A down train was scheduled to come along those tracks in half an hour. In the dark, and with the rock lying on the other side of the curve, it would be impossible for the engineer to notice it. After I had thus set the stage for my crime I hurried to Kumano-Taira Station—I knew the walk would take me over half an hour—dashed into the stationmaster's office, and blurted out: "Something terrible has happened!"
All the railway officials looked up anxiously and asked me what I meant.
"I'm a visitor at the spa here," I said, breathing heavily. "I was taking a walk a short while ago along the edge of the cliff above the railway line about four miles from here. Accidentally I stumbled and kicked a rock off the cliff down onto the tracks. Almost immediately I realized that if a train passed there, it would be derailed. So I tried desperately to find a path down to the spot so as to remove the rock, but as I am a stranger in these parts, I could find no way down. Knowing there was not a moment to be lost, I came here as fast as my legs could carry me to warn you. Surely you people can do something to avert a catastrophe."
When I had finished talking the stationmaster paled. "This is a serious matter," he gasped. "The down train just passed this station. By this time it must already have reached that spot!" This, of course, was exactly what I had expected to hear.
Suddenly the phone rang, but even before anyone picked up the receiver, I knew what the report would be. Yes, the worst had happened! The train had jumped the tracks, and two of the coaches had overturned.
Soon I was taken to the village police station for questioning. But my deed had been perpetrated only after long and careful deliberation, so I had all the answers ready. After the interrogation I was released. I had, of course, been severely admonished, but that was all.
So, with just one rock, I had succeeded m taking the lives of no less than seventeen persons in just that one "accident."
Gentlemen, the grand total of the murders I have so far committed numbers ninety-nine. Rather than being penitent, however, I have only become bored with my festival of blood. Today I have but one desire, to make the score an even hundred. . .by taking my own life.
Yes, you may well knit your brows, after hearing of all my cruel acts. Surely not even the devil himself could have surpassed me in villainy. And yet, I still insist that all my wickedness was but the result of unbearable boredom. I killed—but only for the sake of killing! I harbored no malice toward any of my victims. In short, murder was, for me, a sort of game. Do you think I am mad? A homicidal maniac? Of course you do. But I do not care, for I believe I am in good company. Birds of a feather, you know. . . .
On this cynical and insulting note the narrator concluded his disgusting story, his narrow, bloodshot eyes gazing suspiciously into ours.
Suddenly, on the surface of the silk curtains near the door, something began to glitter. At first it looked like a large, silver coin, then like a full moon peering out of the red curtains. Gradually I recognized the mysterious object as a large silver tray held in both hands by a waitress, magically come, as if from nowhere, to serve us drinks. For a fleeting moment I visualized a scene from Salome, with the dancing girl carrying the freshly severed head of the prophet on a tray. I even thought that after the tray there would appear from out of the silk curtains a glittering Damascene broad-sword, or at least an old Chinese halberd. Gradually my eyes became more accustomed to the wraith-like figure of the waitress, and I gasped with admiration, for she was indeed a beauty! Without any explanation, she moved gracefully among the seven of us and began to serve drinks.
As I took a glass I noticed that my hand was trembling. What strange magic was this, I pondered. Who was she? And where did she come from? Was she from some imaginary world, or was she one of the hostesses from the restaurant downstairs?
Suddenly Tanaka spoke in a casual tone, not at all different from the voice he had used to tell his story—but the words he uttered startled me.
"Now I will shoot you!" were the very words he spoke, having first drawn a revolver from his pocket and aimed it at the girl.
The next instant our cries of surprise, the explosion of the revolver, and the piercing shriek of the girl all seemed to merge. All of us leapt from our seats and lunged at the madman. But then we stopped in our tracks. There, before our eyes, was the woman who had been shot, alive and well, but with a blank look on her face.
"Ha! ha! ha!" Tanaka suddenly burst out laughing in the hysterical tone of a madman. "It's only a toy, only a toy. Ha! ha! You were taken in nicely, Hanako. Ha! ha!. . ."
Was the revolver, then, only a toy, I wondered. From all appearances, it had certainly looked real—with the smoke curling out of the muzzle.
"What a start you gave me!" the waitress cried. She then tried to laugh, but her voice sounded hollow. As for her face, it was as white as a rice cake.
After a moment she went up to Tanaka hesitantly and asked to examine the weapon. Tanaka complied, and the girl looked at the pistol closely.
Oh, it certainly looks like the real thing, doesn't it?" she exclaimed. "I had no idea it was only a toy." In a playful gesture she suddenly pointed the six-chambered revolver at Tanaka and said: "Now, I'll shoot you and return the compliment."
Bending her left arm, she rested the barrel of the revolver on her elbow and aimed at Tanaka's chest, smiling mischievously.
Instead of showing fright, Tanka only smiled. "Go on, shoot me!" he said teasingly.
"Why not?" the girl retorted, laughing.
Bangi Again the loud explosion seemed to split our eardrums.
This time Tanaka rose from his chair, staggered a couple of steps, and then fell to the floor with a thud. At first we only laughed, although we felt that the joke was becoming stale. But Tanaka continued to remain stretched out on the floor, perfectly still and lifeless, and we again began to feel restless. Was it another of his tricks? It was hard to tell, for it was all uncomfortably realistic, In spite of ourselves, we soon knelt down beside him, although we did not exactly know what to do.
The man who had been sitting next to me took the candelabrum from the table and held it up. By its light we found Tanaka sprawled out grotesquely on the floor, his face contorted. The next moment we got the worst fright of all when we saw his blood oozing out of his chest, dripping onto the floor to form a pool.
From all these indications, we quickly surmised that in the second chamber of the revolver, which he had passed off as only a toy, there had been a real bullet. For a long while we stood there, dumbfounded.
Gradually, I began to reason. Had this all been part of Tanaka's program for the night from the very start? Had he actually been carrying out his threat of ultimately taking his own life to make his score of killings an even hundred? But why did he choose this Red Chamber as the scene for his final deed? Had it been his intention to pin the crime on the waitress? But certainly she was innocent, for she had not known the pistol was real when she shot him.
Suddenly, I began to see the light. Tanaka's favorite bag of tricks! Yes, that's what it was! Similar to all his other crimes, he had used the waitress to murder him, and yet had made sure that she would not be punished. With six of us as witnesses, she would, of course, be exonerated. Reasoning thus, I knew that I could not be wrong. The "super-killer" had killed for the last time. Each of the other men also seemed to be wrapped in deep meditation. Plainly, I could read their thoughts as being the same as mine.
An eerie silence fell over the company. On the floor the waitress, who had unwittingly become a murderess, was weeping hysterically beside the body of her victim. In all aspects, the tragedy which had occurred in the candle-lit Red Chamber seemed altogether too fantastic to be a happening of this world.
All of a sudden a strange voice drowned out the waitress's loud sobs. With an icy chill creeping down my back, I stole a glance at Tanaka, and this time I nearly fainted. Slowly, the "dead man" was staggering to his feet. . . .
In the next tense moment, the "corpse" broke the suspense by bursting int
o laughter, holding his sides as if to prevent himself from splitting. He then turned to us and said mockingly: "You are indeed a naive audience!"
No sooner had he spoken than another surprise was in store for us. This time the waitress, who had been sobbing on the floor, also got to her feet and began to shake with convulsions of laughter. Rubbing our eyes, we automatically, like robots, returned our gaze to Tanaka.
"What—what happened?" I asked sheepishly. "Are we all bewitched?"
In answer Tanaka said: "Look at this." Still chuckling, he held out a nondescript reddish mass on the palm of his hand and invited us to examine it. "It's a small bag made of the bladder of a cow," he explained. "A few moments ago it contained tomato ketchup and was planted inside my shirt. When the girl fired the blank cartridge, I pressed the bag and pretended to be bleeding. . . . And now, one more confession. The complete life story which I related this evening was nothing but a mass of fabrications from beginning to end. But you must admit I was a pretty good actor. You see, gentlemen, as I had been informed that you were all suffering from boredom, I merely tried to give you some excitement. . . ."
After Tanaka had explained all his tricks, the waitress who had served as his accomplice suddenly pressed the wall-switch. Without warning, a blaze of lights caught all of us huddled in the center of the fantastic room, blinking foolishly at each other. For the first time since joining the group I realized how artificial everything looked in our so-called room of mystery. And as for ourselves, we were just a bunch of fools. . . .
Shortly after Tanaka and the waitress bade us goodnight, we held a special meeting. This time, no stories were told. Instead, we unanimously agreed to disband.
CRIPPLED
MEN
A FTER EMERGING FROM A STEAM-ing hot bath the two men settled down to a quiet game of Japanese chess, but after they had completed one long-drawn-out session they shoved aside the chessboard and drifted into conversation. Soft winter sunlight warmed the eight-mat room, lighting up its luxurious paper screens. In the large charcoal brazier, carved out of paulownia wood, before which the two men sat cross-legged on silk cushions, a silver kettle sang cheerfully, the mellow notes drifting out into the landscape garden like a lullaby intended for the baby sparrows dozing on the pine branches.
It was an utterly calm afternoon—monotonous, with nothing happening, but completely restful—and the men's wandering conversation gradually turned to memories of the past. Saito—who was the guest—began by launching into an account of his harrowing experiences in the Battle of Tsingtao during World War I. While his voice droned on and on like the humming of insects, Ihara—the host —listened attentively, from time to time rubbing his hands above the fire in the brazier. During brief lulls in the story the distant song of a nightingale was heard faintly, like musical interludes specially provided to bridge the silences.
When he spoke Saito's badly disfigured face was horrible to look at; and yet, as he unfolded his thrilling tale of bravery, his grotesque features strangely suited him. He suddenly pointed to a twitch on the right side of his face and explained that it had been caused by splinters from an enemy shell.
"But," he said, "this is not my only reminder of those hectic days. Look! Just look at the rest of my carcass!" With these words, he stripped to the waist and displayed his old scars.
"And to think," he sighed, concluding his tale, "that in my youth I was quite a handsome lad, with a heart overflowing with romantic ambitions. Today, alas, it is all over with me!"
For a few moments Ihara made no comment Instead, he raised his teacup to his lips two or three times in succession, the deep furrows on his brow indicating that he was lost in thought. The Battle of Tsingtao! Ah, what bloody, tragic times. . . . But he too had been crippled like the other—for the remainder of his life, never more to walk erect, never more to be loved except out of pity! Comparing himself with the other, his friend, Ihara was filled with envy. For one thing, the other had won his scars with honor! As for himself. . .the very thought of his own history sent cold shivers running up and down his spine. Suddenly he looked up and met Saito's eyes gazing intently into his own.
"Well, Ihara," Saito remarked, "now it's your turn. I don't believe you've ever told me the story of your past."
Ihara moistened his lips with green tea; then he cleared his throat.
"I would hardly call it a story," he began. "Rather, it is more of a confession. However, compared to your exploits, I fear my words will prove exceedingly dull."
"Nevertheless, I insist on hearing them," Saito said, his eyes lighting up with keen interest.
Ihara caught the gleam in the other's eyes, and for a split second he was startled. He fancied that somewhere, at some time in the past, he had caught that same look, that same flicker of the eyelashes. They had met only ten days ago. Could it have been since then, or wasn't it much, much further in the past?
Ihara was truly mystified. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he suspected some supernatural reason for his having met the other at this inn ten days ago, for their having immediately struck up so close a friendship. He just couldn't seem to convince himself that their chance meeting was merely a coincidence. . .that two crippled birds should just happen to come together. There was, however, one thing of which he was absolutely certain: he had met the other somewhere before. But exactly where. . .and under what circumstances? This nagging feeling of vague recognition puzzled him. Possibly they had played together as children. . .or possibly. . .
"I'm still waiting to hear your story," Saito suddenly broke in.
"I was merely trying to arrange all the data in my mind before beginning. You must remember that this is the first time I've ever attempted to tell my story to any living soul." Thus Ihara began his strange narrative, while the other leaned forward in the attitude of one anxious not to miss even a single word.
I was born [Ihara recalled] the eldest son of a shop keeper in the town of Onuki. From the very start my parents indulged me too much, and I think this is why I acquired such a weak character in my childhood. In primary school my failings were quickly recognized, and before long I found myself two classes behind my original classmates. Gradually, however, I seemed to recover from my lethargy.
Thus the years sped by, and I eventually came to Tokyo to enter Waseda University. Blessed with fairly good health, and eager to succeed in my studies, I found life in the big city far more pleasant than I had originally anticipated. True, I experienced many inconveniences living in cheap lodgings, but taking all daily vicissitudes gaily, I enjoyed rather than brooded over my lot as a struggling student.
Looking back on those early days, I realize now that they were actually the best years of my life. At any rate, I had hardly been in Tokyo for a full year when a most disturbing incident look place.
[At this point Ihara shivered slightly, but it was not from cold. Saito dropped a half-smoked cigarette into the brazier, his eyes not once leaving the face of the narrator.]
One morning [Ihara continued] I was getting ready to go to school when a friend who lived in the same lodging house entered my room. To my surprise, he slapped me on the shoulder and complimented me on my "eloquent oration of the night before."
Deeply puzzled by his words, I said: "What do you mean by my 'eloquent oration? I don't know what you're talking about!"
My friend put his hands on his hips and roared with boisterous laughter. "Come now, don't be so modest," he shot back. "Don't you remember last night? You burst into my room long after I had gone to bed, woke me up roughly, and engaged me in a complicated argument. Surely you remember. I don't think you were drunk."
"Surely you must be mistaken," I quickly replied. "As far as I know, I didn't even go near your room last night, much less engage you in any debate."
"Oh, stop pulling my leg," the other answered. "You know perfectly well that you came to my room last night to argue, even quoting freely from the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle. In any event, I didn't come here to complai
n of your conduct, but to tell you that your argument impressed me deeply. In fact, after you left, some of the statements you made lingered so long in my mind that I couldn't go back to sleep. As a result, I sat up reading and then wrote this postcard." My fellow-lodger waved a written postcard in my face, asking if he could possibly have written it unless someone had awakened him after he had gone to sleep.
I agreed that he couldn't, but after he left I felt confused and unhappy. This was indeed a disturbing turn of events if ever there was one, for as sure as I sit here now, sane and human, I had not the slightest recollection of having made any oration the night before. A few minutes later I went to the university, still deeply perplexed.
In the lecture hall, we were waiting for the professor to arrive, when somebody suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. Wheeling around, I saw my fellow-lodger.
"Do you happen to have the habit of talking in your sleep? he asked casually. This remark of his startled me, because during my grade-school days I had indeed had such a habit.
"I—I did once," I quickly replied, "but not any more. People have told me that I sometimes acted queerly as a child, often seeming to be in a trance. And my parents say I used to talk in my sleep, and that when someone playfully engaged me in conversation while I was deep in slumber, I would reply—clearly and sensibly—but would not remember anything the following morning. No one, however, seemed worried about this; even the doctor who was consulted stated definitely that it was not a cause for any alarm. 'Just a slight case of sleep-talking, a slight touch of somnambulism' was his diagnosis. Naturally, I was much talked about in the neighborhood, because sleepwalking is a little unusual, but gradually, as I grew up, these nocturnal conversations grew less frequent, until finally it seemed that I was cured."
After listening to my story, my companion observed that possibly I had started again. "Now that you mention somnambulism," he said, "I do recall that you seemed a little odd last night. For example, your face was a complete blank, and your eyes were staring. The pupils of your eyes were dilated, but when I brought the lamp close to you they contracted quickly. Also, sometimes, your eyes were partly or entirely shut, flickering open only briefly as if you were registering your surroundings in your mind with photographic clarity,"
Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination Page 13