Malice: A Mystery

by Keigo Higashino

  But he didn’t back down. Instead, he said something unexpected. “Of course I don’t expect you to sit down right now and write something. But surely you could go find something you’ve already written? That wouldn’t be so hard.”

  “I don’t have anything else written. You’ve already seen everything.”

  “Don’t be coy with me. What about that stuff you wrote for the school magazine?”

  “What, that?” I said, truly surprised. “I don’t have any of those anymore.”

  “Bull.”

  “It’s the truth. I got rid of them a long time ago.”

  “See, I don’t believe you. Writers always hang on to their drafts and stories. If you insist, I’d be happy to search your house for them. I’m sure it won’t take long. You’ve probably got them all stashed on a bookshelf or in a desk drawer.” He stood and went into the next room.

  I panicked. All of my early stories were in spiral-bound notebooks on my bookshelf.

  “Wait a second,” I called out. “It won’t do you any good. I wrote those stories when I was a student. The writing’s a mess, the plot structure is all over the place. They’re certainly not the work of an adult writer.”

  “Let me decide that for myself. Besides, I’m not looking for finished works. Just some raw material that I can polish into a salable product. After all, An Unburning Flame wouldn’t have been one for the literary history books if I hadn’t given it my touch.”

  I couldn’t understand how he could be so proud about stealing my work.

  I told him to wait on the sofa and went into the next room. Eight of my old notebooks were on the top shelf in my office. I chose one. At that very moment, Hidaka entered the room behind me.

  “I told you to wait.”

  Without a word, he stepped up, snatched the notebook out of my hand, and quickly leafed through the pages. Then he glanced over at the bookshelf and quickly grabbed the remaining notebooks.

  “Trying to trick me, were you?” He grinned. “You picked the notebook with your rough draft of A Circle of Fire, didn’t you? Did you think you could brush me off with that?”

  I bit my lip and looked down at the floor.

  “Whatever. I’ll be taking these. All of them.”

  “Hidaka.” I looked back up at him. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Has the well of your talent run so dry that you feel compelled to steal something I wrote as a student?”

  I wanted my words to hurt, even if only a little. It was the best attack I could muster.

  And my words did have an effect. Hidaka’s eyes flashed and he grabbed me by the collar. “You have no idea what it’s like to be an author!”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But I can say this. If it means having to do what you’re doing, I don’t want to be an author.”

  “What happened to the dream?”

  “I woke up.”

  He let me go. “You’re probably better off for it,” he muttered under his breath, and left the room.

  “Wait, you forgot something.” I picked up the envelope with the 2 million yen in it and held it out to him.

  His gaze shifted between my face and the envelope for a moment; then he shrugged and took it.

  His serialized novel began two or three months later. I read it, realizing it was based on one of my stories. However, by that time I suppose I’d given up—or at least, I was ready for it, because it didn’t come as the same sort of shock the first two books had. I’d already given up ever becoming an author in my own right, so the thought that at least my stories were out there and being read made me glad.

  I still received the occasional call from Hatsumi. In our conversations, she would disparage her husband and apologize to me. Once, she said, “If you ever decide to turn yourself in for what happened, I will gladly share whatever punishment comes.”

  I realized she was telling me this because she knew Hidaka was holding our relationship over my head and she wanted to give me a way out. I almost wept with happiness. Even if we hadn’t seen each other for a long time, I felt as though our hearts were still connected.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I told her. “I’ll do something. I’ll find a way out of this.”

  “But you’ve already gone through so much.” I could hear her crying on the other end of the line.

  I tried consoling her, but the truth is, I didn’t know what I was going to do. My promise to find a way rang hollow even to my ears, and it made me miserable.

  Whenever I think back on that time, I’m filled with regret. I wonder why I didn’t do what she suggested. If we’d turned ourselves in, my life would be entirely different now. At the very least, I would not have lost the thing most important to me in this world.

  I learned of the accident in the newspaper. Because she was the wife of a bestselling author, the article was more prominent than a typical accident report.

  I don’t know how deeply the police investigated, but I never heard anyone suggest that Hatsumi’s death was anything other than an accident. Yet, from the first moment, I knew that it wasn’t. She took her own life. I need hardly say why.

  In a sense, I killed her. If I hadn’t gone mad and tried to kill Hidaka, none of this would have come to pass.

  Call it nihilism, but at the time I was barely alive. I was just going through the motions, an empty shell. I didn’t even have the strength to follow Hatsumi into death. I fell ill and was frequently absent from work. Hidaka, however, kept writing. In addition to the novels he wrote using my work as a basis, he also turned out a few originals. I never bothered to find out which of the novels received more praise.

  Roughly half a year after Hatsumi’s death, I received a package in the mail. The large envelope contained about thirty printed pages. I thought it might be a story, yet when I started reading it, I realized it was something far more sinister. It appeared to be a journal written by Hatsumi, woven together with an account by Hidaka. The journal section described Hatsumi’s falling into a special relationship with a man she called N (myself), with whom she eventually conspired to kill her husband. Hidaka’s account described in unemotional terms the sorrow of a husband who comes to realize his wife has stopped loving him. Then came the attempted murder. Up to that point, I believe everything was more or less the truth, but what followed was clearly fiction, merely invention. Hatsumi was portrayed as deeply regretting her mistake and begging for forgiveness. Hidaka, in turn, spends long hours talking with her, and together they decide to try again. Just when things are looking up for the couple, Hatsumi has an unfortunate accident. The story ended with her funeral. As a piece of fiction, it wasn’t bad. For some readers, it might even have been moving.

  I was speechless, and confused. What was I supposed to make of this?

  That night, Hidaka called. “You read it?”

  “What’s this all about? Why did you write this?”

  “I was thinking of giving it to my editor next week. It’ll probably appear in the magazine next month.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you know what this would do?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” he said, utterly calm.

  “If you write that, I’m telling the truth.”

  “What truth is that?”

  “You know as well as I do. That you stole my work.”

  “Did I now?” he said, entirely unfazed. “And who would believe that? You don’t have any proof, do you?”

  “Proof?” I gasped. How would I prove he had stolen my work when he had my notebooks? I had copies of my two novels—the ones he’d plagiarized—on my word processor, but what would that prove? That was when I realized that the death of Hatsumi meant the death of the only witness to all that had happened between Hidaka and me.

  “Of course, if now doesn’t work for you, I don’t have to give that story to my editor tomorrow. I could always wait for a better time.” I got what he was aiming at before he actually said it. “Fifty pages. Give me a story fifty pages long, and I’ll turn that over to
my editor instead.”

  This, then, was his plan. To create a situation in which I’d be forced to write for him. And I had no way to resist. I couldn’t let him publish those journal entries. For the sake of Hatsumi’s memory, I couldn’t.

  “When do you need it by?” I asked, my voice flat.

  “Next weekend.”

  “This is the last time?” It was only half a question at best, and he didn’t even bother to respond.

  “Let me know when you’re done.” He hung up.

  That was the day that I became Kunihiko Hidaka’s ghostwriter. Since then, I’ve written seventeen short stories and three novels for him. These were the computer files the police found.

  I’m sure if he’s reading this, Detective Kaga must be wondering why I didn’t put up more of a fight. To be honest, I’d grown weary of the constant psychological warfare between Hidaka and me. It seemed easier to just write what he needed and, by doing so, keep my past with Hatsumi private.

  Oddly enough, over the next two or three years, the relationship between Hidaka and me developed into that of genuine collaborators. He introduced me to a publisher of children’s literature because he had no interest in the genre. He also probably felt a little guilty by then. Finally, one day, he said the words I’d been waiting to hear.

  “Once this next novel’s done, you’re free to go. Our working relationship is over.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Really?”

  “Really. But I only want you writing books for kids. Stay out of my territory. Understood?”

  I thought I was dreaming. One last book and I would be free.

  A short while later, I understood the reason behind Hidaka’s change of heart. His marriage to Rie was in the works and they were considering moving to Vancouver. In packing up his things, Hidaka clearly wanted to jettison some of his other baggage as well.

  I believe I was looking forward to the day the newlyweds moved to Vancouver even more than they were.

  Then the day arrived. Bringing a disk with the next installment of The Gates of Ice on it, I headed to Hidaka’s house. This would be the last time I handed him a computer file. Since I didn’t have a computer, after he moved to Canada I would have to send the rest of the manuscript by fax. Once The Gates of Ice was done, so were we.

  Hidaka was in high spirits when I handed him the disk. I let him rattle on about his new place in Vancouver before asking, “You’ll be giving me my things back today, right?”

  “What things?” Even though there was no way he’d forgotten, it wasn’t in Hidaka’s nature to make anything easy.

  “My notebooks. You know the ones.”

  “Notebooks?” He made a show of not understanding, then said, “Ah, I remember. Sorry. It’s been a while since I looked at them.”

  He opened up the drawer to his desk and pulled out eight spiral-bound notebooks.

  I clutched the prodigal notebooks to my chest. This, I thought, made us even. Now I would be able to prove his plagiarism.

  “You look happy,” he said.

  “I guess I am.”

  “Great. Though I wonder—why do you want those notebooks back so badly?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? These prove that those books you wrote were based on my stories.”

  “See, that’s the thing.” He smiled again. “Couldn’t someone interpret it the other way around? What if you read the books I published, and then wrote your versions in those notebooks based on them?”

  “What?” A shiver ran down my spine. “Is that how you’d try to spin it?”

  Hidaka looked surprised. “Why would I have to explain myself to anyone? I suppose, if you were to show those to a third party, I might have to say a few words in my own defense. It would be up to that third party to decide whom to believe. Not that I want to argue with you about this now, but I want you to understand that having those notebooks doesn’t give you an advantage over me—not in the slightest.”

  “Hidaka”—I glared at him—“I’m not your ghostwriter anymore—”

  “I know, I know. The Gates of Ice is the last one. That’s fine.”

  “So what’s this all about then?”

  “Nothing. Just remember: there hasn’t been any change in where things stand between us.”

  When I saw the cold smile on his face, I understood. He had no intention of ever letting me go. When the time came that he needed me, he would use me again.

  “Where’s the tape and the knife?” I asked.

  “What tape and knife?”

  “Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh those. I have them in a safe place. Only I know where.”

  At that moment, a knock came at the door. Rie poked her head in and told us that Miyako Fujio was there.

  I think Hidaka agreed to see her because he wanted an excuse to shoo me out of his office.

  Concealing my anger, I said good-bye to Rie and left the house. She saw me only as far as the door, as Detective Kaga so astutely figured out.

  Once outside, I went around to the garden and over to Hidaka’s office window. Then I hid beneath the window and listened while he spoke to Miyako Fujio. As I expected, he was vague and noncommittal in response to her complaints. Of course, considering that the novel she had a problem with, Forbidden Hunting Grounds, was one I’d written, there wasn’t much of substance he could say about it.

  Eventually, Fujio departed, obviously irritated. Rie left for the hotel immediately afterward, and Hidaka stepped out of his office, apparently to go to the bathroom.

  Thinking that this was my chance, I made up my mind to go after him—to end it once and for all. If I didn’t act immediately, I might never be free from Hidaka’s clutches.

  It was my good fortune that the window was unlocked. Sneaking in, I waited behind the open door, the brass paperweight clutched in my fist.

  I don’t need to describe what happened next in detail. Suffice it to say, as soon as he walked in, I hit him in the back of the head as hard as I could. He crumpled to the floor. I then strangled him with the phone cord, just to be sure.

  What happened from there was just as Detective Kaga surmised. I created an alibi using Hidaka’s computer. The trick I used was one I’d thought up while plotting out a young-adult mystery novel. Yes, that’s right—it was a trick intended to fool children. Go ahead and laugh if you like.

  Still, I prayed that it would be good enough to eliminate me as a suspect. I prayed that my earlier attempt to murder Hidaka wouldn’t come to light. That’s why I asked Rie to let me know when Hidaka’s videotapes were returned from Canada.

  Yet Detective Kaga was efficient in uncovering all of my secrets. His keen powers of deduction are impressive, as much as I might loathe them. Not that the detective is in any way to blame.

  As I wrote at the beginning of this confession, I was startled to find that the tape bearing the evidence of my folly had been kept in a hollowed-out copy of Sea Ghost. Sea Ghost is one of the few novels Hidaka wrote himself, and as I’m sure the reader of this account is aware, the scene within the novel describing an attempt on the main character’s life by his wife and her lover was based on actual events. I believe that the image of me coming in through the window was the clue that guided Detective Kaga to the truth. Even in death, Hidaka persevered in his efforts to destroy me, and finally he’s succeeded.

  Now I’ve said all there is to say. I’m afraid I concealed my motive because I wanted to hide the truth about Hatsumi. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, but I hope this account helps you understand how I felt.

  I am prepared to accept whatever punishment I am due.

  6

  THE PAST (PART ONE)

  KYOICHIRO KAGA’S NOTES

  May 14

  Today, I visited the middle school where Nonoguchi taught until recently. Classes had just let out, and the front gates were thronged with students on their way home. Out on the sports field, a few kids were raking the track.

&nb
sp; I checked in at the front office and asked if I could speak with any instructors who’d been close to Mr. Nonoguchi. The woman in the office went to talk to another teacher before both of them went back to the teacher’s office. The wait was annoying, but I remembered that this was the way things typically worked at public schools. After a wait of almost twenty minutes, they finally brought me to a meeting room.

  I met with the school headmaster, a man named Eto, and another man, Fujiwara, who taught composition. I assumed that the headmaster was there to make sure that Fujiwara toed the school-board party line.

  I first asked the two men whether they’d heard about Kunihiko Hidaka’s murder. They had and, in fact, knew quite a bit of detail. They told me that they knew Nonoguchi had been Hidaka’s ghostwriter and had heard that his resentment over this was Nonoguchi’s motive for killing him. I got the distinct impression they were eager to hear even more gritty details from me.

  I asked if they’d ever noticed anything out of the ordinary during the time that Nonoguchi had been working as a ghostwriter.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Fujiwara said, “I knew he was writing novels. I’d even read some of his stuff in a children’s magazine. But, no, I had no idea he was a ghostwriter. Especially not for a famous author like Hidaka.”

  “Did you ever witness Mr. Nonoguchi writing anything?”

  “No. He kept to his teaching duties while he was at school, so I think he was writing at home, after work, or on the weekends.”

  “Would you say his teaching load was light enough for him to be able to do that?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that his load at school was particularly light. But he was very clever at getting out of any extracurricular activities at school, and he did go home early every day. Particularly beginning in the fall of last year. It was, well, that he was in poor health, though we never found out exactly what the problem was. I think everyone let him coast on that a bit. Evidently, he was using that extra time to write Kunihiko Hidaka’s novels! Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”