lacking the kelp forests of the seafloor, this turbid realm revealed wood fragments, straw bundles, mud-caked cloth scraps, and bleached bones of unidentifiable small creatures—whether dog or cat—their squirming forms undulating through the murk in a spectacle far more sinister and ghastly than anything oceanic.

Looking down at the base of the waterfall basin, hundreds of *koku* of water plummeting from a height of two *jō* formed a colossal pillar that reached nearly to the deep bottom. Once its momentum waned, it shattered into countless pure white bubbles and surged upward in a roiling boil toward the surface—a truly terrifying spectacle. But the boy, accustomed to such sights, was unfazed. Rather than that, he swam through the mud for as long as his breath held out, searching among the debris at the water’s bottom for some item that could serve as a souvenir for his boat companions.

Suddenly, he noticed something white protruding from the mud about five or six *ken* ahead, fluttering faintly and catching his eye. Though the boy had plunged into these same depths countless times, this was his first encounter with something so bizarre. It was not an animal bone. It was thicker, limp, and seemed somehow alive.

He approached it, his curiosity piqued. With each layer of water he parted, the form of that thing grew clearer. Being at the bottom of muddy water, the entire area was unnervingly dark, like a rundown silent-film theater with flickering electricity. Within it, that vividly pale thing truly seemed to have sprouted from the mud, its five-pronged tips thrashing as if grasping at the water. A living human’s—likely a woman’s—wrist in the death throes of agony. It was jutting rigidly from the mud, writhing.

The boy’s body thrashed violently in the water at tremendous speed, like a shrimp recoiling from a predator. Then he surfaced in a flailing frenzy, vomiting up the copious muddy water he’d swallowed with violent retches. And when he was finally able to speak, he turned toward his companions on the boat and, “A p-p-person... a person’s dead!” he shouted with a stutter.

The boy himself was as pale as a corpse.

“Really?” “Are they dead?” “I don’t know.” “It was still moving.”

“Then let’s hurry and save them!” “Everyone, let’s all pitch in and save them!”

One brave boy declared with fervor. A heroic sentiment surged among the water-imp boys. “Let’s save them! Let’s save them!” They all shouted in unison, tore off their clothes, and plunged into the water one after another like competitive swimmers with resounding splashes. Four reddish-black slick bodies thrust diagonally through the muddy water toward the depths. The first boy, emboldened by his companions and refusing to be outdone, dove down to the remembered spot and resolutely seized the white fluttering object. The next boy who followed likewise grabbed at it competitively. A squishy, unsettling texture. When they yanked with all their strength, it slipped free without resistance.

There was only the hand—no torso. It had taken on the appearance of sprouting from the mud due to some force.

The boys returned to the boat. The pale severed arm of a woman was dumped in the middle of the boat's hull. Whether it had been cut by a sharp blade, the incision was immaculate. Wrapped in peach-colored flesh, the white bone peeked out slightly. Glittering on one finger was a delicately crafted platinum ring. It was deeply embedded in the plump finger. The commotion that followed need not be detailed. At the children's report, the old man from the boat rental shop rushed to the police box in alarm. Several officers from the local police station were dispatched and hired workers to conduct an exhaustive underwater search, but aside from that single arm (which was in fact a left arm), nothing else was discovered.

There were various theories—whether it had been thrown in at the very spot where it sank, or discarded much farther upstream before drifting past the sluice gate to settle in the waterfall basin—but given that no signs of murder were found near Ōtaki, a patrolman stated to the boat rental uncle that the latter explanation was likely correct. The severed arm was transferred through the local police to the Metropolitan Police Department for forensic appraisal. It goes without saying that the next day’s newspapers were abuzz with this article. It was not the arm of some vagrant or beggar—this was an alluring woman’s limb, her well-manicured fingertips and platinum ring suggesting a young beauty raised in luxury. It was tailor-made for sensational tabloid fodder.

A newspaper editor gave it the headline "The Modern One-Armed Beauty." In other words, it hinted at the truly bizarre fantasy that a beautiful woman whose arm had been severed was still alive somewhere in Tokyo. He was undoubtedly an avid reader of the detective novel *The One-Armed Beauty*—adapted by Ruikō Shōshi—the very work that had inspired this macabre suggestion.

The Famous Detective Akechi Kogoro

The day after the aforementioned incident, Akechi Kogoro visited Inspector Namigami—a familiar face at the Metropolitan Police Department (who at the time held an important position in the Investigation Division)—and they conferred in a secluded room away from others.

This was a coincidence.

Akechi Kogoro had no particular interest in the "One-Armed Beauty Case" to begin with. At the time, he himself was playing the leading role in investigating another case that was causing a greater stir in society, so it was only natural that he would visit the Investigation Division. Especially with Inspector Namigami, with whom he had been acquainted since *The Spider-Man* incident, their conversations naturally flowed without reservation. At that moment, the duty patrolman entered and timidly presented a single name card before Inspector Oni.

“Shinagawa Shirō, president of XX Science Magazine... Hmm, an odd sort has come calling.” “Does he expect me to hear his story, I wonder?” “The particulars are noted on the reverse.”

The patrolman said. "Regarding the case of the woman’s severed arm discovered at Ōtaki, I earnestly wish to speak with you." "Hmph, that severed arm case." "There might be something to it, Mr. Akechi." "Do you know that person?" "Yeah, I know him." "We’re not particularly close, though." "I suppose I should meet him once." "Then I’ll excuse myself." "No, no, it’s better if you stay." "Moreover, there may come a time when we require your expertise." "Ha ha ha ha!"

And this was Inspector Oni’s attempt to hide his embarrassment. While he revered Akechi Kogoro, as a seasoned veteran from the detective force, he had always felt somewhat ashamed to rely on the assistance of an amateur detective. Before long, under the patrolman’s guidance, Shinagawa Shirō—with whom readers are familiar—entered. Like a man of science, he wore stiff attire—a black jacket and striped trousers. Once the greetings were concluded, he promptly got down to business. “The truth is, there is a woman who has gone missing.” “It has been about five days now.” “No, it’s not just the woman—her husband also vanished somewhere a day or two before she did.” “He’s a friend of mine named Aoki Ainosuke, but I hadn’t thought much of it until I saw this morning’s newspaper.” “Aoki is an extremely capricious man, and since his main residence is in Nagoya, I considered that he might have simply returned there without a word—in fact, I haven’t even reported this to the police yet.”

“However, yesterday—after receiving a reply from his main residence in Nagoya confirming he still hadn’t returned—this morning brought that newspaper article. I am deeply troubled by the thought that something terrible might have occurred. What I mean is—the ring mentioned in the newspaper, the one found on the woman’s finger—it’s identical to that of Yoshie, Aoki’s wife. And so, it occurred to me—since I remember that ring quite clearly—that I wanted to see the actual item, which is why I’ve come to visit.”

“I see.” “It’s good of you to come.” “Let me show it to you right away.” Upon hearing this promising lead, the inspector—delighted as if he had already grasped a clue to the crime—went himself to the room where it was stored and had a patrolman carry the bottled severed arm back. When they removed the white cloth covering it, inside the bottle—preserved in antiseptic fluid—a grotesque thing stood with its fingers pointing upward, as if sprouted. “Look here.” “This is the ring.” Shinagawa leaned his face close to the bottle placed on the desk and gazed at it for a while, but as the preservative fluid was cloudy and he couldn’t see clearly, he excused himself to the inspector, carried the bottle to the window, removed the lid, and meticulously examined it for some time. Perhaps having reached a conclusion, he returned to his seat with a somewhat pale face,

“Just as I thought. This is undoubtedly Yoshie Aoki’s arm,” he said in a low, low voice. “There’s no chance of a misidentification, I trust?”

Inspector Namigami also spoke in a serious tone. “Absolutely not. This special engraving was specially commissioned to Aoki-kun’s taste, so there’s no reason anyone other than Yoshie would be wearing it.”

Mr. Shinagawa said this, stood up and went to where the bottle was placed, then conducted a meticulous inspection; before long, with a deep sigh, he covered the bottle with the white cloth as it had been,

"It’s horrible," he muttered. "It’s horrible."

He muttered to himself. The tone of his muttering carried some suggestive implication, so the inspector seized upon it without hesitation, “Have you thought of something?”

he inquired.

“There is. Actually, I came here intending to discuss that as well, but since it’s such a peculiar matter, I’m apprehensive whether you’ll believe what I have to say.” “Let’s hear it regardless. Naturally, this concerns the criminal, I presume?” “Exactly. To state this abruptly—though you may suspect I’ve lost my mind or am dreaming—I have reason to believe that behind this incident, there exists another me, indistinguishable from myself in every detail, who is pulling the strings.”

“What do you mean? I don’t quite understand what you’re saying, but—”

The inspector made a strange face and asked again. Akechi Kogoro, who had been listening nearby, seemed to have taken an interest in this bizarre tale as well, staring holes into Shinagawa Shirō’s face. “No, it’s only natural that you don’t understand.” “Even I, at first, suspected that something was wrong with my own head.” “However, for six long months now, I have been tormented by that monster who is indistinguishable from me in every detail.” “It’s not just me.” “The Mr. Aoki I just mentioned is also well aware of this matter.” “To tell the truth, I’ve been on edge for a long time now, dreading that something like this might happen—might happen.” “Because it’s well understood that the man who shares my face is a heinous rogue.” “This incident, too, is part of his elaborate scheme.” “The one killed was my friend’s wife—no, not just his wife. Even Mr. Aoki himself—there’s no telling whether he’s alive or dead by now.” “Both of them are people with whom I have a deep connection.” “If the perpetrator turns out to be a man indistinguishable from me in every detail—what would that lead to?” “In short, I’ll be the one under suspicion.” “You see, it’s me.” “That’s what terrifies me.” “And so, by thoroughly explaining the circumstances and preempting the villain’s moves, I hurried here in order to clearly state that I myself have no connection to this incident.”

“Let us hear it.” “Please recount everything in as much detail as you can.” “This gentleman here is—as you may know—the renowned private detective Mr. Akechi Kogoro.” “Given the nature of this case, I expect Mr. Akechi will find it most intriguing.” Upon hearing Akechi’s name, Mr. Shinagawa glanced briefly toward him and flushed faintly. The reason remained unclear. Perhaps he felt gratified by this unforeseen encounter with a man whose exceptional talents he knew well.

He began his lengthy account. Since all this was already known to the reader, it would be omitted here—the eerie photographs seen at the movie theater in the outskirts, the two Shinagawa Shirōs whose faces aligned in newspaper photos, the astonishing confrontation in the crimson room, how this other Shinagawa appeared to have formed an improper relationship with Aoki’s wife, Aoki’s profound distress over this matter, and how about a week ago (marking the last time anyone had seen Aoki’s face), he suddenly visited late at night,

“You are indeed Shinagawa-kun, right? You’re alive, then.” He recounted in detail how Aoki had blurted out something strange before abruptly leaving for parts unknown; how soon after, his wife Yoshie went missing; how there were those who spotted Shinagawa and Yoshie walking shoulder to shoulder near Aoki’s residence around that time; and so on—concluding that behind these disappearances of both individuals, that monster must surely have been lurking. Moreover, he concluded that the double was undoubtedly plotting to shift that dreadful crime onto the real Shinagawa Shirō.

This utterly bizarre story struck both Mr. Namigami and Akechi Kogoro.

As for someone like Mr. Namigami, he turned his ruddy face even redder and listened with rapt attention. When he finished his account and saw that his listeners grasped the situation, Mr. Shinagawa—with a look of relief—bid them farewell and departed, leaving behind the words, “Please feel free to summon me whenever needed.” “This sounds like something out of a novel,” said Mr. Namigami. “If he isn’t a twin, I can’t help feeling it’s hard to believe there exists a man who’s an exact duplicate like that.” Mr. Namigami appeared to hesitate over whether to proceed with arrangements in accordance with Shinagawa’s instructions.

“Extremely interesting.” “Whether you believe it or not, this seems like a ridiculously intriguing case.”

Akechi said with a mischievous, childlike expression. “Interesting it may be—” “No, what I mean is different from what you’re thinking. At the very least, that man possesses sleight-of-hand skills that even seasoned professionals couldn’t match.” “Wh-what did you say?” Mr. Namigami looked flustered at Akechi’s strange remark. “Well then—you should inspect that jar containing the submerged arm. You were so engrossed in his story that you failed to notice that man’s actions. He’s a formidable opponent.”

Upon hearing this, Mr. Namigami stood up with a start, approached the window, and removed the white cloth covering the jar to inspect it. At the same moment came a cry of "Ah!" At the bottom of the jar, a severed finger floated gently.

“The ring! The ring!” The inspector gaped in astonishment.

“What a brilliant magician! Pretending to examine the engraving on the ring, he swiftly severed the finger and extracted only the ring. He took away the crucial evidence! Since it was embedded in the finger, they had to cut it off to remove it, you see.” “And you...”

The inspector turned bright red and bellowed. “You knew all along and kept silent?” “Well, I was too captivated by his skillful performance—but rest assured, the ring is here.” Akechi said this and produced a slender platinum ring from his waistcoat pocket. “When did you—?” “When I stood at the entrance seeing that man off. He likely never imagined another magician was present here.”

“Ah, another one of your whims? That’s fine and all, but you let the crucial one get away! That guy’s more important than the ring—since he came to destroy evidence, he might be the real culprit!”

“I don’t think so. The disappearance of the ring would be noticed immediately. Would someone who boldly shows their face to steal it really be the true culprit? Surely there’s no one reckless enough for that. He’s likely just a subordinate. If we raise a fuss now, the big fish will slip away. Well, there’s no need to panic. This looks absolutely fascinating—I’ll lend a hand myself. No, don’t pursue him. When criminals reach this level, they come to us on their own if we wait. In fact, this very act could be seen as challenging us, depending on your perspective.”

It was indeed an undeniable fact that the criminal had challenged the police. But in all other respects, even the great Akechi had made a colossal miscalculation. The criminal’s methods were that exceptionally superior. The time soon came when Akechi’s miscalculation became clear. While they were engaged in such discussions, about thirty minutes of wasted time had passed. At that moment, the same relaying police officer from before came in pulling a strange face and brought another business card. "Shinagawa Shirō" This one lacked the title "President of a Science Magazine."

“Isn’t this the same man from earlier?” “That seems to be the case.” “‘Seems to be the case’? You should’ve known just by looking at his face!” “Well, but...”

The policeman was making a strange face for some reason and struggling to respond. “Regardless, bring him here for now. Don’t let him get away!”

The inspector commanded in a stern tone. Before long, Shinagawa Shirō appeared at the door. The relaying police officer was behind him, determined not to let him escape. “Did you perhaps forget something?” The inspector forced a smile and said.

“Huh?” Mr. Shinagawa stood utterly dumbfounded. “Didn’t you steal the ring and leave just about thirty minutes ago? Are you trying to say you dropped it on the way?” “Huh? That I came here about thirty minutes ago? This me?” Mr. Shinagawa seemed utterly bewildered at first, but soon—sensing some dreadful truth from the room’s atmosphere and the inspector’s expression—he abruptly turned pale and stood frozen in place.

*That’s him! He beat me to it!* Mr. Shinagawa stared vacantly at a single spot, muttering under his breath, but soon regained his composure and—

“Take a good look. Was it me? Was I dressed like this?” When they looked as instructed, while these were indeed the same black jacket and striped trousers, the fabric quality and stripe patterns differed. It was truly a dream-like event.

At this overwhelming turn of events, both host and guests fell deathly silent.

“So that guy told the complete truth after all,” “It wasn’t some dreamlike fabrication meant to deceive us after all.” Even the great Akechi Kogoro—faced with this bizarre occurrence beyond imagination—instinctively rose from his seat and shouted, his face deathly pale. He had never before suffered such a searing insult. Magnesium. An absurd farce—yet when considered carefully, there existed no farce in this world more terrifying than this. In the end, the Shinagawa from earlier proved to be an audacious imposter, and it became clear that he was none other than the murderer.

The real Shinagawa Shirō, through his detailed statement and submission of evidence—the evidence being evening newspaper clippings featuring the phantom man, letters from Aoki to Shinagawa regarding the incident, and a diary discovered in Ainosuke’s study—made it so that even the police authorities had no choice but to believe this profound mystery. There, they continued their investigation to the fullest extent—examining the strange house in Ikebukuro identified through Aoki’s diary, interrogating the proprietress of that brothel in Kōjimachi—but the Phantom Man had long anticipated such moves, and no matter where they searched, not even a single strand of hair remained as a clue.

For about a month, the Phantom Man maintained an eerie silence. The Beauty’s Severed Arm Incident had flared up like a sparkler, setting society abuzz, only to fizzle out abruptly. He, who had boldly challenged them by suddenly appearing before Inspector Namigami and Akechi Kogoro, had not gone silent out of fear of police investigation. He must have been plotting some grand conspiracy—wasn’t this merely its preparatory phase? At least there was one person—Shinagawa Shirō, president of the science magazine—who was convinced of this. He became so hypersensitive that even being spoken to by an ordinary person would startle him into jumping.

Sure enough, Shinagawa’s prediction had hit the mark.

One month later, on a certain night in mid-July, the Phantom Man was discovered making strange gestures in a truly strange place. Moreover, even as he made such strange gestures, it was an extremely bizarre incident where absolutely nothing could be understood—neither what exactly he had been doing nor what crime had been committed.

Late that night, a reporter from the A Newspaper’s society section and a photographer were walking side by side through the desolate mansion district of Kōjimachi Ward. At the time, A Newspaper was running a feature series titled *Midnight in Greater Tokyo*, and these two reporters had changed their route tonight, setting out to explore the affluent neighborhoods. The district they now passed through was the wealthiest of wealthy neighborhoods—one side dominated by a palatial estate resembling a forest belonging to a certain marquis, the other by the imposing structure of millionaire Miyazaki Tsunemon’s residence, where a towering stone wall supported a concrete barrier that continued for nearly a whole block.

“What do you think of this scene—a beggar woman sleeping under this enormous stone wall, covered with a straw mat in the ditch?” “Hmph, as if there’d be a beggar in a place like this. Instead of that, imagining a burglar scaling this high wall would make for a much better scene!” As they descended the slope whispering such jokes, they discovered something squirming in the darkness where the meager streetlamp light couldn’t reach. A sudden premonition struck the keen nerves of the newspaper reporter.

“Shh, something’s there. Let’s hide.”

The two men proceeded slowly and cautiously, crawling along the stone wall while peering ahead.

It was a thief. Well, well—they had just been discussing that very thing. It stood right at the base of the slope—the highest section of the stone wall. On top of that stone wall rose a meticulously constructed concrete barrier, bringing the total height to over twenty feet. This made it farthest from the light and an ideal stronghold for their operation. Looking up, they saw a rope dangling from the top of the wall, down which a masked man was now descending. Below waited two lookouts in Western suits, poised and ready.

The man descending the wall was carrying a ridiculously large load on his back. "There are three of them." "Making noise would be dangerous." "But what a shame. What a shame." "I wonder if there's still time to alert the mansion over there."

“No, no. It’s a whole block to the gate.” The two reporters were whispering in voices as faint as a mosquito’s hum, but being professionals, their minds worked swiftly.

“Hey, I’ve got a brilliant idea.”

The photography staff member tapped the other man’s shoulder. For two or three seconds, they whispered in hushed tones; then, for some reason, they began inching closer toward the thieves. Ten ken, five ken, three ken—they pressed forward to a perilous proximity where advancing any further would surely alert their targets. The masked man had finally reached the ground and was just transferring the large bundle onto the back of the man below. “Went smoothly.”

“Yeah, but damn thing was heavy.” “That’s heavy. It’s bloated with greed and overindulgence, you see.”

The masked man deftly coiled the rope and pulled it toward himself. At that moment. With an eerie boom, the pitch-dark mansion district became as bright as daylight for an instant. Needless to say, the photography staff member had ignited the magnesium. Why had he done such a thing? Was it to startle the thieves? That was part of it. But at the same time, he also gripped the camera shutter. In other words, he’d photographed the culprits.

The plan succeeded perfectly. However improbably, none could have imagined a photographer materializing on these midnight streets. The thieves stood frozen—stunned by the deafening blast and blinding flare of light. One thief drew a readied pistol to fire into the darkness, but his two companions instantly restrained him. Resistance would only amplify the uproar. Soon reinforcements would swarm the area. Their sole recourse now was flight—a desperate sprint to where their automobile waited. Flanking the bundle-bearer between them, they bolted headlong down the street.

When he saw the fleeing targets, the photography staff member gleefully ignited another round of magnesium with a bang from behind them. “Should we give chase?” “Stop, stop! We’ve already taken proper crime scene photos. There’s no need to panic. Rather than that, why don’t we inform the house there about this?” Having agreed on this and about to turn back toward the gate, something caught the reporter’s eye. “Hey, those guys dropped something!”

“Yeah, looks like something fell from that fleeing guy’s body.” “It might be a handkerchief.”

“No, it’s not.” “It looks like a scrap of paper.” “Anyway, let’s pick it up and keep it.”

The reporter ran about eighteen meters ahead, picked up the scrap of paper the thieves had dropped, and came back. “Something’s written here.” “This might serve as evidence.” The two returned to the nearest streetlamp and tried reading the text on the scrap of paper. Prime Minister　　　　　Ōkawara Koreyuki　……………………………4 Home Minister　　　　　Mizuno Hirotada……………………………5 Superintendent General of the Metropolitan Police Department　　　　　　Akamatsu Montarō　……………………………3

Director of the Police Bureau　　　　　　　Itozaki Yasunosuke　……………………………6 President of Iwabuchi Spinning Company Miyazaki Tsunemon……………………………1 Amateur Detective　　　　　Akechi Kogoro　……………………………2 (The author states: Though over a dozen names remained listed—high-ranking officials, tycoons, those holding peerage titles, elder statesmen [with Akechi being the penniless exception], and others—all have been omitted for tediousness’ sake. Only these six individuals bearing numbered entries are recorded here; readers may surmise the rest.)

“What’s this? Ridiculous. Some kind of notable persons ranking? What a worthless doodle. They’ve listed every big shot from elder statesmen to cabinet members without missing a beat. But this selection’s rather cleverly done.” “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Even if I tried, I couldn’t pick a better lineup myself. Spot-on accurate. Still, Akechi Kogoro’s an odd one here. Does Mr. Akechi even possess anything worth stealing?”

“Ha ha ha! What a joke,” he laughed. “Let’s hurry and notify this house then.” As the photography staff member moved to discard the scrap of paper, the reporter urgently stopped him. “Wait—Miyazaki Tsunemon’s name is listed here!” “And look—there’s a number one marked beneath it.” “Hey! This *is* Miyazaki’s residence!” “What? You mean these names are the thieves’ itinerary?” “So tomorrow night they’ll target number two—Akechi Kogoro—and the day after break into number three’s place? The Superintendent General’s?” “Come now—this can’t be serious!”

Because the scrap of paper exceeded the two newspaper reporters’ imagination, it appeared nothing more than comical. Yet, feeling somehow reluctant to discard it, one of them stuffed the scrap into his pocket. Before long, they returned to the imposing gate of the Miyazaki residence and began pressing its doorbell frantically.

Superintendent General Akamatsu

The following day before noon, Superintendent General Akamatsu, upon hearing the Criminal Affairs Division Chief’s report immediately after arriving at his office and deeming the matter grave, directly summoned Inspector Namigami, who was in charge of the case, to his private room. On the gleaming large desk lay on-site photographs of the mysterious thieves at the Miyazaki residence—captured through the quick thinking of A Newspaper’s photography staff member the previous night—alongside the aforementioned scrap of paper listing notable figures. “Is the man in the center of this photograph indeed Shinagawa Shirō, the person involved in that one-armed incident?”

The Superintendent General pressed for confirmation as he inquired. Upon looking, indeed, one of the three men in Western attire was unmistakably Shinagawa Shirō himself. "Well, it's either Shinagawa Shirō or the other man." "However, I believe the one committing such evil deeds is undoubtedly that other man." Inspector Namigami said respectfully. The other party was His Excellency. He was an eminent man whom he had spoken to directly only a handful of times in a month. "Hmm, that notorious Phantom Man fellow, you mean?"

“Yes. That monster has completely vanished since then.” “So you’re saying you’ve seen this other man before as well?” “Ah, it’s not just me. Every member of the high-ranking section knows him. He’s a notorious dangerous individual.” “A Communist Party member?” *(Later note: At that time, the Communist Party was not a legal political party.)* “But precisely because it’s unclear whether he’s a party member, it becomes all the more troublesome. He’s an incredibly sly bastard who never leaves a trace. On the surface, he’s registered with the K Proletarian Party.”

“Ha ha ha ha—Phantom Man and the Communist Party joining hands, eh? Well well, they’ve gotten their hands on a remarkable weapon. Ha ha ha ha.”

As if to cancel out the Superintendent General’s hearty laughter, the inspector answered without even a smile. “No, it’s truly a terrifying weapon.” “I have been in this profession for many years, but I have never imagined such an absurd case.” “The more I think about it, the more my head becomes a jumble.” “So, their arrest—”

“We have not yet.” “We did issue an alert, but their hideout was already empty.” “But even if we were to arrest them, there would be nothing we could do.” “Other than trespassing charges, they’ve committed no crimes.” “Hmph. So you’re saying not a single item was stolen after all?” The Superintendent General spoke while casting a fleeting glance at the photograph on the desk. There, a single burglar stood clearly visible, shouldering a load as large as his own body.

“Yes. I met with Mr. Miyazaki himself this morning and conducted a thorough inquiry, but not a single item appears to be missing from the Miyazaki household.” “But this luggage’s shape doesn’t look like goods.” “Precisely. I naturally noticed that too.” “It’s not just this photograph.” “The A Newspaper reporter overheard the thieves saying, ‘That’s heavy—swollen with greed and overnutrition, you see.’” “Judging from those words, it can only be human.” “And we thoroughly investigated that angle too, but not one member of the Miyazaki family or their servants has gone missing.”

“On top of that, there’s this list of names.” “Ha ha ha ha—I suppose that means I’ll be next in line for target practice, eh?”

Inspector Namigami made a strange face upon hearing the Superintendent General’s hearty laughter. What on earth was the Superintendent General thinking, laughing off this bizarre incident?

“Inspector Namigami, when it comes to police work, I’m just an amateur.” “But sometimes an amateur’s perspective might unexpectedly see things more clearly than you professionals.” “What do you mean by that?” The inspector retorted, feeling somewhat slighted.

“Now, about this case,” he began. “What I mean is—can’t we approach this from a completely different perspective? Don’t you see? For instance—suppose we theorize that this Shinagawa and the Phantom Man are actually the same person?” “You mean… everything from the start was an elaborate fabrication…?” “Exactly. My reasoning may seem overly conventional, but I refuse to believe two humans could exist in this world who are utterly identical down to the last detail. With fifty-odd years of life experience behind me, I cannot accept such a preposterous story as truth.”

“But… but…” “Do you understand the psychological state of these so-called editors of popular science magazines?” “They’re not proper scholars.” “They’re essentially novelists—the type who gather strange, sensational things and gleefully parade them before their readers.” “That desire to make people gasp in shock—when it grows too strong, they might even attempt mad schemes.” “I don’t know all the details, but among famous foreign criminals, there are scholars with titles like ‘Dr. Such-and-such’… They too are fundamentally scholars craving that gasp of astonishment.” “Well? Don’t you agree?”

“However, there is concrete evidence that Shinagawa and the Phantom Man even met face-to-face at a distance of two or three feet.” “Moreover, it isn’t merely Shinagawa’s own testimony—it is clearly recorded in Aoki Ainosuke’s diary.” “I have seen that diary as well.” “It’s precisely because I saw it that I could say I no longer believe in the Phantom Man’s existence.” “Because the method of their meeting was highly unnatural.” Shinagawa peered through the peephole. “At that moment, the other man—Aoki, wasn’t it?—that Aoki couldn’t look through the peephole at the same time.”

“But…”

“Now listen carefully. Aoki had once peeked through that peephole at Shinagawa’s figure. That night, he might have merely seen part of the man’s body who had come there and, because the clothing matched, ended up believing it was that second Shinagawa. When I read the diary at the time, I noticed that immediately—though I hadn’t yet reached conviction. But take this current case! It’s like a sumo ranking list of names! A theft without any stolen items! In other words—don’t you think it’s an outlandish detective novel concocted by the president of that science magazine? As for these so-called Communist Party members—they might just be worthless men hired by Shinagawa due to your over-sensitivity. If that fellow has built a reputation as such a dangerous man, then the whole act becomes all the more convincing, you see.”

It was a truly astonishing deduction. Inspector Namigami had never dreamed that such a terrifying deduction would emerge from the bald head of the elderly Superintendent General. Admittedly, such a way of thinking wasn't impossible. How precise and thorough the Superintendent General’s deduction was would become immediately clear if you, dear readers, were to reread the earlier section of this story titled *“The Two Men’s Bizarre Glimpse of the Acrobatic Performance.”*

But in Inspector Namigami’s mind, belief in the Phantom Man had taken strong root. “So, are you saying that meeting in Miura’s attic room was an act where Shinagawa used a double to make Aoki believe in the Phantom Man?” “And are you saying that last night’s incident was also something Shinagawa did after knowing in advance that the A Newspaper photographer would come?” “Of course, we cannot fathom the mentality of a man who would take pleasure in staging such convoluted theatrics.” “But compared to imagining two human beings so indistinguishable that one cannot tell them apart, this still seems somewhat more plausible.”

“But what about the face captured in the motion picture?” “And the evening newspaper’s photographic plate?” “Yes, those things did exist. But listen—if someone has connections in a newspaper’s photography department, it’s child’s play to have them deftly insert a man’s face into a crowd photo.” “No matter who was in the crowd, it wouldn’t affect the newspaper’s value.” “As for the motion picture—well, if they colluded with the director and had him send a letter with a false date written on it, the mystery would be solved in an instant.”

Inspector Namigami was left dumbfounded upon hearing the Superintendent General’s nonchalant interpretation. What an imagination this old statesman possessed! That he had dismissed the heroic statesman’s crude intellect with contempt was a tremendous miscalculation.

“Then what about the brutal murder of a woman in the vacant house in Ikebukuro? And Aoki’s disappearance? What about the severed arm at Ōtaki?”

The inspector made one last attempt to protest. “The woman’s severed head might have been a doll.” “The severed arm might have been from a dissection cadaver at some hospital.” “Otherwise, with all police resources mobilized in a month-long extensive search, there’s no way they wouldn’t have found any leads.” “At least from the Metropolitan Police Department’s standpoint, it seems more advantageous to believe that way.” “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. To Inspector Namigami, this strange laughter grated unpleasantly. He felt something unresolved still lurked beneath that mirthful sound. But logically, there remained no words to voice. Until he could secure more substantial evidence, any rebuttal proved impossible. He finally inclined his head.

“I was astonished. That the Superintendent General has considered a criminal case with such meticulousness leaves those of us who have long been engaged in this work with nothing but shame.”

Honest Inspector Namigami appeared genuinely defeated. “Ha ha ha ha! You’ve finally surrendered,” declared the Superintendent General, reverting to his bold nature with frankness. “But Inspector Namigami, you mustn’t overestimate me. Truth be told, this was half-baked. Someone else provided the insight.”

“Eh? What did you say?”

“Akechi Kogoro.” “Ha ha ha ha—that man constructed this theory and presented it to me days ago.” “I merely made minor adjustments before applying it.” “Then,” said Inspector Namigami, his composure further shaken, “does Mr. Akechi genuinely believe this?”

“No, he doesn’t believe it. There’s no credible evidence whatsoever. He merely reported that it could be viewed from such an angle.”

“And then?” “So Mr. Akechi himself will stick to Shinagawa Shirō’s side and keep watch. When the phantom man appears next time, if there’s nothing suspicious about the real Shinagawa, we’ll finally have no choice but to believe this modern ghost story. I found his logic appealing—with such a labyrinthine case, I thought it better to first entrust it to a reliable outsider rather than let experts flounder about. That’s why I approved his proposal.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Akechi tell me?” Inspector Namigami displayed a hint of anger and whispered as if talking to himself. “Now, now—you mustn’t get upset about that. If even you were tainted by Akechi’s brand of logic and grew careless, it would only invite greater danger. That man deliberately excluded you from his report to me precisely out of such concern. This is what we call a pincer strategy—attacking the enemy from both front and rear. But last night’s incident has finally given us the chance to verify which of our two theories holds true. The matter received only a brief mention in this morning’s papers, so Akechi might still be unaware. Therefore, I want you personally to visit Shinagawa’s office and observe the situation.”

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

Crime Scene Alibi

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

Guided by the attendant, he was shown to the reception room; next appeared a company employee to receive his business—a middle-aged man with neatly combed long hair and glasses. After hearing the nature of the business, he withdrew, then brought tea himself and respectfully placed it before the inspector. And when leaving the room, for some reason, he touched his trimmed mustache beneath his nose and let out a strange cough—*ahem*. It didn’t seem to be a natural cough. Before long, President Mr. Shinagawa appeared. The inspector stared intently at his expression, trying to discern something, but Mr. Shinagawa was simply smiling affably. His was by no means the face of someone hiding secrets.

When the inspector briefly recounted last night's events, Mr. Shinagawa immediately stopped laughing, and his voice began to tremble. “Has he finally appeared? If my partner truly is such a dangerous element—then hasn’t he launched some grand new criminal scheme this time?” However, he remained only shocked and frightened, making no attempt to explain his own alibi for the previous night. Veteran Inspector Namigami thought to himself, Hmm, strange... If this guy were a villain playing two roles at once, he should’ve made an alibi his first priority. But acting so nonchalant—maybe Mr. Akechi’s overthinking it after all.

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

“You were sleeping at your home last night, I presume?”

he tried asking.

“Ah yes, I naturally slept at home... Oh? Is that so?” “Right, right—how careless of me.” Mr. Shinagawa made a slightly displeased face, briskly walked to the door, opened it, and called toward the editorial office.

“Yamada-kun, Yamada-kun—come here for a moment, would you?” The employee named Yamada who had been summoned was the man who had served tea before Inspector Namigami and let out a strange cough upon leaving. “Yamada-kun, answer truthfully in front of this gentleman.” “Around what time did you go to bed last night?”

“We stayed up late playing bridge – since the eastern sky was already growing light by then, it might have been close to four o’clock.” “Who were your bridge partners?” “Pardon me?” Yamada Shain made a strange face. “But it’s already settled – you yourself along with our company’s Mr. Murai and Mr. Kaneko.” “Have you forgotten they couldn’t return home and ended up staying at your residence?” “About what time did we begin playing bridge?” “Well... around nine o’clock I should think.”

“From then until dawn, I didn’t leave my seat at all.” “Yes.” “Except when you went out briefly.”

Thereupon, Mr. Shinagawa turned to face the inspector and declared triumphantly: “As you have heard. If you wish, I can also let you hear the testimonies of Mr. Murai and Mr. Kaneko. Moreover, since Mr. Yamada here is single like myself and lives in my house, it’s utterly impossible for me to slip out unnoticed by him.” “No no, I’m not suspecting you at all,” Inspector Namigami responded, looking not a little embarrassed.

"I was simply making a precautionary inquiry," he made a strained excuse, but inwardly thought, "The testimony from the employee living with him seems somewhat—" He remained half-convinced and half-skeptical.

After exchanging some small talk for a while, Inspector Namigami left the editorial office and exited through the entrance of the Tōa Building. While thinking, "Perhaps I should visit Shinagawa’s vacant home myself and check with the servants," he had walked about fifty meters when suddenly something called out from behind.

When he turned around, the employee named Yamada from earlier came running up behind him. Then,

“Shall we go to the Metropolitan Police Department together?” he said oddly. “Oh? Do you have business at the Metropolitan Police Department?” “Ah, I’ve been wanting to see that famous registry of yours.” Inspector Namigami stiffened, scrutinizing the man’s profile. “Who are you?” “Don’t you recognize me?”

When they turned into a back alley with few passersby, Yamada Shain removed his glasses, spat out the cotton padding, brushed off the thin mustache, and mussed up his hair into disarray. “Ah, Akechi-kun!” Inspector Namigami shouted in surprise.

The pigment remained unchanged, but the facial contours were unmistakably those of Akechi Kogoro. He began to speak, ignoring the inspector’s look of astonishment. "My earlier testimony wasn’t a lie." "Last night, that fellow certainly didn’t go out anywhere." "I was eavesdropping on your conversation, but unless that A Newspaper reporter fabricated those photos, the existence of the Phantom Man has been confirmed." "You can tell at a glance it’s not a fake photo." The inspector answered, flustered. "Moreover, around two o’clock last night, magnesium was burned, and there were servants of the Miyazaki household who noticed it—there’s no mistake about that." "But I’m surprised—you’re actually an employee there?"

“Yeah, I’ve only been with the company for less than half a month. But since the introducer was solid, the president took me at face value. When I put on an act about having trouble finding a place to stay, he wound up telling me to come live at his house for the time being.”

“So your suspicions have finally been cleared then.” “Yeah, I saw it with my own eyes. But it’s truly mysterious. How could such people with identical faces come to exist? There’s no precedent for this in all of history or across the world. Even you wouldn’t think it unreasonable that I suspected Shinagawa of playing two roles.” “I don’t think so at all. To tell the truth, I just heard about that from the Superintendent General and was deeply impressed by your keen insight.” “It’s a dreadful thing.” Akechi said with genuine fear in his voice. These were rare words coming from someone like him.

“Inspector Namigami, this is absolutely no ordinary matter.” “Human common sense forged through centuries and decades of tradition.” “That something entirely new would occur suddenly—transcending that common sense—is unthinkable.” “At the heart of this case lies some bone-chilling secret.” “I’ve been tormented lately by a certain hair-raising fantasy.” “A nightmare beyond science.” “An omen foretelling humanity’s destruction.”

However, Akechi’s suggestive manner of speaking did not get through to Inspector Namigami. He said something completely different. "A handshake between the Phantom Man and the Communist Party? The Superintendent General laughed when I said that, but what do you think about this point?" "I consider it seriously. I think this might be an instance of that bastard’s grand conspiracy. Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon’s spinning company was in the midst of a labor dispute, wasn’t it?" "Ah, so your thoughts have reached that point as well. It's in the midst of a labor dispute. Having formed a united front of male and female workers, they’re making utterly unreasonable demands. But if they attacked the Miyazaki household with that intent, isn’t it strange that they didn’t harm any family members or take a single item?"

“That’s precisely what’s critical,” he said. “They must have taken something out. Yet nothing’s missing from the estate. This eerie contradiction… It’s dreadful.” “So you believe in that ranking-like list of names?” asked the inspector. “It claims you yourself will be the second target.” Hearing this, Akechi turned deathly pale. “Wh-what? You mean my name’s on that list? And it’s ranked second?”

“That’s right. And next after you comes Superintendent General Akamatsu.” Inspector Namigami said this and tried to flash a cheerful smile, but when he saw the look of extraordinary terror on Akechi’s face, his grin withered away involuntarily.

White Bat

Whether it was mere coincidence or some profound causal connection lurking beneath, the labor dispute at Iwabuchi Spinning Company—which had been reported as unstable—reached its culmination on the afternoon following the magnesium incident, finally erupting into a general strike.

Miyazaki Tsunemon’s vast fortune had been built almost entirely through the enterprise of Iwabuchi Spinning Company. Of course, his exceptional management skills and the fruits of relentless diligence were undeniable, but for workers burning with class hatred, such matters lay entirely beyond consideration. To state it plainly, their ultimate aim was to drag down the exploiter Miyazaki Tsunemon to their own level of destitution, regardless of what might become of the company’s fate. The general strike had already continued for five days with flawless coordination. In various newspapers, coverage of the labor dispute swelled larger with each passing day.

That Mr. Miyazaki harbored an intense terror toward the bizarre magnesium incident as some sort of omen was truly no wonder. Not only plainclothes and uniformed police officers but also specially hired young men trained in martial arts were constantly by his side, prepared for any contingency. It goes without saying that guards were posted at both the front and back gates of the estate.

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

After concluding a board meeting and returning home, Mr. Tsunemon received a welcome from his family members pale with worry and entered his private room.

His neatly parted white hair framed a ruddy face disproportionately large for his frame, yet the wrinkles on his forehead bore pitiful traces of haggardness from days of anxiety. He forgot even to change his clothes, sank limply into the large sofa there, and accepted the cold drink offered by the maid.

“The bath has been drawn. Would you prefer to take it later?”

The wife followed him in, studying her husband’s expression with visible concern. “Mmm.” Mr. Tsunemon offered this vague response while lost in thought. His vacant eyes stayed locked on the lone letter resting atop the table. Both wife and maid stood through several idle seconds. Then Mr. Tsunemon’s hollow gaze abruptly sharpened—as if snapping back to full awareness. “Who brought this letter?” There it lay at the table’s exact center: an oddly shaped envelope bearing unfamiliar handwriting, utterly solitary.

“Perhaps it was Aoyama?” “If it were Aoyama, he would have taken it to the study. And having just one letter is odd.”

Mr. Miyazaki received over a dozen letters at every mail delivery. Lately, the volume of letters was particularly large. That there was only a single one, and in this room rather than the study, was strange. Moreover, as evidence that it had not been delivered through the postal system, there was no stamp or postmark visible. When he picked up the letter and looked at the back, there was indeed no sender’s name. After hesitating intensely for some reason, Mr. Miyazaki ultimately opened it. And whether he had truly read its contents or not, his brow clouded over in an instant, and in a voice choked with—

“Where is Aoyama?” “Call Aoyama.” he ordered.

When summoned, the live-in student Aoyama knew nothing about the letter. It wasn’t just Aoyama. It was found that neither the wife, the daughter, nor any of the servants had entered this room since finishing cleaning that morning. And needless to say, there had been no such letter during the cleaning. It was not unreasonable for Mr. Miyazaki to have conducted such a thorough investigation. For the text of the letter was an exceedingly eerie one, as follows.

Our demand is your daughter’s life in exchange. You have until tomorrow noon. Provide your workers with an answer. Naturally, you must accept their demands unconditionally. Should tomorrow’s noon be delayed by even a minute, consider your daughter’s life forfeit. No defense shall prove effective. The killers operate in defiance of physical laws. If you dismiss this as mere intimidation, you will rue it. Consider how this letter reached your private chamber. That alone should reveal our supernatural methods in full clarity.

At the end of the text was drawn a strange emblem. Within a black crescent about an inch in diameter, a bat with spread wings stood out in white. An eerie white bat. It was the emblem of an unknown demonic group. Mr. Miyazaki was accustomed to this type of threatening letter. Particularly since the labor dispute, about one such letter arrived daily. And so he strove to feign his usual indifference toward this one too, but strangely, this time alone, beneath his blustering sneer, tremors of irrepressible fear welled up from within.

No matter how thoroughly he investigated, he couldn’t determine how the letter had entered his private room. During his absence, the windows had been sealed. To come from the hallway, one would have to pass in front of someone’s room. At both the main gate and back gate, numerous guards were stationed. How could they have managed to sneak in there? The servants had all been looked after for many years and were well-acquainted individuals. The impossible had been carried out with ease. The sender’s boast of being super-physical was not entirely baseless.

After careful consideration, Mr. Miyazaki resolved to seek the assistance of amateur detective Akechi Kogoro, who he had heard possessed special expertise in handling such bizarre crimes, in order to prepare for any potential danger. Even the pride of a great industrialist could not be exchanged for his beloved daughter’s life.

That night, our Akechi Kogoro passed through the gates of the Miyazaki residence upon receiving its wealthy master’s earnest invitation. In other words, Mr. Miyazaki had accepted the phantom thieves’ challenge.

The Dreaded Father

As the "tomorrow noon" specified in the letter came and went, even Mr. Tsunemon couldn't help but feel unnerved. He hadn't explicitly informed his wife or daughter about the matter, but through the mansion's tense atmosphere and Mr. Tsunemon's demeanor, they had roughly pieced it together. One hour passed, then two. The anxieties and fears of the master, his wife, and the servants only deepened. When? Who? From where? Everything remained unknown—an intangible enemy. They couldn't fathom where or how to establish defenses. This very uncertainty made everyone more terrified than any tangible threat could have.

At three in the afternoon, in Miss Yukie’s private room, with Yukie at the center, her father Tsunemon and detective Akechi Kogoro—acting as two serious guards—were engaged in casual conversation. The ailing mother had withdrawn to another room due to exhaustion from having not slept a wink the previous night. Yukie was a young woman of nineteen, Mr. Miyazaki’s only child. If anything, she was more of a father’s girl—reserved around her exceedingly proper and strict mother, yet perfectly comfortable acting spoiled with her father. She could even speak cheekily. Mr. Tsunemon had come to find great pleasure in exchanging playful banter with his daughter, who retained a childlike demeanor beyond her years. That very demeanor—today rendered pale and silent, with her eyes darting about at times as though overwhelmed by terror—made her customary cheerfulness appear all the more pitiful in contrast.

Mr. Tsunemon would talk for a while, then suddenly stand up and pace irritably around the room. He would sit back down only to begin puffing recklessly on his tobacco. Even this titan of industry seemed profoundly tormented by his invisible foe. “Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Akechi, I must be overreacting,” Mr. Tsunemon said with forced laughter, flustered under Akechi’s steady gaze. “Not at all,” Akechi replied. “Even I—accustomed as I am to such affairs—find myself unsettled this time. I’ve some notion of that scoundrel’s methods.” His voice dropped. “But he’s only human. However you consider it, he couldn’t breach these defenses. It’s impossible.”

"But is it truly impossible?" "Unless they possess supernatural powers—" "The thief openly declares they have that supernatural power." "A bluff. It’s unthinkable." Yet Akechi appeared strangely troubled himself; rather than reassuring Miyazaki, he stared fixedly at the industrialist as if trying to read his true thoughts. "A bluff. It must be a bluff... But then—what about that?"

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

The live-in student Aoyama came rushing in.

“We’ve caught a suspicious man near the back gate. “He’s apparently carrying a pistol.” “He asked us to call Mr. Akechi.” Upon hearing this, both the host and the guest stood up.

“Mr. Akechi, please go see to this. Conduct a thorough inspection. I’ll handle matters here.” Akechi made to leave but hesitated slightly. He had instinctively sensed unease. Yet he couldn’t refuse. He fixed his gaze on Mr. Tsunemon, “Then I entrust your daughter to you. Do not leave her side.” After emphatically repeating his warning, he vanished through the door with the student’s guidance. The father and daughter left behind exchanged ashen glances and sat wordlessly until Yukie finally burst out with a child’s desperate scream.

“Father, I’m scared.” She was devoid of strength, on the verge of collapsing. “There’s no need to worry—am I not right here with you? Moreover, this room is practically surrounded by detectives and live-in students. After all, the thief was caught before even getting through the back gate, wasn’t he? Ha ha ha ha ha ha, nonsense—there’s absolutely no need for you to worry.” “But I... I don’t know... Father!”

Yukie gave their customary eye signal. Nineteen-year-old Yukie still occasionally clung to her father in a childlike manner, retaining the habit of being held in his arms. This look was their signal. When Mr. Tsunemon saw this, for some reason, a faint look of discomposure appeared on his face. And he showed no sign whatsoever of responding to her request. Yukie found it strange. She wondered if bringing that up had been ill-timed, but precisely because of this situation, she wanted to be held in her father’s strong arms. She steeled herself and resolutely approached her father, perching into his armchair as though forcing her soft body into it. Through the hemp kimono, her father’s stout flesh and the daughter’s smooth skin came into close contact. Yukie had no room in her mind to dwell on things like the stifling heat—she was too terrified.

When Mr. Tsunemon felt his daughter’s skin, strangely enough, he showed increasing signs of panic. As if he had never had such an experience before.

The innocent sheltered daughter next brought her pale yet plump cheek before her father’s mouth. When she was little and frightened by something, her father would kiss her cheek to reassure her. That custom still remained. Mr. Tsunemon’s panic reached its peak. Unable to comprehend his daughter’s innocent gesture, he was at a loss. But the next instant, blood rushed to his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed as if ablaze.

The white-haired Mr. Tsunemon’s hands awkwardly extended and embraced his daughter’s soft body. “Ah!” For some reason, even as Yukie sought it, she let out a small scream, frightened by her father’s embrace. It was because her father’s touch felt somehow different from usual. In that instant, her father seemed like a complete stranger she had never known before. When Mr. Tsunemon felt Yukie’s faint resistance, he grew even more frenzied. He made his dry lips rustle as he applied a forceful surge of strength into the arm tightening around his daughter. And he brought his lips to Yukie’s fleeing ones.

The father’s eyes burning with lust and the daughter’s eyes filled with terror stared fixedly at each other mere inches apart. Overwhelmed by frenzy, they lacked even the strength to cry out. In deadly silence, they grappled with each other in desperate struggle. After a grueling struggle, Yukie barely managed to escape her father’s grasp; with her hair and kimono disheveled, she staggered toward the door. But Mr. Tsunemon had already cut her off and stood blocking the door behind him.

“Move aside. Who are you? Who on earth are you?” Yukie glared at Father and said desperately. “I’m no one. I’m your father.” “You’re wrong. You’re wrong… You’re not Father… Aah, I’m scared!” Yukie was on the verge of losing her mind. Undeniably, the man had her father’s face, yet he was not her father in some indefinable way.

In the blink of an eye, a white-haired demon—engulfing her entire world—lunged at her with a horrifying grimace. She no longer had strength left to resist. Limp as though unconscious, she yielded utterly to his control.

Again came an inescapable embrace; 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 began when a laborer-like man was caught peering suspiciously into the estate grounds. As the guard detective moved to apprehend him for questioning, the man suddenly drew a pistol and resisted. A brave detective grappled with the thief, but with a single swing, the thief hurled him away. The thief brandished his pistol and pressed steadily into the estate grounds. The commotion intensified. All the men of the household rushed to the scene. The man was alone but had a ranged weapon; they couldn’t recklessly approach. The people surrounded him at a distance and made a commotion.

In the end, it took about twenty minutes to subdue the thief, but eventually, three detectives took hold of the rope binding him and led him away to the Metropolitan Police Department.

Akechi Kogoro, watching them depart, was suddenly struck by a terrifying suspicion.

"What on earth did that guy come here to get caught on purpose for?" "Perhaps..." He hurried back to the original room.

In the corridor, a single student was standing guard. When he had rushed to the back gate earlier, he had strictly ordered that this student alone must not leave his post.

Akechi, feeling some relief upon seeing that, opened the door. And as soon as he stepped into the room, he immediately rushed back out and grabbed the student guard by the shoulder. “You—where has Mr. Miyazaki gone?” “He went to the washroom.” “Just now?” “Yes, just a moment ago.” “Ah, he has returned!” The figure of Mr. Tsunemon came into view down the hallway. “In that time, no one entered this room, did they?”

“No one at all.”

Mr. Miyazaki came up to the two and called out.

“Ah, Mr. Akechi, it seems the thief has been caught.”

“Yes, but…” “But?” Mr. Tsunemon looked perplexed. “Is your daughter unharmed?”

“Please rest assured. Yukie is unharmed. Look here—she’s perfectly fine as you can see.” Mr. Miyazaki walked over to the door and opened it. Akechi followed behind. “Oh, oh—what an ill-mannered young lady you are!” Mr. Miyazaki said with a smile. Yukie was slumped against the rattan armchair, fast asleep. “Mr. Akechi—poor thing must be utterly exhausted. She’s dozing off.”

“You call that dozing off? You’re saying that’s dozing off?”

Akechi asked back in surprise.

“Not dozing off—there’s something else…” But as he spoke, Mr. Miyazaki too began to realize his daughter’s strange condition. He turned deathly pale and stiffly entered the room.

“Hey, Yukie, Yukie, pull yourself together! It’s Dad.” Even when he shook her shoulders, they just flopped limply back and forth, with no response whatsoever. Akechi too stood by the armchair and was watching Yukie’s condition when suddenly he grabbed Mr. Tsunemon’s arm and whispered. “Quiet. I can hear something. There—what’s that sound?” When they listened carefully, a strange sound—drip, drip, drip—like a roof leak came intermittently.

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 moved behind Yukie’s rattan chair, shouted.

When they looked, directly beneath Yukie’s body, from the underside of the chair, bright red drops of 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 strike behind the heart—only the bloodied hilt of a dagger was visible. She had met her end from a single stab of that dagger. “A white bat.” Discovering the strange emblem engraved on the dagger’s white scabbard, Akechi muttered.

“It’s impossible. I was only in the washroom for two or three minutes. Moreover, the student states that no one entered this room. How... When did this...” Mr. Tsunemon forgot even to grieve his daughter’s death, overwhelmed by sheer astonishment at the swiftness of the thief’s actions. The student on watch was called and entered. “You’re certain no one entered this room?”

“Well, I was standing in the hallway facing the door, so there’s no way I could have missed anyone.” “There is absolutely no mistake.” The student turned deathly pale upon seeing the gruesome scene inside the room and answered.

“You didn’t hear any sounds either, did you?”

Akechi asked. “Well, since the door was closed and I was keeping watch from several yards away, I didn’t hear anything.” “The walls and doors of this room are thickly built, so even slight noises don’t leak outside.” Mr. Miyazaki explained, “You hurry and go call a doctor and the police. “And as for my wife—ah, it doesn’t have to be now.” he commanded, “It would be best to inform her as late as possible.” “Is that student a trustworthy man?”

Seeing him leave, Akechi asked. “He’s honest to a fault—a man from my hometown whom I’ve been looking after for many years.” “Did he perhaps harbor some sort of feelings toward your daughter…”

“No, that’s absolutely not the case. He is engaged to a woman back home. The girl is there in his hometown—they exchange letters constantly and are very close.”

“So, something utterly impossible—something that couldn’t possibly happen—has occurred.” “But how can the impossible be accomplished? The culprit might have had an entrance we didn’t notice.” “Such an entrance cannot exist outside this single door. I had thoroughly inspected this room beforehand. The windows are fitted with iron bars. There are no hidden mechanisms in the walls or cupboards either. Once I confirmed that securing the door alone would suffice, I chose this room to protect your daughter.”

Akechi, in a state of extreme perplexity, gazed at Mr. Miyazaki's face as if seeking salvation. This strange gesture, unbecoming even of a famous detective, was already the second occurrence.

“So, do you consider this crime to be completely unsolvable?”

Mr. Miyazaki said with a look of dissatisfaction. "That’s correct... However, if you find such an answer unsatisfactory—" "Eh? Then something—" Mr. Miyazaki stared fixedly at the famous detective’s face with a horrifying gaze, as if in a duel.

“It’s horrifying. No—rather, it’s comical. But at the same time, it’s a simple and clear fact—like an arithmetic problem. It is the sole and unavoidable logical conclusion.”

“That?”

“That is to say…” Akechi made a miserable expression for the third time, as though pleading for deliverance. “I can’t believe it. “I cannot bring myself to accept what that theory implies. “It terrifies me.” “Go ahead and say it.”

“During my absence, the person who could have approached your daughter was—in all heaven and earth—only one individual.” “Only one? That would be me, then.”

“Yes. It’s you.”

Mr. Miyazaki made a strange face and blinked his eyes.

“So you are saying that the culprit who killed my daughter is me, her own biological father?” “Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to believe that. However, all circumstances and all logic point to that sole individual.” “Are you truly serious about what you’re saying?” “I am serious. Please despise me. I lack the courage to affirm this crystal-clear theory. There exists a mysterious power beyond human capability. As long as I cannot determine what this power truly is, I am powerless.”

Akechi uttered something incomprehensible and made a feeble grimace. It was the expression of a child on the verge of tears from frustration. “Are you quite alright?” “I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying.” Mr. Miyazaki formed a sardonic smile and looked down upon this famous amateur detective’s predicament. “But I will not rest until I uncover this mysterious power’s essence.” “After that—either I bow before you apologizing for today’s rudeness or bind Tsunemon Miyazaki with ropes to send him to the guillotine.”

Mr. Tsunemon listened silently to this outburst but, without responding to Akechi, pressed the call button and summoned the student assistant. And then, when he saw the student assistant Aoyama enter,

“Throw out this lunatic.”

he commanded. “Do you mean Mr. Akechi?”

“That’s correct.” “This man has gone mad.” “To claim that I am my daughter’s murderer—he spouts such outrageous nonsense.” “He cannot remain in this residence another moment.” Mr. Miyazaki declared with utmost calmness.

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

Akechi bowed politely and stepped outside the door. He wanted to be all alone. And he wanted to calm his extremely confused mind and thoroughly re-examine this series of criminal incidents from every angle. The rest could be left to the police who would soon arrive. He was in no position for that. Uncovering the essence of this monstrous, terrifying inexplicable force—his mind was wholly consumed by that single task.

Phantom Man

Impossible things were carried out effortlessly. The previous night, Phantom Man’s gang removed a human-sized package from the Miyazaki mansion. Moreover, not a single item was missing from within. It was an impossibility. Outside the sole entrance and exit, a trustworthy student assistant had been stationed.

Inside that room, the young lady Yukie had been brutally murdered. The sole person who could have approached her was none other than her biological father. A father killing his daughter. Unless some other special reason were discovered, such a thing defied all possibility. For these two impossibilities to coexist as realities, there had to be some monstrous secret festering beneath. When pressed to its logical extreme, this reasoning led inexorably to one conclusion. There existed absolutely no alternative interpretation. Yet even contemplating it chilled the blood and made hairs stand on end.

Akechi was perplexed about what course of action to take. He didn't know where to begin. Thereupon, as a last resort, he employed his expert disguise technique to assume the appearance of a Western-attired old man and began wandering the streets. Sometimes he drifted from pleasure quarter to pleasure quarter, sometimes prowled around the Miyazaki residence, and at other times walked about the vicinity of that mysterious house in Ikebukuro. His target was the Phantom Man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Shinagawa Shirō. If he could just locate this man and secretly follow him, it wouldn't be impossible to uncover the mysterious thieves' hideout and expose the great secret concealed there.

After the murder at the Miyazaki residence, for about a week, he had patiently walked around like that. And then, one day, he finally had the good fortune to encounter the Phantom Man he had been seeking.

While having dinner at a certain restaurant, he sensed an unusual presence behind him and swiftly turned around to find Shinagawa Shirō's face there. He nearly greeted him reflexively but managed to suppress the impulse, rising from his seat while feigning ignorance. It might be the real Shinagawa Shirō. It might not be. To confirm this, he entered the restaurant's telephone booth. Since it was considerably separated from the dining area, there was no risk of being overheard. After giving the real Shinagawa Shirō's phone number and waiting with his heart pounding, Shinagawa was indeed at home. Through the receiver came the unmistakable voice of the science magazine president. After exchanging a few words and hanging up, he returned to his original seat and waited for Phantom Man to finish his meal. Of course, he intended 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 a post-meal stroll. If he wanted to capture him, the townspeople would all be allies—it would have been a simple matter. However, Akechi was not satisfied with merely arresting one Phantom Man. He wanted to locate the gang's headquarters. This was no time for haste. His sole focus remained following with endless patience. Turning corner after corner through the town, the monster walked on endlessly. With a villain's wariness, he glanced back at every street turn to check for pursuers. Each time Akechi swiftly concealed himself, the man continued walking reassured. But after several turns, when Akechi tried hiding behind an object at a corner, he was spotted by a hair's breadth. Though disguised, his opponent was a shin-scarred criminal. Such suspicious behavior could never escape notice. At last, the tailing had been discovered.

It was a streetcar thoroughfare where empty taxis scurried about chaotically. "That man will surely hail a cab," Akechi thought. As he watched, just as predicted, a vehicle stopped before the Phantom Man. Knowing he couldn't afford delay, Akechi flagged down a taxi approaching from behind. "Follow that car!" But as he began climbing in with the order, Akechi—for reasons even he couldn't articulate—suddenly recoiled and let the cab pass. The first taxi had already pulled away. "What trickery is this?" There stood the Phantom Man who should've been inside that vehicle, now sprinting across the street! The fiend had feigned boarding only to pass straight through the cab's compartment and leap out the opposite door—a compartment-through escape tactic. Akechi's sharp instincts pierced the ruse, sparing him the blunder of chasing an empty taxi.

What incredible speed. The monster had already hailed another taxi on the other side of the road. It was a car heading in the opposite direction from the previous one. Akechi, determined not to fall behind, leapt into a car. The Phantom Man wasn’t attempting a compartment-through escape this time. Thus began the car chase. As they kept driving on and on, they eventually passed through a town that seemed familiar. At first, Akechi had been gazing absently out the window, but when he noticed how perfectly this matched the route he knew so well, he couldn't help thinking, "Huh, this is strange."

Eventually, sure enough, the leading car came to a stop in front of that house. That house was none other than the real Shinagawa Shirō’s residence. The Phantom Man got out of the car and opened the lattice door. The elderly maid greeted him. He exchanged a few words with the elderly maid and disappeared into the back without incident. “No… So the one I’d been tailing all along… was that actually the real Shinagawa?”

He was disappointed, but upon reconsidering, something didn't quite add up. If this was Shinagawa, why would he resort to slipping through taxis? Moreover, who exactly had answered the phone earlier? Yet if it had been Phantom Man, there was no conceivable reason he would flee into Shinagawa's own house of all places. Even the formidable Akechi felt thoroughly foxed.

At any rate, deciding to check things out, he requested to be shown in and was led to the parlor. It was a parlor he had become familiar with during his time as a science magazine employee. It was a pseudo-Western room—a Japanese-style parlor with tatami mats where chairs and tables were arranged. Shinagawa Shirō was sitting on the large sofa there, waiting for his guest. “Ah, so it was you after all. You understand, don’t you? I am Akechi Kogoro. I made a grave mistake—I mistook you for that 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 have no recollection of receiving any phone calls.”

While they were having this conversation, something truly outrageous occurred. This was because the voice of another Shinagawa Shirō came from beyond the sliding door.

“I haven’t gone out since evening. “You’re saying I just came back now? Don’t you know I’ve been doing research in the back room? “Where is this ‘I’ who supposedly came back?”

The one being scolded was the elderly maid. But what an extraordinary method of reprimand this was.

Akechi, startled by this revelation, immediately stood up and tried to leap at the Shinagawa before him. But faced with this lack of resistance, the fake Shinagawa merely laughed calmly. 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 indistinguishable from himself; the other was an unfamiliar old man. “Who in the world are you people?”

He barked imperiously.

“Well, this is strange. You bastard snuck into my empty house and acted like the master, didn’t you? And just who the hell are you? No, I know without needing to ask. You’re the one, aren’t you? The monster who’s been tormenting me all this time!” The fake Shinagawa, who had just returned home, calmly shouted back.

He understood now—he understood everything.

The audacious Phantom Man, unable to endure Akechi's pursuit, had fled into the real Shinagawa's house on a sudden impulse. What an audacious yet outlandish idea this was! Even when placed side by side, the two indistinguishable Shinagawas accused each other of being impostors. Eventually, the real Shinagawa finally recognized Akechi’s disguised form. “Ah! It’s Mr. Akechi!” “What in the world is happening here?” “The one before you is that Phantom Man!”

Then, the fake Shinagawa launched into an equally vehement tirade.

“Oh, are you Mr. Akechi? So you’ve been following me all this time because you mistook me for the Phantom Man, haven’t you? I am the genuine Shinagawa Shirō. This man took advantage of my absence, disguised himself as me, and was plotting some new evil scheme. Now, arrest this man!”

As he listened, it became increasingly unclear which of their accounts was true. “Then why did you try to shake me off with that basket-escaping trick?”

“I’ve grown rather cowardly lately. What’s more, since I couldn’t recognize you at all in that old man disguise, I mistakenly thought the White Bat Gang had launched some new wicked scheme. If I were truly the Phantom Man, I’d never come to a place like this. Outside, there should be countless escape routes.”

When considered, it made a certain amount of sense. Akechi, while closely observing the two Shinagawas before him, was fully aware that one of them was the White Bat Gang leader. Yet being unable to determine which one it was, he found himself incapable of making a sudden move. But this foolish act did not last long. Akechi suddenly hit upon an idea and pulled the Shinagawa who had been in the house earlier into a corner. In whispers inaudible to the other Shinagawa, he began questioning him about minute details from when he had worked at the magazine company under the alias Yamada. Shinagawa answered them promptly. There was no longer any doubt. This man was none other than Shinagawa Shirō.

But there was just a slight opening there. While the two were absorbed in their exchange, the Phantom Man, who had been seated in the armchair, quietly rose from his seat and slipped out through the sliding door without making a sound.

The Kidnapping Incident of the Famous Detective

There existed a burglar indistinguishable from Shinagawa Shirō, president of a science magazine. This fairy-tale-like reality had gradually transformed into an absurdly enormous, unfathomable incident.

After the incident had been fully concluded, Prime Minister Daigawara Koreyuki—he himself being one of the victims of this incident, having even lost his precious only son—reminisced about it to a close acquaintance on one occasion.

“Mr. Akechi Kogoro is a benefactor to Japan—no, to all of humanity across the world. Had he not prevented this grand conspiracy in its infancy, Japan—no, whether Britain, America, France, Italy, Germany, or even Russia—would have lost their emperors, their presidents, their governments, their militaries, their police forces—in short, the very nations themselves. The press was censored and rumors strictly prohibited, so the general public remained unaware of everything, but the White Bat Gang’s conspiracy was something that could be likened to Copernicus’s heliocentrism, Darwin’s theory of evolution, or the invention of firearms, the discovery of electricity, and the creation of aircraft—a scheme that would have completely overturned the very foundations of human faith and daily life.”

“Labor-capitalist struggles, nihilism, even anarchism—compared to this grand conspiracy, they amount to mere trifles unworthy of consideration. These fiends sought to establish a demonic dominion across the globe using weapons far more dreadful than explosives or electrical force—and this was no idle fantasy.” “Yet the scheme was foiled before implementation. Now the White Bat Gang members have dissipated like morning dew upon the execution grounds. With their demise, their stronghold and manufacturing factory were utterly consumed by flames, leaving no trace behind. That grand conspiracy—a plot arising but once in a century, nay, a millennium—was ultimately eradicated at its inception.” “For all mankind, no greater cause for celebration exists.”

This was roughly the gist of it. Those who heard this account, realizing the content of the grand conspiracy that had compelled even the obstinate Prime Minister Daigawara to make such a statement, felt a chill run down their spines. But that is a tale for later.

Now, in the previous chapter, it was recounted how the fake Shinagawa—being tailed by Akechi Kogoro—resorted to a desperate measure by fleeing into the real Shinagawa’s residence, where the two indistinguishable men, seated side by side in a room, continued to insist that they themselves were Shinagawa Shirō, leaving even the renowned detective at a loss for what to do. However, as the interrogation gradually progressed, the fake Shinagawa, his disguise on the verge of crumbling, found himself unable to remain there any longer and quietly slipped away when an opportunity arose.

Engrossed in interrogating the real Shinagawa, Akechi Kogoro suddenly noticed that the other Shinagawa was nowhere to be seen. "So that guy was the impostor!" he realized, dashing outside where he spotted a figure running about a block ahead. And so, the chase resumed. After winding through side streets and emerging onto the main road, he had lost sight of the monster. When Akechi questioned a taxi driver waiting for fares there—the man keeping his head oddly lowered—the driver replied from beneath his cap's brim that the suspect had boarded a car now speeding away. Naturally, Akechi leaped into the waiting taxi and ordered pursuit. It became a textbook automobile chase.

After about ten minutes of driving, they came upon a desolate estate district. Then, what on earth was happening? Akechi’s car abruptly changed direction and slipped into an even more desolate side street. “Hey, what are you doing?” “Didn’t the previous car go straight ahead?”

When Akechi barked, the driver whipped his head around.

“You!” “Hahahahaha! You fell for it hook, line, and sinker!” “Don’t move—it won’t end well.” “Here, take a look at this.” The pistol’s barrel slid out smoothly from atop the cushion. To his dismay, Akechi had come completely unarmed. It later became clear that during that critical moment, the thief had swiftly disguised himself as the driver of an abandoned gang vehicle. Wrapped in a borrowed overcoat and crowned with a gleaming borrowed hat, he had lain in wait for Akechi to stumble into his trap. It was truly an astonishingly swift feat.

The monster kept his pistol aimed as he stepped 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 deserted town.” “But just to be safe, I’ll have you endure this little inconvenience.”

A white object darted toward Akechi's nose—immobilized as he was by the pistol—a handkerchief soaked in anesthetic; when had he prepared that? Akechi wasn’t about to stay still. He kicked open one door and tried to leap out the opposite side. “Ah, you fool,” came the voice. “Are you asking to get hurt?”

While saying this, the thief slowly took aim and shot Akechi in the right leg as he tried 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 and collapsed where he fell, before Akechi's anguished face came that rolled handkerchief again—the foul odor—but this time, he no longer had the strength to resist. Yielding to the thief's actions, Akechi—helpless against the anesthetic forced upon him—lost consciousness.

Shinagawa’s Double picked up the detective’s limp body, laid it on the cushion, and—while bandaging the bleeding wound on his leg with Akechi’s own handkerchief—muttered as if talking to himself. “Akechi-kun, thanks to you chasing after me, you’ve made things much simpler.” “This way, there was no need to alter the order of the list of names.” “You haven’t forgotten, surely.” “The numbers that were marked on that list of names.” “The first was Miyazaki Tsunemon, president of Miyazaki Spinning Company.” “Then the second is the amateur detective Akechi Kogoro.” “In other words, this time it was your turn.” “Hahahahaha!”

The thief gave a low chuckle as he returned to the driver's seat, then—with a composed expression as if nothing had happened—grasped the steering wheel and stepped on the starter.

The car sped straight through the desolate mansion-lined street, devoid of people, disappearing to an unknown destination.

The Superintendent General in the Trunk

About a week later, Akechi Kogoro arrived at the Metropolitan Police Department, having transported an extremely large trunk via an old-fashioned rickshaw. “Well, if it isn’t Akechi! I went to your hotel but couldn’t find you there—I was getting worried about where you’d gone off to. It seems you’ve had some results though. What on earth is that large trunk?” In the entrance hall, Inspector Namigami called out as they met. “It’s a very important piece of evidence—I’ll explain later. But first, I need to see Superintendent General Akamatsu immediately. Is he available?”

“Yes, I just came from speaking in the Superintendent’s office,” said Inspector Namigami. “The Chief of Criminal Affairs was there too.” “Then would you kindly have an officer help transport this trunk?” requested Akechi. “I need it brought into the Superintendent General’s office.” “Understood.” Namigami turned to two policemen in the hall. “You there—lend this rickshaw driver a hand.” Having issued these orders, he added apologetically to Akechi: “Regrettably, I’ve urgent duties with the imperial procession security. Kindly provide full details in the Superintendent’s office. If time permits, I’ll return to hear your report.”

After parting with Inspector Namigami, Akechi Kogoro chased after the large trunk and went up to the Superintendent’s office.

“We were just looking for you, Akechi-kun.”

When the Superintendent General saw his face, he said frankly. "The White Bat case hasn't made any progress at all." "But you've brought in quite a strange object, haven't you?" "What's in that trunk?"

“Were you not in the middle of discussing official matters?”

Akechi asked while looking at the Criminal Affairs Director, who sat facing the Superintendent General.

“No, we’ve just concluded our discussion.” “In that case, I must apologize for the imposition, but as there’s something I wish to discuss with you alone, Superintendent General—if you could kindly…” “Now, now, Akechi-kun—this is Mr. Criminal Affairs Director here, whom you know perfectly well.” “It’s quite improper to make such a request.” “However, this matter is of such grave importance that even informing you, Superintendent General, gives me pause.” “Forgive my impertinence, but might we have the room cleared briefly…”

Akechi seemed extremely reluctant to speak. "Akechi-kun, you're being unusually mysterious today." The Criminal Affairs Director stood up while laughing. "However, I have business elsewhere as well, so I'll come back later." "Well then, Akechi-kun."

With that brusque remark, he left the Superintendent General’s office. “Now then, let’s hear it. What exactly is this grave matter?” Superintendent General Akamatsu found the genius detective’s unconventional antics highly entertaining. “I must insist on complete privacy.” Akechi remained obstinate. “Very well.” The Superintendent General, growing more amused, barked, “You there—go wait outside.”

The attendant who had been stationed at the entrance to the Superintendent General’s office was dismissed. Now it was literally just the two of them. “Do you have the key to the door?” “The key? You want to lock the door? That’s a bit much.” The Superintendent General laughed and said, “I believe it was in one of the reception desk’s drawers.”

Akechi found the key, unlocked the door from the inside, left it in the lock, and returned to his seat. "I'd like you to see what's inside this trunk." "It's quite bulky, isn't it? Go ahead and open it." The trunk was an enormous armor-clad chest—the sort rarely used for domestic travel—large enough to hold a full-grown man. "Now don't be startled—there's something rather extraordinary inside."

Akechi said with an expression like a magician revealing a secret box as he turned the trunk's key. At that instant, the image of a corpse flashed through Superintendent General Akamatsu's mind. Gazing through the trunk lid, he seemed to vividly see an eerie blood-drenched mass of flesh curled within. Even this formidable Superintendent General couldn't prevent his facial muscles from tensing. With a metallic click of the lock disengaging, the lid began slowly inching open. First appeared a police officer's cap gleaming with the Order of the Rising Sun. Then emerged from beneath the cap - a plump rounded face, mustache, golden epaulets, the black uniform of a high-ranking officer, and a sword hanging awkwardly askew.

It was indeed daytime, with the sun shining brightly outside the window. Moreover, Superintendent General Akamatsu was by no means dreaming. But could such a horrifying event occur in reality—not as a dream or illusion? Even the valiant politician let out a gasp and—his eyes riveted on the figure inside the trunk—stiffened as though frozen in place, his body ceasing to move. Akechi Kogoro had fully opened the trunk’s lid and was now staring at the Superintendent General’s expression with eyes like a snake targeting its prey.

The two remained like that for about thirty seconds, motionless and silent, like exquisitely crafted lifelike dolls. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, Akechi-kun, you shouldn’t play such mean-spirited tricks.” The Superintendent General finally regained his composure and, with a tearful smile, forced out a loud voice. “You made an effigy of me and tried to scare me with something like that?” Indeed, the figure inside the trunk was an effigy of Superintendent General Akamatsu. A corpulent body, round face, charming stubby mustache, round gleaming eyes—the hat, uniform, sword, and shoes all perfectly matched the Superintendent General’s appearance down to every last detail; one might suspect even the number of hairs was identical.

"Do you mean to say it's a doll?" Akechi said in a venomous voice. "Take a closer look." The Superintendent General, with the feeling of being tormented by a nightmare, gazed at the all-too-perfectly crafted living effigy that did not differ from himself by an iota.

As he looked on, a terrifying fact became clear—one that made even the Superintendent General’s heart seem to lurch up into his throat. It was alive. It was not a doll. It was indeed breathing. The abdomen, bent in an uncomfortable position, was undulating quietly. Its eyelids fluttered faintly—wasn't it even blinking?

The Superintendent General, overwhelmed by the extraordinary situation, lacked even the strength to consider what course of action to take and stared blankly at the other Superintendent General inside the trunk. The doll’s round cheek began to twitch spasmodically. In the breathless moment of shock, as the spasms grew increasingly violent, its lips peeled back taut to reveal a row of white teeth, and its face suddenly began to grin broadly. When he saw that, the fifty-year-old Superintendent General Akamatsu made a childlike tearful face and timidly stepped backward.

At that very moment, the man in the trunk—like a snake springing from a jack-in-the-box—suddenly shot upright and lunged at the Superintendent General with arms outstretched. From head to toe, exact duplicates—the two superintendents grappled. Moreover, this was neither a dream nor a play. This was an event unfolding in broad daylight in the Superintendent General’s office at the Metropolitan Police Department.

It was a matter so comical it made one want to clutch their sides in uproarious laughter, yet at the same time, so terrifying it made every hair stand on end. The one who had lunged—that is, the fake superintendent—moved behind the real superintendent, who was too overwhelmed to react, and pinned his arms behind his back. But true to form, he was a battle-hardened veteran politician. Even when confronted with such terror, the Superintendent General did not resort to undignified shrieking. He steadied his mind and, while still pinned from behind, inched toward the desk. With the faint movement of his right fingers, he quietly attempted to press the call button on the desktop.

“Oh! That won’t do.” “Superintendent Akamatsu, that call button will cost you your life.”

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

“Akechi-kun, what on earth is this? When did you become my enemy?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Do I look like Akechi Kogoro to you? Open your eyes wider. There, see?” The fake Akechi contorted his face grotesquely. “Wh-what... Who the hell are you?!” He took out a large hemp handkerchief from his pocket with his left hand and fluttered it before the Superintendent General’s eyes. To his horror, there in one corner of the handkerchief was that eerie white bat emblem he recognized. “Ugh, damn you!” The Superintendent General mustered all his strength and tried to shake off the enemy behind him. But the monster's armlock would not budge. There was no escape left. Noticing the Superintendent General’s expression that betrayed his intention to shout for help, the fake Akechi Kogoro wasted no time—he crumpled the handkerchief he’d been waving and forcefully stuffed it into the Superintendent General’s mouth. It was an improvised gag, done in an instant.

In the blink of an eye, it was now the real Superintendent General Akamatsu who found himself bound hand and foot, curled up inside the trunk. Try as he might to struggle or cry out, there was nothing he could do now.

“Do you understand? Superintendent Akamatsu, our program has been progressing precisely according to plan.” “First was Miyazaki Tsunemon, second was Akechi Kogoro, and third—Superintendent General Akamatsu.” “In other words, today has become your turn.” The false Akechi Kogoro pronounced his verdict.

It may be a strange analogy, but can one cut apart only the inner flesh of an apple into several pieces without peeling its skin? It can be done. With a needle and thread, it can be done effortlessly. But the great magic of the White Bat Gang, which creates humans identical in face and form at will, is no mere apple problem. No matter what needle and thread one brings, such an absurd thing cannot possibly be done. A ghost story, or else a fairy tale.

If these were indeed real events, then there must exist something far beyond human reasoning behind them. But we must also consider that since ancient times, great discoveries and inventions had been matters dismissed by common sense as impossible until their revelation—nothing more than ghost stories or fairy tales. Be that as it may, the trunk's lid closed with a clank of its lock. The current cabinet's luminary—Superintendent General Akamatsu Montarō of the Metropolitan Police Department, holder of the Senior Fourth Rank and Third Class of the Order of Merit—was now reduced to a single living piece of luggage packed inside a trunk. When sealing it shut, Akechi had prudently administered an anesthetic; the luggage no longer showed even the slightest movement.

The new Superintendent General, having completed the transfer of duties through mysterious means, dropped heavily into the large armchair reserved for the position, clipped the previous superintendent's personal cigar from the desk, and blew out an extravagant plume of violet smoke. The counterfeit Akechi perched on the trunk containing living cargo and addressed the new Superintendent General with meticulously polite phrasing. "In that case, Your Excellency, shall I arrange temporary storage of this trunk at my hotel?"

The new Superintendent General opened his mouth for the first time since assuming his post in response to this. “Ah, you may proceed. By the way, we’ll need to open the door to transport that luggage out, won’t we?” To his astonishment, even his voice perfectly matched Akamatsu Montarō’s.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, indeed, that’s exactly how it was.” While saying this, Akechi stood up, went to turn the key, and unlocked the door. When the new Superintendent General pressed the call button, the reception clerk from earlier entered. “You, have someone help you take this trunk out front. And, ah, Akechi-kun, have you had the car wait?” “Yes, I’ve had a rickshaw waiting.” “Then have it loaded onto that rickshaw. Do you understand?”

The reception clerk deferentially acknowledged the instructions and withdrew. In this manner, the replacement of the old and new Superintendents General was carried out without any difficulty, and Akechi Kogoro, putting on airs, departed to parts unknown with a rickshaw carrying the real Superintendent General in tow.

Philanthropy Addict If Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon—a titan of industry—were in fact a complete impostor and member of the White Bat Gang, then inciting industrial upheaval through his influence and the deployment of vast assets would be no great challenge. To cite one example that had already manifested, the fake Miyazaki’s unconditional approval of the workers’ nearly reckless demands not only dealt a major blow to the industry as a whole but incited fierce public outcry and sowed discord within trade associations. Given the market prices of products at that time, it became impossible to break even, with no prospect of sustaining the entire spinning industry—to put it bluntly, one could even say Japan’s competitors in the same trade had reached a point where nothing remained but complete annihilation. Needless to say, Mr. Miyazaki himself became the target of public censure and the object of his competitors’ resentment. The murder of his daughter was indeed worthy of sympathy, but he had no reason to accept the workers’ demands after the fact. Rather, he argued that the factory should be closed. The absurd thing was 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 things were of no concern at all. Denounced as a demon by the propertied class, he feigned nonchalance with nerves of steel, acting as though he didn’t care which way the wind blew.

Moreover, it was not only those in the same industry who suffered damage from this incident. Across all of Japan's industries, people began to suspect that an unprecedented era of worker tyranny was approaching. For instance, within less than a week after the Iwabuchi Spinning labor dispute ended, five new disputes had already broken out across various manufacturing industries nationwide. They had gotten a taste of success with the Iwabuchi Spinning example and grown bolder. Taking advantage of this situation, they obtained ideal agitators from those who made their living off disputes.

Then came something strange: no matter where these labor disputes arose across the country, threatening letters identical to those from the Iwabuchi Spinning case would materialize at business leaders' private residences as soon as workers submitted their demands—appearing as if delivered by invisible hands. The messages repeated their customary ultimatum: we shall claim either your daughter's life, your son's, or your wife's. With Miyazaki's daughter serving as a fresh example before them, the capitalists trembling in fear would ultimately yield to the workers' demands. Refusal meant factory shutdowns.

At this rate, if labor disputes were to erupt one after another and workers’ demands were relentlessly met, it would either lead to extreme inflation or result in the complete collapse of the production industry.

Overly sensitive editorial writers had already begun expressing anxious opinions on the matter, and public sentiment was gradually intensifying. The Chamber of Commerce and Industry began to take action. Though initially approached casually, this matter became a topic of fervent discussion among the cabinet ministers during a certain day’s cabinet meeting. The White Bat emblem had now become a symbol of bourgeois terror and loathing. Moreover, even the workers who at first glance seemed to hold an advantageous position could not help feeling an eerie sense of dread, unable to fathom the true intentions of the White Bat Gang. After all, they were a gang of thieves and murderers. If they were to achieve success in disputes by relying on such violence, even advocates of justice emerged, declaring it a disgrace to the working class. Scholars and commentators uniformly advised, "Workers of the nation, you must absolutely refrain from rash actions until we witness the complete annihilation of the vicious White Bat Gang."

Why was this gang of murderers—these societal disruptors—being allowed to run rampant? Were politicians asleep? What were the police doing?! Ultimately, the police became the target of censure and attacks. Above all else, it was the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department—the White Bat Gang's operational base. Yet most astonishingly, the very official responsible for eliminating these phantom thieves—the highest commander of that same Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department—had been surreptitiously replaced by an impostor; a member of those indistinguishable twin-like criminals. In essence, the White Bat Gang had already seized control of their sole formidable adversary—the police force itself.

At the official residence, Fake Akamatsu Montarō shared a bedroom with the former Superintendent General’s wife, and at headquarters he skillfully deceived his subordinate leaders’ eyes; though an impostor, his competence proved formidable. On the Fake Superintendent General’s desk lay mountains of citizen complaints alongside documents awaiting approval. He arrived punctually each day to stamp papers with rubber-stamp approvals and peruse these scathing letters. Staff visiting the Superintendent’s office witnessed him chuckling gleefully over missives denouncing his incompetence, marveling at what they mistook for statesmanlike composure—though in truth there was nothing admirable about it. He simply found genuine amusement in laughing alongside critics at the police force’s ineptitude.

As he grew accustomed to the department's internal affairs, the grave problem that occupied his mind day and night was determining under what pretext to replace bureau directors, division chiefs, and station heads—and how such replacements could most effectively degrade police capabilities. What form did the Fake Superintendent General’s conspiracy take, and what horrific calamities were brewed in the imperial capital—now rendered nearly lawless as a result? However, these matters are a story for later.

Now then, following the Superintendent General, the next target of the White Bat Gang’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 consisted solely of his adopted son Mr. Shun’ichi and biological daughter Miss Mineko as blood relatives, with only servants remaining in the lonely home. Having long remained childless together, they had adopted their relative Mr. Shun’ichi, but several years later, Miss Mineko was unexpectedly born. They consequently arranged for Miss Mineko to marry her adopted brother Mr. Shun’ichi, thereby forestalling complicated inheritance disputes. Fortunately, both parties themselves raised no objections to this marriage and now stood betrothed.

Miss Mineko was beautiful in appearance, formidable in intellect, and truly an exemplary count’s daughter. As the only child born late in life—perhaps due to being excessively spoiled—she possessed just one peculiar flaw (or perhaps a virtue). This was being profoundly compassionate beyond ordinary measure. Why was this considered a flaw? Because her benevolence often manifested itself in overly eccentric forms. For example, there was a time when she took off the tailor-made, expensive coat she wore, put it on a roadside beggar, and hurried home just like that. No—what was even worse was when she picked up an old beggar woman, brought her back to the mansion in her car, and even begged her mother—still alive at the time—to let them shelter this beggar at home.

Miss Mineko’s extraordinary compassion became a topic not only among her relatives but also widely discussed in society through gossip in newspapers and magazines—so much so that the late Countess had come to regard this maddening virtue of her daughter as her sole source of trouble. If there was any vulnerability in the Count Daigawara household that the White Bat Gang could exploit, it may have been this young lady’s peculiar quirk alone. So meticulous was this great statesman’s life that it left no room for carelessness or vulnerability. Moreover, as evidenced by their previous methods—such as when the fake Shinagawa deliberately fled into the real Shinagawa’s residence, placing their indistinguishable faces side by side to mock Akechi Kogoro—the White Bat Gang deliberately opted for outlandish means to flaunt their grotesque ingenuity, thoroughly embodying what one might call a criminal’s vanity.

One day, as Countess Mineko sat absorbed in thought (for her fiancé Shun’ichi was traveling in the Kansai region at the time), gazing absently out the study window of the main residence, a strange figure emerged swaying unsteadily from deep within the garden’s forest-like clusters of trees. At first glance, she appeared to be around the same age as the young lady, yet clearly no more than a beggar. What she wore could hardly be called a kimono—it was less rags than threadbare scraps clinging to her body. Her feet were bare, and her disheveled hair hung down ghost-like before her face.

If an ordinary girl had seen such an intruder, she would have fled deeper inside or called for help—but Miss Mineko was no ordinary girl. At first, she was so frightened that she even tried to close the window, but in the next instant, her inherent extraordinary compassion welled up and surged within her. Miss Mineko stood waiting intently for the beggar girl to approach. Searching her mind for the most compassionate words to use in such a situation.

The beggar soon reached beneath the window, stood there motionless, stared intently at the young lady, and spoke in a voice far more beautiful than her appearance would suggest.

"Young Mistress, why aren't you running away? Aren't you frightened?" Ah, this girl had grown bitter from her circumstances. That's why her words dripped with such sarcasm, the young lady thought. Summoning her gentlest tone, she asked: "And you—where did you come in from?" "Through the gate... Well, when you've nowhere to sleep, you can't be picky about where you go," the beggar replied. "Last night I slept in that storage shed at the garden's edge."

She was using surprisingly refined language. This girl didn't seem to be a born beggar. The young lady thought again. "You must be hungry." "Do you have anyone?" "...like a father or mother?" "There's no one." "I'm an orphan." "And as you say, my stomach's absolutely famished." "Then please come through this window—we mustn't let anyone know." "I'll go find something for you to eat right now."

“Is no one else coming?”

“It’s all right. Right now, I’m the only one in this house—the rest are just servants.” This was the truth. Count Father was at the Prime Minister’s official residence; the secretary, Mitsutayu—everyone had gone there, leaving not a single troublesome servant to interfere with the young lady’s charitable acts. The young lady herself was usually at the official residence and had the appropriate duty of looking after her dear father’s personal needs.

After a short while, Miss Mineko returned carrying a biscuit tin and tea set—where she had found them, one could not tell—and, without a thought for the girl’s filth, seated her in a splendid chair. She placed the biscuit tin on the table before her and thus commenced an utterly bizarre tea gathering. The beggar appeared to be ravenously hungry, for she immediately stuffed five or six biscuits into her mouth all at once; but when she irritably pushed back the hair hanging over her forehead, her face became clearly visible for the first time.

What a beautiful beggar she was. In stark contrast to the beggar's filthy garments，the face bore neither dirt nor gauntness from malnutrition. Well-proportioned features，pure white skin. However，what shocked Miss Mineko so profoundly was not that the beggar girl was unexpectedly beautiful.

“Oh! You…”

The young lady who hadn’t so much as flinched at the beggar’s sudden appearance now found herself involuntarily rising to her feet, nearly bolting toward the door. “Ah, how happy I am! You see it too, don’t you, Young Mistress?” The beggar girl cried out with uncontainable delight. “I’ve achieved my life’s wish. That such a pitiful beggar child could look exactly like the daughter of the Prime Minister and Count—it’s beyond belief!” In truth, these two—the Count’s daughter and the beggar girl—were so alike that, setting aside one’s bobbed hair and gleaming kimono against the other’s disheveled locks and tattered rags like fishing net, from their stature to their facial features, they could have been twins.

“It may be presumptuous of me, but I’ve known for a long time that you and I could be mirror images of one another.” “If I could meet the Young Mistress and exchange even a single word with her—that had been my life’s greatest wish.” “Now that wish has been granted—I’ve never known such happiness!”

The beggar had filled her eyes with tears. "My, could there really be such a strange thing in this world?"

Miss Mineko, having become tenfold more compassionate than before, said with a sigh.

Despite circumstances as different as heaven and earth, these two girls became as close as sisters in an instant. As Miss Mineko listened, the beggar girl told her detailed personal story. There was no need to record the details here, but her circumstances were truly pitiable. Her speech was refined, her face was beautiful, and her temperament did not seem particularly twisted.

Miss Mineko became utterly ecstatic, as if she had gained a new friend. As their gloomy personal stories concluded, the beggar girl gradually grew more cheerful in her delight at being friends with the noble young lady, while the young lady herself, having tired of the stiflingly tearful conversation, began to frolic.

“Ah! I’ve thought of a good idea!” “Oh, that’s wonderful!” “Hey you, I’ve just come up with the most amusing game!” Miss Mineko shouted, her eyes shining.

“Oh! So your ladyship and I are supposed to play some sort of game together?” The beggar girl asked back in surprise. “Yes, exactly. “When I was a child, I read a fairy tale called *The Beggar Prince*.” “That’s how I came up with the idea.” “Well, you see…”

...she whispered something in a muffled voice. "Oh! That's too much!" "Such a thing..."

The beggar girl was so dazed that she seemed at a loss for words to decline. Ah, Miss Mineko’s extraordinary compassion had conceived an outrageous prank. Little did she dream that such a major incident would result from it.

The Beggar Princess The Count’s daughter conceived an eccentric prank. She intended to dress this beggar girl in her own kimono, clothe herself in the beggar’s rags, and reenact the novel *The Beggar Prince*. Miss Mineko’s extreme compassion had led her to want this pitiful beggar girl—if only for a moment—to experience the dream of becoming the Count’s daughter.

The two exchanged each other's kimonos before the mirror. The beggar girl washed her dirty hands in the washbasin the young lady had specially brought and applied makeup to her face. “Can I cut your hair short?” When the beggar nodded her consent, the young lady cut and shortened her hair into a bob identical down to the last detail to her own. 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, tousled her hair, and looked in the mirror.

“Oh my, there’s no such thing as a beautiful beggar. Shall I lightly apply this eyebrow ink to your face? Then you’ll be the real thing. No one who saw you would ever dream you were a noble family’s young lady.” The beggar, emboldened, went so far as to suggest this, but Miss Mineko found it amusing instead; recalling her girls’ school costume parties, she even let the beggar apply eyebrow ink all over her face. The two finished their disguises completely and stood side by side before the mirror.

“No matter how you look at it, you can’t tell,” she said. “That I’m you and you’re me—” “Oh, that’s too generous! I could die content now. Just to think I could become Your Excellency the Minister’s daughter, even if only once—” “Are you really that happy?” The beggar-turned-young-lady seemed less delighted than Miss Mineko, who had transformed into a beggar. She stared at the mirror before suddenly bursting into stifled giggles. “You must act more properly. Go inspect those rooms over there where the students and maids are. If you return without arousing any suspicion—well then, I might even give you a reward.”

The beggar girl hesitated at such an unexpected request, but when the young lady opened the door and practically pushed her out, she reluctantly stepped into the corridor and walked through the silent mansion toward the servants' quarters.

As she turned the corridor's corner, she encountered a student approaching from the opposite direction. When the beggar girl saw him, she abruptly let out a piercing shriek and ran straight toward the student. Had she panicked while attempting to flee? Yet her behavior seemed suspicious for someone trying to escape. In the blink of an eye, something truly astonishing began to unfold.

“You, come here quickly! “It’s terrible! “There’s a beggar woman in my room—she’s broken in and is ransacking everything! “Hurry! Hurry! Get that creature out of here!”

The beggar girl disguised as Miss Mineko made an outrageous claim. “Huh? A beggar? “In the young mistress’s room?” “That’s preposterous! “Please wait here. “I’ll haul her out immediately.” The student dashed down the corridor without suspicion 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 drinking tea. “Hey! Just who do you think you are? “Do you have any idea where you are? “Keep dawdling and I’ll hand you over to the police!”

Even as the student shouted with a terrifying expression, the brazen beggar woman remained unfazed.

“Oh my, what are you getting angry about? I just wanted to play a little prank, that’s all. There’s no need to get angry.” The student was utterly dumbfounded.

“Idiot! How am I supposed to tolerate you barging into someone’s room for some stupid prank? Get out now! If you don’t, I’ll make you!”

He suddenly grabbed the beggar woman—who was in fact Miss Mineko—by the nape of her neck and hurled her out the window with tremendous force. Miss Mineko was greatly indignant and scolded the student’s rudeness, but it proved futile. The prank had gone too far. The two women’s disguises were so flawless that even the student could not distinguish them. When she realized this, Miss Mineko ceased her anger and began explaining meekly, but the student remained unconvinced. He dismissed her as a madwoman and refused to listen. It was only natural. Even if the beggar’s face resembled hers, the real young lady stood waiting in the corridor. Who could imagine a count’s daughter would dress as a beggar? Moreover, the beggar girl now fully inhabiting the young lady’s role had no memory of any kimono exchange. Insisting with feigned sincerity that her lookalike was making outrageous accusations, she only made her counterpart appear more deranged.

In the end, the pitiable Miss Mineko was not heeded no matter how she tried to plead her case, and was violently cast beyond the gate through the combined efforts of the student and gatekeeper.

In such a situation, the young lady raised in seclusion could think of nothing. She was just furious. In her raging fury, she could not fully articulate what she wanted to say. As she stood frozen before the gate, muttering “What should I do? What should I do?”, the image that naturally rose in her mind was that of her kind-hearted father, the Count. That’s it. If it’s Father, he would never mistake his own daughter. I will go meet Father. That’s it. That’s it. With her mind made up, she trudged off toward the Prime Minister’s official residence, which was not far away.

Passersby turned to look as they went by. It was because she made an oddly captivating beggar. Yet for Miss Mineko, this marked a journey through humiliations beyond her wildest nightmares. Battling the urge to collapse weeping on the ground, she somehow steeled herself and kept walking. When she had walked two or three blocks and jumped aside at a blaring horn to look back, there stood her family’s automobile. As she wondered suspiciously who might be inside, the car sped into the distance. Though Miss Mineko remained unaware, that vehicle carried the beggar woman now impersonating the count’s daughter. Their destination matched hers—the Prime Minister’s official residence. The impostor meant to arrive first and block Miss Mineko from meeting her father, the Count.

By the time Miss Mineko’s beggar woman finally reached the gate of the official residence, the old gatekeeper—who had been thoroughly briefed—was already lying in wait with bated breath. He shoved aside the beggar girl attempting to enter through the gate and roared.

“Just as I thought—scram! We’ve got your number already. Not one step past this gate!” Shoved to the ground, Miss Mineko found herself too weakened to rise, her face pressed against the earth as she dissolved into bitter tears. That her spur-of-the-moment “Beggar Prince” prank would unfold exactly like that fairy tale’s plot was beyond anything she could have imagined. Yet perhaps this was her ordained fate. Who in this world would believe two people could exist as perfect duplicates—herself and that girl? Even if they confronted each other, with both making identical claims, victory would naturally go to the one already occupying the young lady’s position. This must be why the prince in the story had suffered so terribly, she realized—and with that final extinguishing of hope, Miss Mineko knew nothing left but to weep.

Anesthetic

Now，it was necessary to hasten the story’s pace slightly. For there would be no end if one persisted in writing about these matters indefinitely.

What became of Miss Mineko after that? The White Bat Gang's conspiracy succeeded splendidly, and she—her makeshift disguise having backfired—was fated at last to descend into the ranks of beggars. Were one to recount in detail the strange and pitiable circumstances of this Count's daughter reduced to beggary, it would likely form a most bizarre tale; but now there was no time for that.

The next day, Miss Mineko’s fiancé Mr. Shun’ichi met a strange death at a hotel in Osaka. Of course, this too was the work of the White Bat Gang’s sinister hand—they had determined that only Miss Mineko’s fiancé, Mr. Shun’ichi, could expose their substitution of the young lady. They had concluded that unless they first eliminated this obstacle, they could not safely proceed with their ultimate conspiracy against Count Daigawara.

Now, about ten days had passed since the two consecutive incidents occurred, and around the time Mr. Shun’ichi’s funeral had concluded, an utterly bizarre incident suddenly erupted at Prime Minister Daigawara’s official residence.

One evening, after a particularly drawn-out cabinet meeting concluded and he saw off the departing ministers, the Prime Minister felt an unusual fatigue come over him, so he entered his private study and slumped into a chair. The unnatural death of his adopted son Mr. Shun’ichi had created a sorrowful void in the Count’s private life. Whenever he found even brief respite from his intense duties as Prime Minister, he would discover himself unwittingly sinking into that void. On top of this, he harbored another strange concern. It involved a certain significant matter concerning him personally that Secretary Nomura had whispered about moments before the cabinet meeting began. When he heard this disclosure, he doubted whether the secretary had gone mad or was experiencing some waking dream. He attempted to rebuke him for spouting such nonsense. But to the Count—who had observed countless individuals over his long career—Nomura’s demeanor and words carried an undeniable weight that defied dismissal as mere rambling.

The great statesman who had never once feared real events found himself perplexed about how to handle this strange, nightmare-like emotion. To laugh it off as absurd would have been simple. Yet Secretary Nomura could not possibly have gone mad. Was I truly meant to perform this bizarre charade orchestrated by that man?

While the Count was deep in thought, the very person he had been envisioning entered. 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 startled expression. "You're Mineko, aren't you? You must be Mineko." "Oh, whatever do you mean, Father?"

The young lady laughed like a bell. The Count took the teacup from his daughter’s hand and brought it to his mouth. “You’re going to make Father drink this, aren’t you?” he said in a resonant voice, as if to confirm. This time, Miss Mineko instantly turned pale and showed great panic, but true to form, she regained her composure in an instant. “Oh, nothing but strange things. Father, you seem quite exhausted today.”

The Count kept staring at Miss Mineko, a thin eerie smile curling at the corner of his lips as he raised the teacup. The cup tilted gradually before his thick lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed rhythmically. Within moments, he had drained every drop. Miss Mineko sat in the chair before him, restlessly glancing around the room with unsettled eyes. Her face turned ashen pale, body trembling with fine uncontrollable tremors no effort could suppress.

Exactly at that moment, Secretary Nomura entered. When he realized the Count had already drained the tea, he quickly exchanged a peculiar glance with the young lady, and immediately feigning nonchalance, proceeded toward the Count.

“There is an urgent message from the Minister of Home Affairs,” “He requests Your Excellency’s immediate attention.” A letter was presented. The Count opened it and began reading, but before he had progressed beyond two or three lines, an odd shadow crossed his forehead and his letter-holding hand went limp. “What troubles you, Your Excellency? Are you unwell?” “Father! Father!” The secretary and young lady rushed over simultaneously to support the Count’s massive frame—but he had already fallen into a deep, unnatural slumber.

Secretary Nomura, upon seeing this, ran to the entrance—one might have thought he was going to summon the household staff—but instead locked the door from within. The Count had slid down from his chair unnoticed and lay sprawled on the floor. "It went smoothly, didn't it?" Miss Mineko spoke like a stage villainess. "I must admire your skill," Secretary Nomura said. "This makes four disposed of."

Secretary Nomura said. The "fourth one" meant the fourth entry on the White Bat Gang's list. Ah, what an utterly strange fact this was! To eliminate the Prime Minister, the criminals had first replaced his daughter, next disposed of his adopted son Shun'ichi, and before anyone knew it, had even substituted Secretary Nomura. The real Mr. Nomura was an upright and incorruptible man who had enjoyed the Count's patronage for many years—not someone who would collude with a criminal organization. The secretary present here was unmistakably a different person, yet not differing by an inch from Mr. Nomura.

“Now then, lend me your hand.” The impostor secretary guided his fake young lady counterpart and pulled the Count’s unconscious body—which had effortlessly succumbed to deep slumber—toward the corner closet. The secretary turned the key to open the door. The Count’s form was shoved inside. “I’ll manage the rest alone. Keep watch at the window.”

He said this abruptly and disappeared into the pitch-dark closet. There was a coffin-like box that had been brought in beforehand. Inside it lay concealed the fake Count Daigawara dispatched by the White Bat Gang. The fake Count emerged from the box. The fake secretary and the fake Count worked together to place the real Count into the box. They closed the lid and locked it. With this, the substitution of the Prime Minister was completed without difficulty. The box containing the real Count remained concealed in the closet, awaiting its scheduled removal when opportune.

The fake secretary, who had been clattering away in the darkness, soon emerged from there, and following behind him appeared—miraculously, unbelievably—a figure indistinguishable from Prime Minister Daigawara in every respect, looking exactly as though the Count who had just collapsed from the anesthetic had now awakened refreshed and emerged. "Oh, Father!"

Miss Mineko let out a cry of astonishment and approached the figure. "Hmm, Mineko?" The fake Count began his act immediately upon entering. "Now then, Your Excellency - how shall we respond to the Minister of Home Affairs?" The fake secretary declared with affected gravity. A trinity of frauds.

“Hmm. The letter’s reply can wait, but kindly telephone the Superintendent General. If he has already left headquarters, call his official residence. And have him bring along that civilian detective Akechi Kogoro whom the Superintendent General so admires—they must come here immediately. Ah, wait a moment. Inform them that a rather serious incident has occurred, and they should bring five or six of their most capable subordinates. Do mention that the opponent is quite a formidable fellow.”

For the Prime Minister himself to issue such an unusual command was something without precedent. However, the opponents were none other than the fake Superintendent General and the fake amateur detective. If it was a call from their own kind, it was certain to come through.

But for what purpose was the Count summoning the Superintendent General and Akechi? If it were just two people, that would still make sense, but demanding they bring several burly police officers seemed rather odd. What on earth were they planning to start here? Miss Mineko could not help but find it strange. This was not part of the planned scenario. However, Secretary Nomura, with an air of having no suspicion whatsoever, opened the door and left for the telephone room, but soon returned,

“The Superintendent General will be arriving shortly,” he reported.

Unmasking After about thirty minutes had passed, as the Count and the secretary waited in a separate reception room, the Superintendent General’s group barged in noisily.

Seated around the table in chairs were four individuals: the Count, Secretary Nomura, Superintendent General Akamatsu, and Akechi Kogoro; the accompanying police officers waited outside the entrance. Akechi Kogoro stood at the entrance, surveyed the hallway, and after confirming no one was there, sealed the door before returning to his seat. “Ah, where is Miss Mineko?” he said, looking at the Count and the secretary. “Still concerned, are you? Miss Yoshie is in excellent spirits and waiting in that room over there,” Secretary Nomura smirked as he replied.

Secretary Nomura smirked and replied. Well now—Miss Mineko was suddenly being called Yoshie. Speaking of Yoshie—wasn't that the name of Aoki Ainosuke's devoted wife who had appeared repeatedly in this story's earlier chapters? Moreover, she was supposed to have perished in the "One-Armed Beauty" incident. "Now then, what's this urgent matter about, Count?" The Superintendent General questioned the Count using language utterly unlike his usual decorum—a tone dripping with disrespect. Naturally, he had already learned from Secretary Nomura that the Count had been replaced by a double.

“Well, the fact is there’s a heinous criminal within this residence.” “I would like you to arrest that criminal immediately.” The Count said calmly.

“A criminal? A thief? For something like that to make the Superintendent General himself come running—that’s rich. Hey now, Count—keep this up and that mask of yours’ll slip right off.” “I wouldn’t call you here for petty theft. A crime against the state. No—worse than that. A crime more terrifying than communists or revolution.” “Quit the theatrics, Count. Enough games. After dragging us all the way here—”

The Superintendent General laughed. “I’m not joking,” “In any case, have your subordinates gather in this room.” “Really? Hey.” Superintendent General Akamatsu looked at Secretary Nomura as if seeking salvation. “It’s true.” “We discussed it among ourselves.” “It’s still part of the Gang’s work.” “Just call the officers.” “Then order your attendant to do it.” Finally convinced, Secretary Nomura pressed the call button without delay.

Soon, five burly patrolmen entered.

“Mr. Daigawara—and this crime you mentioned—what exactly is it?”

Superintendent General Akamatsu rephrased his question in front of the police officers and inquired. "As I have just stated, the crime in question is an extremely grave crime against the state. It is an astonishing conspiracy to overthrow the government and incite massive upheaval across the nation." When he heard this, the Superintendent General made a strange face. He could only think that the Count was referring to the White Bat Gang.

“So you’re saying the criminal is hiding within this official residence? Where on earth is that?” “Here.” “It’s this room.”

The Superintendent General and Akechi glanced around restlessly at the interior of the room. But there was no place for anyone to hide.

“Mr. Akamatsu. Please have the officers prepare their arrest ropes and order them to apprehend the criminal.”

The Count declared imperiously. “Who do you mean?” “Onimura Joichi and Aoki Ainosuke—both of them!” Secretary Nomura barked from beside them. Hearing this, Superintendent General Akamatsu and Akechi Kogoro rose smoothly from their seats. Pale-faced as they scanned the room, they instinctively braced themselves and cried out.

“Who on earth are you talking about?” “Are those men actually here?”

Secretary Nomura also stood up as if to counter the two. And then, while beckoning to the police officers lined up in the corner, he barked. “Gentlemen, arrest the Superintendent General and Akechi Kogoro." “These guys are neither the Superintendent General nor Detective Akechi nor anything of the sort.” “They’re Onimura and Aoki—members of the White Bat Gang.” “What are you hesitating for?!” “Hurry up and restrain them!”

However, even the officers hesitated. Could this man truly be an impostor? How could they believe that this figure who had served as their revered superintendent for months was a White Bat Gang member? “Ahahahaha! Have you lost your mind?” “Mr. Daigawara.” “Please remove this lunatic.” “How can you stay composed while letting them spew such absurdities?” The Superintendent General roared. “I concur with Nomura-kun.” “Officers—by Daigawara’s command.” “Arrest these two.”

“Wait, please wait.” “Are you claiming that I am not Akamatsu?” “This is absurd.” “Please clarify why I am not Akamatsu.” “Because you’re Onimura Jōichi.”

Superintendent General Akamatsu retorted. “Onimura Jōichi? I’ve never heard that name.” “Even if such a man existed, how could he share my face and occupy the superintendent’s office at the Metropolitan Police Department?” “When did this Onimura supposedly become me?” “We’re not foxes or raccoon dogs—the world can’t contain two humans identical down to the last hair!” “Keep your madness in check!”

Mr. Akamatsu brushed aside his earlier rude remarks and puffed up with anger. This was his last resort. Even if their true identities were exposed, this single point alone could not be explained by anyone. Therefore, they banked on the idea that if they persisted in their insistence, their opponent would be unable to do anything. “Hey Onimura, who do you think I am?” “I’m not Onimura. But you’ve concluded it’s Nomura-kun, haven’t you?”

“Do you truly believe your conspiracy could be detected by the real Secretary Nomura?” Mr. Akamatsu was completely stumped. What in the world had happened here? Secretary Nomura should have been replaced by an impostor. Moreover, the man working as that impostor should be Taketa—a communist who was supposed to be one of their most trusted members. Why on earth would he have initiated such an absurd betrayal? Even Prime Minister Daigawara should have been replaced through the same procedure—having the fake daughter and fake secretary administer the anesthetic to ensure a flawless substitution with their doubles—shouldn’t he? That this outcome should occur so unexpectedly—what could it mean?

Just when he thought Secretary Nomura might not be an impostor after all, his current words suggested otherwise. If he was neither the genuine article nor Taketa acting as substitute, then who in the world was this man? "Who are you? Who are you?"

Mr. Akamatsu shouted incoherently.

Devil's Manufacturing Factory

“I am Akechi Kogoro.”

Secretary Nomura removed the elaborate wig, false eyebrows, and cotton cheek plumpers as he spoke, then smoothly ran his hand down his face. “How about that? Which proves more convenient—your factory’s human modification techniques or my disguise methods? Hahaha!” The transformation was astonishing. The man who laughed these words 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 to the timbre of his voice—not a trace remained of Secretary Nomura’s features that had occupied that face mere moments earlier.

“I was held captive in your lair,” “so I know every detail of your White Bat conspiracy.” “I knew Yoshie Aoki was impersonating Miss Daigawara and planned to make the Count drink the anesthetic, so I switched her drug with harmless powder and had the Count pretend to fall asleep on purpose.” “Then we made it look like we were replacing his body with the double from the closet, but in the darkness, we never actually made the swap.” “That means your comrades are still locked inside that box.”

The entire assembly gasped at the famous detective's dramatic appearance. Mr. Akamatsu instinctively looked at the fake Akechi Kogoro beside him. There was not the slightest difference. Akechi Kogoro and Akechi Kogoro stood glaring at each other. But none was more startled than Aoki Ainosuke, who had disguised himself as the false Akechi. Had he been a true villain, he might have claimed to be the real one—with these perfect duplicates, distinguishing truth from fiction might have proven impossible. Yet as readers know, this man called Aoki was but an extreme devotee of the grotesque; a coward at heart. Unable to endure the tension, he became the first to try bolting from the room.

When Aoki began to flee, the villain Onimura Jōichi—lacking the courage to stand his ground alone—dashed after him toward the entrance. “What are you dawdling for? Gentlemen, catch them!”

Akechi shouted, but the officers, overwhelmed by shock and moving as if caught in a waking dream, made no move to pursue the thieves. Taking advantage of there being no one to stop them, the two thieves swiftly reached the entrance, swung open the door, and attempted to dash out into the corridor. But as the two men tried to dash out, they froze in their tracks, startled by whatever they saw. “Superintendent General Your Excellency, I’m afraid this cannot be helped. I beg your forgiveness for this discourtesy.” A deep voice laced with irony echoed from the corridor. When they looked, there stood the familiar Inspector Namigami 'Demon' Keibu, blocking the doorway just outside. In his hand, the pistol’s muzzle gleamed ominously. The astute Akechi Kogoro had stealthily summoned this close friend as a precaution against any contingency.

Thus, the three members of the White Bat Gang—Onimura, Aoki, and Taketa (the double of Count Daigawara who had been hiding in that box)—were arrested without incident, and five officers took custody of them, leading them away to another room. Though he was a proud and unyielding statesman unparalleled in his time, even Count Daigawara found himself encountering such a bizarre incident—the kind that rarely appears even in nightmares—for the first time in his life. Even as he witnessed Onimura’s arrest, he remained in a strange, dreamlike state where he couldn’t fully accept it as reality—so much so that he didn’t even think of Miss Mineko, whom he should have been deeply concerned about.

“This is unthinkable.” “This terror is not personal fear.” “It is the terror of humanity.” “It is the terror of the world.” As Akechi continued to explain, the Count interrupted him.

“Unbelievable. That is something God would never permit. Aren’t they using some form of disguise technique similar to yours?” “Absolutely not. They have truly altered their appearances. How could people such as the Aoki couple possibly imitate my disguise techniques? I have accumulated at least ten years of ceaseless research and practice, finally mastering the technique to alter even the wrinkles on my face at will. It’s not something amateurs like them could possibly achieve. Theirs aren’t as adaptable as mine. Their alterations are definitive. Once they alter their appearance, it remains permanently.”

“It’s a dream. Both you and I are dreaming.” “No, it 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. It may be rude of me to make such a comparison, but Your Excellency has likely heard of Kōkichi, the paperhanger from Okayama who attempted to construct an airplane before the Kan’ei era. He imitated birds and jumped from the rooftop with paper-mache wings. Of course, when people saw this outlandish behavior, they burst into laughter. The town magistrate sentenced him to exile. It wasn’t limited to airplanes. Whether it was radio or television, whenever the utopian authors of old depicted them, they were always met with uproarious laughter. They were dismissed as nothing more than a fool’s dream deemed unworthy of even a glance.”

When Akechi had spoken this far, a woman’s scream like ripping silk echoed from somewhere within the mansion. Count Daigawara、Akechi、and Inspector Namigami—who had been seated together—all suddenly pricked up their ears. “Let’s investigate.” “Namigami-kun!” Akechi rushed out of the room with the inspector. When they looked down the corridor、there stood a live-in student running toward them.

“Something’s wrong! In the young mistress’s room—” “In the young mistress’s room—” Without waiting to hear more, they rushed to the young lady’s room guided by the live-in student. A shrill scream; the thudding and banging of something crashing. This was serious.

Akechi abruptly opened the door. In the center of the room, two human forms tangled together like puppies. One was Miss Mineko, the Count's daughter. One was an unknown beggar woman. Strangely enough, the one screaming was not the young lady but rather the eerie beggar woman. Seeing this, Inspector Namigami Keibu suddenly rushed in and struck the beggar girl across the cheek with a resounding smack. The frail beggar girl collapsed instantly without resistance.

“Tie her up!” The inspector commanded his subordinate police officers.

“Wait, Inspector Namigami! You shouldn’t act so roughly. Do you realize who you just struck? That’s the Prime Minister’s daughter!” Even after Akechi’s warning, the inspector remained oblivious to the situation’s intricacies. “Don’t spout nonsense! Would I strike the young lady? This beggar girl here—she was behaving disrespectfully toward her!” “When you say ‘the young lady,’ are you referring to that one over there?”

Where Akechi pointed, the ashen-faced figure standing rigidly was unmistakably the Count’s daughter. “Are you saying that one over there isn’t the young lady?” “Have you forgotten the White Bat Gang’s sorcery? That’s Yoshie—Aoki Ainosuke’s wife... Look! She’s running away! That’s all the proof we need.” A policeman restrained Yoshie—disguised as Miss Mineko—as she tried to leap through the window. Indeed, her face perfectly matched Mineko’s; yet when told this filthy beggar girl was his daughter, even Count Daigawara himself struggled to believe it.

"The devil's manufacturing factory has released six counterfeit people into this world." "Three of them have been disposed of, as you've witnessed." "The remaining three are Aoki Ainosuke's friend Shinagawa Shirō, president of the science magazine; Miyazaki Tsunemon, president of Iwauchi Spinning Company; and Nomura Kōichi, the Count's secretary. The fake Secretary Nomura was thrown into the Metropolitan Police Department's basement by Inspector Namigami." "The counterfeit Miyazaki Tsunemon—since another police squad had been dispatched to arrest him—should already be in custody by now." "The remaining counterfeit Shinagawa Shirō could be considered the White Bat Gang's leader. Apprehending him and rescuing the real Superintendent General, Mr. Miyazaki, and Secretary Nomura—who remain trapped in the gang's lair—are our urgent priorities." "We must save these three immediately."

Akechi explained. "Of course, we must make those arrangements at once. At the same time, it is absolutely imperative to prevent this astonishing conspiracy from leaking to newspaper reporters and spreading to the public. Now—how many men shall we dispatch to the gang's lair?"

Count Daigawara asked with an intensely strained expression. "There are six gang members." "Since half lack any criminal intent whatsoever, strictly speaking it's three." "They possess virtually no capacity for resistance." "Having equivalent numbers to the gang members, or perhaps two or three additional personnel, should suffice."

As a result of their discussion, it was decided that the Chief of the Criminal Investigations Division, Inspector Namigami, six skilled detectives, and Akechi Kogoro—nine individuals in total—would set out to arrest the criminals.

Three cars departed from the Metropolitan Police Department and, following Akechi's instructions, sped toward the Ikebukuro suburb.

The car came to a stop at that peculiar house—which readers may recall—where Aoki Ainosuke had once trailed the Phantom Man and glimpsed the horrific scene of a murder. As ever, it was an old Western-style mansion like an unoccupied, deserted house. When the entrance door was pushed, it opened without resistance. _Could this be the hideout of those mysterious thieves?_ _But for a hideout, isn't this too carelessly left wide open?_ The group stomped into the dim, dusty interior.

Passing through several rooms and arriving at one near the back entrance, they found a staircase leading down to the basement there. Akechi took the lead, and since it was pitch-dark even during daytime, they descended while swinging prepared flashlights. The space at the bottom was a small brick room resembling a storage area. This was what they called a Western-style cellar. Empty barrels, charcoal sacks, broken chairs, and all manner of junk lay scattered haphazardly. There was nothing particularly unusual about a Western-style mansion having such a basement.

“Well, we’ve finally reached the entrance to the thieves’ hideout.” “Prepare your weapons.” Akechi said in a voice like a whisper. The term “weapons” here referred to the pistols that had been specially prepared for apprehending the heinous criminals. “But you—this basement is just a single room with no secret passages. What do you mean this is the entrance to their hideout?”

The Chief of Criminal Investigations Division asked suspiciously. “That’s precisely why this hideout remains secure.” “No one would imagine there being another room beyond this basement.” “However, this wall is not a dead end.”

Akechi explained in a whisper while removing one of the bricks from the wall in front of him. When he inserted his hand into the hole and manipulated something—astonishingly—part of the wall began to open like a door, slowly swinging inward to reveal a gaping cavity. From the depths of the cavity, a faint light seeped through. With Akechi at the lead, the group—pistols in hand—proceeded along the dark narrow passageway until reaching another door at the dead end. Akechi left the others waiting in darkness and alone opened this door to enter.

The spacious room was filled with rows of dolls. This was the same room where Aoki Ainosuke had once been blindfolded and brought. “Isn’t that you, Aoki-kun? What’s wrong? Has something urgent happened?”

From the far side of the room, a man rushed out and called out. It was Shinagawa Shirō. Needless to say, it was the counterfeit version—the Phantom Man they knew. Akechi couldn’t immediately grasp what the man was saying, but when he suddenly realized, he understood that an absurd mistake was unfolding. The Phantom Man had called him "Aoki-kun." This referred to Aoki Ainosuke. However dim the candlelight might be, it wasn’t so dark that one could misrecognize a face. This was no case of mistaken identity. Calling him Aoki was perfectly natural.

Why, you ask? Because Aoki Ainosuke had now lost his original form and been remade into Akechi Kogoro. Mistaking Akechi for Aoki was only natural. Moreover, since the Phantom Man had no way of knowing that the counterfeit Akechi—Aoki—had been arrested, and since he remained unaware that the real Akechi had escaped from this vacant house, it was inevitable he would assume the one now entering from outside was the false Akechi—in other words, Aoki Ainosuke.

Realizing this, Akechi suppressed his amusement and, with quick-wittedness in the moment, reversed the trick often employed by the thieves—pretending convincingly to be Aoki while—

“This is bad. The police seem to have discovered this hideout. No—they haven’t just discovered it. They’ve had their agents infiltrating here in disguise for quite some time now.”

he whispered urgently. “What?! Police infiltrators?” The counterfeit Shinagawa’s face abruptly changed color. “Where’s that guy?” “He’s here.”

“Here? You mean here?”

“He’s in this room.” “Oi! This isn’t the time for jokes! There’s no one else here but you and me! Or are you saying he’s hiding among those dolls?”

The Phantom Man looked around ominously at the clustered naked dolls. The wax dolls stared fixedly in this direction with their black eyes wide open, as though they were alive. Even if a real human were mixed among them, you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart in the slightest.

“He isn’t disguised as a doll. It’s a much more clever disguise.” Akechi said with a grin. “A more clever disguise? What on earth are you talking about?” The leader began to feel an indescribable terror. Anticipating that something unfathomable and utterly eerie was about to occur, he stared at his opponent with frightened eyes. “Ha ha ha... Don’t you get it?” Akechi, for his part, was gradually revealing his true identity.

“In other words, you’re saying that infiltrator is in this room.” “By the way, there are only two people in this room—you and me.” “So then—” The counterfeit Shinagawa stammered. “You’re finally starting to understand, aren’t you?”

“That’s impossible! Have you gone mad?” The leader turned deathly pale and bellowed. “He’s confined in the back room. I just checked moments ago and confirmed he was still stomping around inside! There’s no way he could’ve returned from outside! You’re Aoki. You’re not some other impostor.” “Yet as proof I’m not Aoki—look—I’m arresting you right now.” “See?”

Akechi tapped the man’s back—*knock knock*—as he spoke. The counterfeit Shinagawa, sensing that it was not a finger but something much harder—something like the barrel of a pistol—startled.

“Now then, gentlemen. You may come in.” When Akechi called out loudly, the waiting police officers noisily entered. The leader of the White Bat Gang was thus effortlessly bound with ropes. The remaining two members, having heard the commotion, were apprehended without giving them a chance to speak as they tried to sneak away. One of them was a young man with a beautiful, Noh mask-like face who had often appeared in Asakusa Park in the past. The group, taking the three captives with them, proceeded even further inside. Along the way, there was a small room with tightly locked doors, and when they listened carefully, a rhythmic sound resembling human footsteps could be heard from inside.

The counterfeit Shinagawa heard this and made a strange face. He had been absolutely convinced that the real Akechi was inside that room. “That noise, huh?” Akechi explained with a chuckle. “That’s the rabbits you’ve been keeping for experiments.” “The rabbit’s wearing my shoes and scurrying around.” In the gang’s lair, there existed a bizarre surgical hospital where domestic rabbits were kept for experimental purposes. One of them had shoes tied to it and was serving as Akechi’s proxy.

The thieves were left gaping in disbelief.

“Now then, it’s your turn. In the cell you made, stay quiet for a while.” Akechi instructed the detectives to confine the three thieves in that small room, lock it from the outside, and as a precaution, leave one detective standing guard at the entrance.

Human Modification Technique

After turning once through the tunnel-like corridor, there was a spacious room of about ten tsubo partitioned by iron bars. Inside the room, beds were neatly lined up as in a hospital, and three individuals with bandaged faces lay upon them. At their bedside were crammed something like an electric therapy device, shelves of scalpels and medicine bottles, and various other eerie instruments—unfathomable, glinting things—arranged in every available space.

Within it, three men were hurriedly pacing around. One of them was an old man with disheveled white hair, a beard that engulfed his face, eyes glaring fiercely from behind round wire-rimmed glasses, and an unsettling, madman-like demeanor, wearing a white surgical gown like a surgeon's. He had the appearance of the director of a prison hospital. 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 counterfeit Shinagawa to open the iron bars and guided the group into the bizarre hospital. The two assistants, alarmed by the sight of the police officers, had fled to a corner of the room and cowered, but the white-haired director stood unflinching before the group and roared in a terrifying voice.

“Hey! Who are you lot? You mustn’t barge in here recklessly! Don’t you realize you’re disrupting vital work?” “Not at all, Dr. Okawa—we haven’t come to interfere. We’re here to witness your extraordinary work firsthand, Dr. Okawa. We’ve come to humbly receive your esteemed lecture.” Akechi declared with a deep, reverential bow.

“Hmm, I see,” Dr. Okawa growled. “In that case, I won’t reprimand you—but you claim to have come for my lecture. Do you possess even basic medical knowledge?” “No, we’re not scholars,” Akechi replied deferentially. “These gentlemen are officials from the Metropolitan Police Department. In their professional capacity, they wish to understand the nature of your invention.” “Ah! Officials!” The mad doctor’s beard quivered with self-importance. “Naturally you’d come inspect my work—I’d nearly given up waiting! Very well.” He adjusted his Lloyd spectacles, paraffin-injected cheeks twitching. “I’ll explain it plainly enough for dilettantes.”

It was a truly bizarre exchange. The group blinked their eyes in confusion without understanding anything at all, but upon hearing Akechi's whispered explanation, they finally grasped the full picture.

Speaking of Dr. Okawa, until about ten years prior, he had been a renowned university professor, but after resigning from his academic post and devoting himself to certain peculiar research, rumors spread until he was forgotten by society. No one knew where he was or what he had been doing. His research—a method to alter human appearances at will, something that might be called the "Human Transformation Technique"—was a bizarre hybrid of medicine and cosmetology. At a time when everyone recoiled from this madman's work and no one would give it a second glance, there came a man who happened to become acquainted with the doctor, believed in his skills, resolved to assist him in perfecting the technique, and conceived an outlandish scheme to stage a grand spectacle.

He provided living expenses and research funds to Dr. Okawa who was in the depths of poverty. For nearly ten years, he continued this tirelessly without cease. About one year ago, Dr. Okawa’s bizarre research was splendidly completed, whether fortunately or unfortunately. Transforming a human into a completely different being, and creating a human indistinguishable from another—all of this could now be done with complete freedom. But at the very moment his research reached completion—whether he had exhausted his life force in the process or whether the devil’s work had incurred divine wrath—Dr. Okawa lost his mind. He was a madman. However, though a madman, strangely enough, he had not forgotten the surgical procedures of the Human Transformation Technique. He had become a kind of machine, silently executing his completed great invention.

For the man who had funded Dr. Okawa, the doctor's descent into madness proved unexpectedly advantageous. He promptly purchased an old Western-style house, expanded its basement, and created a demonic factory. He established a bizarre prison-hospital. Dr. Okawa was confined in an underground prison cell. Yet within that cell lay all necessary tools and chemicals for human transformation procedures, with even living human test subjects provided. The mad doctor joyfully performed his surgeries. Unaware of how his techniques were being used, he devoted himself solely to the craft for its own sake, remaining content in his role as warden of this prison-hospital.

The man who had funded Dr. Okawa and utilized his invention was none other than the counterfeit Shinagawa Shirō—that is, the leader of the White Bat Gang. He used himself as the initial test subject, undergoing the surgical procedure to transform into Shinagawa Shirō, president of the science magazine. Once this was accomplished—as detailed in the earlier part of this story—he conducted a variety of bizarre experiments: at times exposing his face in films and newspaper photo spreads, committing thefts, stealing others’ wives, and more. After thoroughly testing whether Dr. Okawa’s techniques could completely deceive the public and confirming their reliability at last, he thereupon embarked on his final grand conspiracy—one so sinister that its very objective dared not be spelled out here.

Obtaining accomplices for their evil deeds proved no trouble at all. There was none who would refuse to become the land's wealthiest overnight without peril—or even a nation's prime minister.

At that time, Akechi had not given such a detailed explanation. He had merely explained that Okawa was a mad genius inventor. He then went on to say the following. "What Dr. Okawa has perfected is demonic technology. It must not see the light of day in this world for even a moment—it is a secret from hell. This operating room will be destroyed immediately. The doctor will be confined to a real prison. Starting tomorrow, it will become an unfathomable mystery—something you could search for endlessly yet never lay eyes upon. I believe we should take this opportunity to glimpse the true nature of this magic and hear the magician’s theories while we still can."

No one voiced any opposition. Guided by the white-haired mad doctor, the group approached the row of beds, drawing near their headboards. Dr. Okawa showed various surgical tools and chemicals while eloquently explaining his mysterious "Human Transformation Technique." No matter what he said—apart from demonstrating surgical skill—his speech as a maddened old man became interspersed with strange fragments that seemed to require consulting some hellish dictionary, leaving many parts incoherent; yet the gist of it was as follows.

“Since you are police officials, you must be familiar with disguise techniques.” “Wearing wigs, attaching fake mustaches, putting on glasses—these are the conventional methods.” “If one could truly alter a person’s face in its natural state without using wigs, fake mustaches, or glasses—well then, all those childish disguise techniques would become utterly unnecessary.” “My method transforms a person’s natural face into something entirely different.” “It is disguise in its truest form.”

"It works for both men and women. Those born with extreme ugliness must endure shame their entire lives. They are broken in love, despised by others, and ultimately come to curse the world. As for methods to remedy this, until now there have only been various cosmetic techniques. Makeup is essentially about covering up—it can never truly beautify from the natural state. The eyes do not grow larger, the nose does not become higher, the mouth does not shrink. However, my transformation technique has accomplished this impossible feat. In other words, my method alone is true cosmetology in the real sense."

Dr. Okawa the Mad’s lecture began in this manner. The foundation of human appearance lay in bone structure and flesh. To alter one’s appearance, one had to first begin by reforming the bone structure itself. Joining bones and shaving bones—in contemporary surgical medicine—this was no impossible feat. To give an easily understandable example: were they not routinely performing bone shaving in surgeries like those for periodontitis and sinusitis as standard practice? It was merely that no bold surgeons existed who would shave and join bones solely for altering appearances. It was Dr. Okawa who accomplished this.

Altering the flesh was even easier. Depending on the amount of nutrient supply, adjusting fatness or thinness appropriately was one method, but there existed a more straightforward approach. That was none other than the paraffin injection already employed in rhinoplasty. To hollow out cheeks, one needed only inject paraffin into the area instead of using cotton padding. The same principle applied to foreheads and jaws alike. Yet as evidenced by traditional rhinoplasty techniques, paraffin injections proved prone to deformation. Over time, the paraffin would solidify beneath the skin into dumpling-like lumps that warped into grotesque shapes. When heated, it turned pliable and soft; pressing with a finger left permanent dents. Such methods would never suffice.

Dr. Okawa’s method involved injecting extremely thin paraffin threads separately and repeatedly into the crisscrossed layers of skin tissue, achieving integration with the flesh and permanently maintaining the same shape. It would never form into lumps or melt and flow away.

Excess fatty tissue could be skillfully reshaped through fat removal surgery performed from inside the oral cavity. Thus, if one freely altered the bone structure and flesh, that alone would already drastically change a person’s appearance—but of course, that alone remained insufficient. Next came reshaping and recoloring the hair. To alter the hairline, hair transplantation and depilation techniques had to be applied. To correct hair texture, there existed a special electrical device; procedures utilized hair dyes while extracting pigment to create appropriately white hair.

For eyebrows and mustaches as well, there were methods of depilation, hair transplantation, and discoloration. Procedures such as eyelid deformation and the creation of double eyelids were already being performed by ophthalmologists, but Dr. Okawa expanded these surgeries further to include eyelash transplantation techniques, enlarging or reducing the eye slit, and freely transforming eyes into round or narrow shapes. The nose could be reshaped at will through the aforementioned improved rhinoplasty and cartilage resection, while the mouth, like the eyes, could be freely adjusted in width. For these surgeries, Dr. Okawa used an electric scalpel and Bobby unit.

The deformation of teeth within the oral cavity was of utmost importance in altering one’s appearance. Surgeries to extract or implant teeth and realign dentition were currently performed by dentists to some extent, but Dr. Okawa had delved into them even more extensively and profoundly. Regarding skin color and luster, up to a certain limit they could be altered through electrical or chemical procedures, but beyond that one still had to rely on external cosmetics. In essence, Dr. Okawa’s “Human Transformation Technique” contained no particular originality in its individual principles. He had merely pioneered comprehensive medical techniques that no one had previously attempted. He had simply taken the latest techniques from orthopedics, ophthalmology, dentistry, otolaryngology, beauty care, and cosmetics—added further refinements—then combined them to develop a comprehensive technology for facial transformation. Yet no one before had ever attempted to so exhaustively utilize existing medical techniques solely for altering appearances. Moreover, when various medical disciplines—unremarkable when practiced separately—were concentrated toward this single purpose, who could have imagined they would yield such spectacular results?

To create an exact replica of an actual human model's facial features, one had to first seek out a person whose height, bone structure, and facial features most closely resembled the model's as base material. Dr. Okawa had classified human heads and facial forms 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 the same standard type. For instance, when creating an Akechi Kogoro duplicate, they would first locate someone bearing closest resemblance to him in appearance and demeanor—Aoki Ainosuke being that individual—whereupon the doctor himself would approach the model's vicinity, observe him as a painter studies a subject, return to the hospital with multiple photographs of the model laid out before him, and commence surgery. It was, in essence, a form of human photography.

To put it simply, Dr. Okawa recounted these general matters—the aforementioned ones—in a bizarre, grotesque, madman-like manner. Needless to say, when people heard this, they developed an indescribable, nightmare-tormented, bizarre feeling.

Grand Finale “Then I take it these three people here have also undergone your surgical procedures?”

Akechi asked.

The three people were the real Superintendent General Akamatsu, Mr. Miyazaki Tsunemon, and Secretary Nomura. Once they had released the counterfeits into the world, they had to completely transform the real ones into different people to avoid danger. There was no way the gang would fail to notice. "Hmm, I've only just begun," Dr. Okawa answered. "For changing the skin's color and luster, we applied medicine, but since they were reacting uncontrollably, we injected them with a sedative."

“May I remove the bandages to examine their faces?”

“No, you mustn’t do that! If you remove the bandages now, it’ll all be for nothing! The medicine will lose its effectiveness. You can’t remove them!”

The medicine losing its effectiveness was exactly what we wanted. Whatever Dr. Okawa might say, we had to remove the bandages.

Akechi signaled to the detectives to restrain Dr. Okawa from interfering and began removing the bandages regardless.

“Hey! I told you to stop! Hey! Won’t you quit it?!”

The white-haired old doctor, trying to shake free from the detectives gripping both his arms, stamped his feet and roared with a fearsome glare.

“Shut up!” “Or you’ll get hurt!”

The detectives shouted back. “Damn it, I can’t take this anymore!” Dr. Okawa growled like a beast and charged at the detectives with martial fury. A terrifying struggle broke out. The madman proved unexpectedly formidable; even two detectives working together couldn’t subdue him.

But in his frenzied thrashing, Dr. Okawa's foot slipped. As he fell, the back of his head struck the iron bed railing with such force it made him reel. Dr. Okawa groaned "Ugh" and lay collapsed, lacking even the strength to rise for some time, but when the detectives rushed over and lifted him up, he finally raised his face and suddenly burst into a hollow laugh. The half-madman had become a complete madman.

Meanwhile, the bandages were removed from the three, and the sedative’s effects began to wear off, but they regained consciousness amid the commotion of the struggle. Their faces still showed no changes. They remained the Superintendent General, the wealthy man, and the Secretary - unchanged.

Just at that moment,

“The thieves have escaped! Come quickly!” came the shrill cry.

It came from the direction of the small room where they had confined the thieves earlier. It was the guarding detective who was shouting. Everyone gasped and was about to rush in that direction when, unexpectedly, the three thieves came running toward them. Had they realized that even if they fled outside, there would be no escape? Seizing the moment, 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 open the door, shoved aside the guard detective, and fled. Even so, why didn't they try to escape outside and instead ran further inside?

Ah, he realized. They still had one last trump card remaining.

Look. There stood the fake Shinagawa, his face twisted in a horrifying life-or-death grimace, blocking the cellar corner and brandishing a black cylindrical object. A tail-like fuse sputtered with a feeble flame.

“Now, clear out of this cellar! If you don’t, I’ll slaughter you all!” The thief snarled through twisted lips. The crowd recoiled in shock; some already scrambled toward the entrance.

“No, there’s no need to run away.” “Hey you—did you think I hadn’t noticed that toy of yours?” “It’s crackling away nicely.” “But only the fuse’s tip is burning.” “Don’t you know the powder’s been soaked through and ruined?” Akechi sneered. He had noticed this dangerous object before fleeing the cellar earlier and taken proper precautions. “Look here.” “The fuse’s flame grows unstable.” “My—what excessive smoke!” “It hissed.” “See? The fire’s already gone out.”

The thief turned purple and stamped his feet in frustration.

“Blowing up this devil’s den is quite the inspired idea.” “Truly there’s nothing better than blowing such a detestable place to smithereens.” “But for now you’d better give up.” “We can’t have people getting caught up in the blast you see.” Thus all members of the White Bat Gang were arrested. The two young men who had served as Dr.Okawa’s assistants were no exception.

Dr. Okawa, now completely mad, was transferred from the Demon Prison Hospital to the cage of a psychiatric hospital. The thieves' den, along with the tools and chemicals of the Human Transformation Technique, was reduced to ashes in a single night's blaze. The devil’s conspiracy perished without a trace.

And so, even if this tale were dismissed as a baseless, nonsensical dream, there would be nothing to say in its defense.

The art to freely transform one's visage. Disguise techniques in their primal state. Were such things implemented in this world, what dreadful chaos would erupt across human existence? Mere contemplation proves unbearable without shuddering. Let this remain a phantasmal tale.

Let it remain a dream tale.

This story was serialized over the course of one year in a monthly magazine. As was customary in such cases, I took up my pen each month to advance the story. Therefore, I must apologize for the monthly shifts in direction, the plot’s overly lengthy progression, and its many other flaws. Furthermore, dividing the story into two parts, retitling the latter half, and completely altering everything from subheading formats to plot development and narrative context were done because we had no choice but to comply with the editor’s demands due to the magazine’s sales policies. The inclusion of the amateur detective Akechi Kogoro was also due to this same request.

"The End of Grotesquerie"

Another Conclusion (Continued from the end of the first part)

The Old Scientist Expounds on the Human Transformation Technique

“Oh, a customer?

“Please come this way.”

The figure was a white-haired, white-bearded elderly man clad in surgical-style white garments. Though the dim light obscured details, his face—entirely shrouded by a white beard—gave him the appearance of a bloated hound. Ainosuke entered the inner room unsteadily, as though under some hypnotic influence. This dim chamber too seemed part chemistry lab, part operating theater. An enamel-coated bed stood prominent; glass cabinets displayed gleaming surgical blades; one corner housed intricate electrical equipment; test tubes and flasks cluttered a large table; shelves marched with rows of glass-stoppered bottles.

“Now, have a seat.” The white-clad old man sat down before the desk with the microscope and pointed to the chair in front of him. Ainosuke wordlessly took a seat there.

“You want to be reborn, don’t you?” “Huh? You mean… being reborn?” When Ainosuke asked back in surprise, the old man grinned slyly.

“Yes. You want to erase yourself, do you not?” “Nay, there’s no need to confess secrets.” “I’ve no desire to hear of your circumstances.” “My trade is granting wishes without questions asked.” “From you I’ve already duly received an immense advance.” “All I need do is silently effect your rebirth.”

Ainosuke felt as though he had wandered into some preposterous realm of lunatics. When he tried adopting a madman's mindset himself, he began to sense he might understand what the old man meant. But could such an absurd thing truly exist in this world?

“If one could be reborn, wouldn’t everyone want to be reborn? However, what exactly do you mean by that?” “In other words, the person known as you will vanish from this world. You die. And then, a completely different person will be born into this world. The price for that is ten thousand yen. How about it? A bargain, wouldn’t you say?” “Can such a thing really be done?” “Yes. It can be done. It’s a bother, but I’ll explain once. All guests who come here never consent to the surgery until they hear my explanation, you know. You’re no different, I suppose.”

“Surgery, you say?” Ainosuke started and turned pale.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, you’re scared.” “Well, that’s only natural.” “At first, everyone makes a face like they’re mounting the execution platform.” “Very well, I’ll explain it in a way even a layperson can understand.” The old man slowly adjusted his posture and began to speak. “You know about the disguise techniques used by thieves and detectives.” “Wearing wigs, attaching fake beards, putting on glasses—those are the conventional methods.” “If one could truly change a person’s natural face without using wigs, fake beards, or glasses—how about that?” “Such childish disguise techniques would become completely unnecessary.” “My method transforms the innate human face into something entirely different—a true disguise technique in the proper sense.” “It works for both men and women.” “Those born with extreme ugliness must endure a lifetime of shame.” “They are defeated in love, despised by others, and ultimately come to curse the world.” “As for methods to remedy that, until now there have only been various cosmetic techniques.” “Cosmetics are essentially about covering up; they can never truly beautify one’s natural state.” “Eyes do not grow larger, noses do not become higher, mouths do not shrink.” “However, my transformation technique accomplished this impossible feat.” “In other words, my method is indeed the true cosmetic technique!”

The mad old man's lecture dragged on interminably in this fashion. To summarize its essential points, they amounted to the following. The foundation of human physiognomy resides in skeletal structure and flesh distribution. To modify one's appearance, one must first reform the bone structure - anything less would prove ineffective. Bones must be shaved and joined. In contemporary surgical medicine, this presents no insurmountable obstacle. Consider common procedures like periodontitis or sinusitis operations - do they not routinely involve facial bone shaving as daily practice? The sole distinction lies in surgeons lacking the audacity to reshape bones purely for aesthetic alteration. This was precisely what the mad old man had achieved.

Changing flesh distribution proved even simpler. One method involved controlling nutrient intake to induce weight gain or loss, but there existed a more straightforward approach. This was none other than paraffin injections already employed in rhinoplasty. To plump cheeks effectively required injecting paraffin into targeted areas rather than stuffing cotton padding. The same principle applied whether modifying foreheads or jaws.

However, as evidenced by traditional rhinoplasty, paraffin injections were prone to deformation. Over time, the paraffin would solidify inside the skin into dumpling-like clumps that altered its shape. When heat was applied, it became soft and pliable, denting under finger pressure. Such methods were inadequate. The mad old man's technique involved repeatedly injecting ultra-fine paraffin threads separately within vertically and horizontally interwoven skin tissue to integrate them into the flesh and permanently preserve their shape. They never formed clumps or melted away.

Excess flesh could be skillfully reshaped through fat removal surgery performed from within the oral cavity. Thus, transforming both bone structure and flesh distribution alone already drastically altered a person's appearance, though this remained naturally insufficient. Next came the necessity of altering and recoloring the hair. To modify the hairline, hair transplantation and removal techniques had to be employed. For correcting natural hair texture, a special electrical device existed; practitioners utilized hair dyes and procedures extracting pigment to create appropriately white hair. Eyebrows and mustaches too required similar methods of removal, transplantation, and color alteration.

Procedures like eyelid deformation and double eyelid creation were indeed currently performed by ophthalmologists, but the mad old man had expanded these surgeries further to include eyelash transplantation techniques, enlargement or reduction of eyelid slits, and the ability to freely transform eyes into rounded or narrow shapes. The nose could be reshaped at will through the aforementioned improved rhinoplasty and cartilage resection, while the mouth, like the eyes, could be adjusted in width freely. The interior of the oral cavity—particularly dental deformation—proved extremely crucial in altering one’s appearance. Surgeries involving tooth extraction, addition, or realignment were performed by dentists to some extent already, but the mad old man had researched these methods more extensively and profoundly.

As for skin color and luster, they could be altered to a certain extent through electrical or chemical procedures, but beyond that, one still had to depend on external cosmetics.

In short, the mad old man’s "Human Transformation Technique" contained no particularly original principles in its individual components. He had merely pioneered comprehensive medical techniques that no one had previously attempted. He had merely perfected a comprehensive technique for facial transformation by further refining the latest advancements in orthopedics, ophthalmology, dentistry, otolaryngology, cosmetic techniques, and makeup artistry, then combining them. However, there had never before been a precedent for attempting to so comprehensively utilize existing medical techniques solely for the purpose of facial transformation. Moreover, when these various medical techniques—which would not stand out so much when separated individually—were concentrated on a single purpose, no one could have imagined they would produce such splendid results.

To create an exact likeness of an actual human model, a person whose height, bone structure, and facial features most closely resembled the model had to be sought out as material. The mad old man had classified the forms of human heads and facial features into over a hundred standard types, much like fingerprint researchers categorize fingerprint patterns. To create imitation humans, it was necessary for both the model and the material to belong to this same standard type. When attempting to create a counterfeit of a certain person, they would first seek out another individual belonging to the same standard type as that person. The mad old man himself would then approach the model's vicinity, observing them just as a painter studies their subject, return to the laboratory to line up numerous photographs of the model, and commence surgical procedures on the counterfeit. It was, so to speak, a form of human photography.

The mad old man had lectured on the aforementioned matters in a bizarre, deranged manner. Needless to say, Aoki Ainosuke—having been subjected to this lecture—was left with an indescribably strange feeling, as though tormented by a nightmare.

The Orchestrator of Grotesquerie's Climax Makes His Final Confession

While listening to the mad old man’s lengthy lecture, Ainosuke had naturally come to realize something obvious. He couldn’t wait for the lecture to end and couldn’t help but ask about it.

“I understand now. “That explains why there were two Shinagawa Shirōs. “You were the one who created this second Shinagawa Shirō.”

“No, names are forbidden,” Dr. Okawa retorted. “I don’t even care to ask yours. My business policy is to fulfill requests without inquiring about names, statuses, or any such details. Naturally, I know nothing of any ‘Shinagawa Shirō.’” “Ah, I see,” Ainosuke replied, nodding repeatedly in forced admiration. “That makes sense. As it should be.” He pressed further, “Then if I showed you a photo of Shinagawa, you’d recognize him? Though unfortunately, I don’t have his picture with me now…”

“Hmm, if there were photos, I might recall what sort of surgery was done,” said the mad old man, staring intently into Ainosuke’s eyes. “But you—photographs won’t be necessary. Is that clear? I have one thing to show you. Watch my face closely. Are you ready?” And the old man snickered—a laugh that made one jump. Ainosuke felt a dizzying sensation. Some premonition of an earth-shattering bizarre event about to erupt had leapt directly into his heart.

The old man squinted his eyes into wrinkles as he grinned slyly, grabbed his long beard with his hand, and shook it vigorously from side to side—then the entire beard began stretching like rubber. No, the beard wasn’t stretching. It detached. As if skin were being peeled away, the base of the beard began detaching from the chin.

After removing all the facial hair, he next reached out to the disheveled head of hair. It began peeling off from the left side in a spiral motion. Beneath the white hair, black, youthful hair appeared.

Aoki Ainosuke suddenly stood up and tried to flee. He didn’t want to see the face emerging from beneath the wig and false beard. However, he saw it. He no longer had the strength to flee. He slumped limply back into his original chair.

Beneath the mad old man’s face, the newly born visage of a different person was grinning slyly. It felt as if the grinning mouth was expanding endlessly and infinitely.

“Hahahahaha! How about that? Wasn’t Shinagawa Shirō’s face something like this?” The old man’s voice transformed into Shinagawa Shirō’s voice. His face became indistinguishable from Shinagawa’s in every detail. A third Shinagawa Shirō had materialized before them. “You...? You’re...?” Ainosuke could no longer form words. He writhed within a nightmare made flesh.

“Hey, Aoki-kun. How about it? So this is the culmination of your grotesque pursuits!” The third Shinagawa Shirō addressed him in Shinagawa’s voice, with Shinagawa’s easy familiarity. “Y-you call this...the culmination of grotesque pursuits?” “That’s right. “So this is where your grotesque pursuits lead you. “How about it? Did you get your fill?” “Satisfaction?”

“So, has your chronic boredom been cured?” “You call that boredom?”

“Heh heh heh, you’d forgotten your boredom, hadn’t you?” “You—the chronic boredom patient—had forgotten your boredom.” “This is nothing short of miraculous!” “And ten thousand yen for such a miracle must be considered reasonable.” “Wh-what? Ten thousand yen?”

“That ten thousand yen you gave to the Rogue Gentleman earlier.” “The Human Transformation Technique is nothing but a lie.” “We hired that young man with a face like a Noh mask to make the mad old man’s transformation technique look legitimate—that’s all there was to it.” “Oh... oh... I see.” “Then you’re also—” “Yeah—the bona fide Shinagawa Shirō! Shinagawa Shirō the science magazine president and pickpocket! Shinagawa Shirō who seduced your wife! Shinagawa Shirō who kissed a severed head! Hahahahaha! How about it? Ten thousand yen is a downright bargain, wouldn’t you say?”

Ainosuke sat there gaping, silent as a fool. “Do I need to spell it out?” “Seems it really is necessary.” “Listen—you’re a chronic boredom patient.” “You’d exhausted every grotesquerie imaginable—only genuine crime remained.” “Only murder was left.” “But you lacked the courage to cross that line.” “Count yourself fortunate you didn’t.” “Otherwise you’d be rotting in prison or swinging from gallows by now.” “What you couldn’t achieve—I accomplished masterfully.” “For both our benefits, you understand.” “You got to forget your ennui awhile, while I...” he drew out the pause like a blade unsheathing, “...relished every moment of hoodwinking a sharp mind like yours.”

Ainosuke’s eyes were still vacant. He was agonizing, trying to believe the unbelievable. “It was all just a trick. What that means is—first, the pickpocket in Kudan. That was me all along. I deliberately went up beside you and had someone call out to make it look like a case of mistaken identity. The wallet found in the stone wall wasn’t actually stolen by a pickpocket. It was nothing more than old wallets I had an antique dealer gather by purchasing them. The story about me having lunch with you at a Tokyo hotel and being filmed in a newsreel in Kyoto on the same day was also a lie. I had a film director I was on good terms with write that letter. I went all the way to Kyoto and blended into the crowd to appear in the film on a different day. This was also thanks to the same director’s goodwill. When you think about it, I’m quite the eccentric myself.”

“The infamous peeping incident in Kōjimachi was my greatest masterpiece. When you first peeked alone, the one prancing around like a horse was yours truly. You’d call that an exhibitionist, wouldn’t you? It was all a grand act. Unaware of this, when you invited me out and we peeked together, it was my double. Since the woman involved was the same, I had no trouble creating the atmosphere. Though the face was different, I hired a man whose physique was exactly like mine. Just try to remember. That man acted skillfully and never showed his face to you. You only saw parts of my body and my back view—my clothes were the same, and since the woman involved was also the same, you were skillfully deceived into an illusion. And then, bringing it all together—when I peeked, I pretended to come face-to-face with a guy who looked just like me and put on a show of trembling violently. So in the end, you were completely fooled, you see.”

Then there was the incident where two Shinagawa Shirōs' faces appeared side by side in the newspaper photograph. "That was simple too," he continued. "I bribed a photo department staff member at the newspaper company, skillfully pasted my face into the crowd, and had them make the original plate for the photoengraving. "No matter who's in the crowd, the news value remains unchanged, you see. "The newspaper company doesn't feel any sting from it. "That's why the photo department staff complied with my bribery."

“The mysterious house in Ikebukuro—that was the climax, wasn’t it? That was nothing more than an empty house. I borrowed it for a short while and set it up with various contraptions.” “The man you killed?” “Yes, that was also yours truly.” “And so I finally let you commit your long-cherished murder and treated you to the ultimate thrill.” “Hahahaha! You’ve gone completely blank, haven’t you?” “Can’t believe it?” “That pistol had blanks. I’d hidden a rubber bag filled with crimson liquid inside my shirt.” “When you fired, the bag would split open and gush out fake blood—that was the mechanism.” “That childish trick worked entirely because of the atmosphere.” “It was my artistic power that created the illusion.” “I think I’ve earned the right to feel a little proud of that, don’t you?”

That was truly an astonishing spectacle. While Aoki Ainosuke's penchant for the grotesque was one thing, Shinagawa Shirō's relentless and profoundly unsettling mischief could rather be called pathological. He had displayed a madman's obsessive meticulousness without restraint in orchestrating grotesque spectacles. Indeed, ten thousand yen had been a paltry sum. How desperately must the world's seekers of the grotesque have yearned for such an ideal impresario.

“That kiss with the severed head from back then?” “Hahahahaha—of course it was a magic trick.” “It wasn’t a severed head—I’d hidden the body under that platform to make it look like just the head was resting there.” “The bloody one, you see.”

“Wait.” “Hold on—Shinagawa-kun, if what you’re saying is true, there’s something that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Ainosuke woke from a dream and cried out in shock. "You deliberately avoided mentioning it, but there's the most crucial point." "You know what I'm talking about." Ainosuke's pale face twitched and convulsed. Indeed, he awoke from his bewilderment. He noticed a critical issue so grave that he could no longer remain oblivious.

“I know. It’s about your wife, isn’t it? You mean I did something to your wife? The whispers in Nagoya’s Tsuruma Park after dark—and that love letter your wife sent me.”

Even when Shinagawa Shirō stopped speaking, Ainosuke said nothing. He couldn’t speak. He simply stared at the man with eyes of desperate fury.

“Of course it was a trick.” “I can guarantee your wife’s chastity.”

“I want proof.” Ainosuke, with beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, demanded curtly, a single word.

“Evidence?” “Very well.” “First, regarding the love letter—that’s simple. It’s obviously a forgery.” “I imitated your wife’s handwriting quirks and wrote it myself.” “Just another childish trick, as usual.” “Then, the man having a rendezvous in Tsuruma Park—when you called out to him, he answered like it was mistaken identity, but that was indeed me.” “Since there can’t possibly be two people in this world identical to me.” “But rest assured.” “The woman wasn’t your wife.” “She was someone else who only resembled your wife from behind and in voice.” “I went through considerable trouble to find that woman.” “A café girl, you see.”

“Show me the evidence.” Ainosuke still couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it.

“Very well. The evidence has been 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, a tall, slender woman could be seen standing with her back turned.

“Ah, Yoshie…” Ainosuke stood up from his chair with a clatter and tried to dash in that direction. “You—take a good look.” “That isn’t Ms. Yoshie. … See? Right?”

The woman slowly turned toward them and calmly stepped into the room. Her figure from behind was identical to Yoshie's, but her face was completely different. She bore no resemblance to Ainosuke’s beloved wife, yet she too was a beauty. Ainosuke’s tension dissipated, and he collapsed back into the chair.

The woman had approached until she was right before him. Then, with a graceful bow, she revealed an adorable dimple and smiled enchantingly with her well-shaped rouged lips.