“Sigh… Nothing matters anymore. Looks like I lost my chance at getting a job here. Plus, it’s not like I could work somewhere you have to be punctual, too. That’s boring.” Ranpo idly kicked at the lobby’s floor, but a long-haired mahogany rug covered the area close to the entrance where they were, so it didn’t make much of a sound. “Besides, someone’s about to die, so this theater’s gonna go out of business.”
A few passersby looked back, startled, and a chill ran down Fukuzawa’s spine. It was far too dark for a child’s joke. An adult should have reprimanded him, but Fukuzawa didn’t even move a muscle. It wasn’t Ranpo’s bad manners that unnerved Fukuzawa.
“After all, you’re the one who killed her, Mr. Secretary.”
Ranpo’s tone was exactly the same as it was then. Fukuzawa looked at Ranpo. He behaved as if nothing were out of the ordinary as he curiously looked back at Fukuzawa.
“Am I wrong?”
“…Nobody is going to die,” Fukuzawa finally replied. “That’s why I’m here. Neither the police nor the performers believe this threat is real. The reason why someone threatened the troupe wasn’t important.”
“It isn’t a threat.” Ranpo wore a displeased expression. “It was an announcement. A threat is when you say, ‘Stop doing this, or I’ll do that,’ right? You get two choices with threats. But this just said they were going to kill the performers. This was an announcement—a declaration, even. That’s why the criminal is going to be here and kill someone. They aren’t seeking anything from the troupe because all they want is for their target to die.”
Fukuzawa groaned.
Ranpo was completely right. The criminal’s objective was extremely ambiguous. Any ordinary threat would have clarified the criminal’s principles. Stop the play. Apologize. There would have been some sort of demand. But the threat this time, what Ranpo referred to as a declaration, didn’t have that.
“An angel shall bring death, in the truest sense of the word, to the performer. —V.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” asked Fukuzawa.
“What good would that have done?” Ranpo replied as if he was offended. “You’re all adults. Do something about it yourself. What good is asking a kid what he thinks is going to happen? Besides, everyone gets mad when I state the truth.”
Was he talking about everything that had happened to him since he came to Yokohama? There was darkness in his eyes.
“Seriously, adults don’t make any sense to me.” Pouting, Ranpo started kicking the rug he was standing on with the ball of his foot. “If a kid like me was able to figure it out, then surely you and the police already noticed a long time ago, right? My mother never got tired of telling me, ‘You’re still just a kid.’ And I agree with her. I really don’t understand what adults are thinking. Sometimes I even doubt they know anything, but that’s not even possible.”
“You’re still just a kid.” Of course you don’t understand adults. Because adults are smarter than you.
Is that what she meant? It’s not hard to understand why Ranpo’s parents drilled that into his head, at least to a certain degree, and yet…
“So you think adults also pick up on things you notice?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
Fukuzawa’s head was spinning.
It was then he realized he was facing something bigger than ever before. He was overwhelmed by the sheer size.
This kid didn’t know anything. He had no idea that most people have no idea what’s going on.
He was like this ever since they first met. He accused the secretary of murder and saw right through Ms. Egawa. Even now, his eyes saw far more than any adult, Fukuzawa included. However, Ranpo still hadn’t realized that what he saw was only visible to him and him alone. He was still immature in that sense.
Only after growing do people learn that others are different—that people may be looking at the same things but perceive them differently. In fact, even some people well into their adulthood often forget that. They assume everyone thinks the same as they do, which often leads to conflict. That was what it meant to be human. Ranpo, still naive, may have fallen into that trap, but he did not deserve to be blamed. Nevertheless, Ranpo was an extreme case. Although he possessed such extraordinary powers of observation, he didn’t think he was special.
Why? Was it his parents’ fault? Was it because he lived a sheltered life with parents who had minds that rivaled his?
Fukuzawa could no longer ignore that itchy feeling. It was curiosity. He wanted to know just how talented this kid was.
“Hey, kid. What do you know about me?”
“Huh?” Ranpo made a strange face. “What do you mean? We just met, old guy. I don’t know a thing about you.”
“Anything’s fine,” assured Fukuzawa. “Just tell me what you know or what you noticed. If you exceed my expectations, I’ll help you find your next job after this. How’s that sound?”
“Uh…? Adults really like making deals, don’t they?” Ranpo reluctantly nodded. “Fine. But seriously, we just met, so I’m gonna know way less about you than most people, okay?”
Ranpo was probably the only one who thought that.
“Just give it a try.”
“Hmm…” Ranpo crossed his arms before continuing. “You’re in your early thirties. A bodyguard. You’re a master of the martial arts; after all, you threw down an assassin like it was nothing. You’re single. You work alone. Right-handed. When you sat down at the café, you unconsciously made sure to sit with the wall to your right, so you used to practice swordsmanship as well. After all, if the wall was on the left side, you wouldn’t be able to swiftly draw your sword if something happened. You sat where the entrance was visible, which shows me you’ve seen your fair share of carnage in your lifetime. The reason why you barely make any noise even while walking on the hard theater floors is that you’ve trained for street and indoor combat. And the reason why you started to walk with one eye closed a little before we went through the unlit service entrance was so that you could immediately see your surroundings the moment you stepped into the darkness. In other words, you’re trained for ambushes in dark places.”
Fukuzawa could feel his body gradually get colder. He slowly lost the feeling in his toes. His throat dried and tensed up as his palms began to sweat.
“You have a good reputation as a bodyguard, but you haven’t been in the business long. A bodyguard’s job is to protect people, so you wouldn’t need to sneak around in the dark without making a sound. You quit your previous job, but you weren’t working in the shadows to kill people for money like that hit man from earlier. You made that clear when you didn’t show any real emotion when you talked about assassins. Plus, you didn’t seem to be on your guard when you talked to the police. That’s why your previous job wasn’t some sort of illicit, shadowy gig. But you don’t use a sword anymore, despite it being your area of expertise, and that’s because you did something you’re ashamed of at your last job.”
Fukuzawa felt an intense pain in his chest. His throat was so dry he could scarcely breathe. Everything was flickering red and black.
“But what kind of job where you use your sword to ambush people would be both lawful and shameful? Come to think of it, a few years ago there was a lot of dispute over the cease-fire agreement. Some war hawk bureaucrats were advocating for maintaining and expanding the front line. But one by one, they were found dead along with the leaders of the foreign military parties who backed them up. I noticed you grimaced at the newspaper stand when you saw the follow-up article on it, which makes me wonder—”
“Shut up!”
Fukuzawa exploded. As if his spirit were physically gushing into the room, the glass shook, the lights clicked, and a theater employee walking in the distance let out a slight yelp. Martial arts masters employed a similar phenomenon when they attacked with their chi. Being right next to him, Ranpo took the brunt of Fukuzawa’s unconscious yet fiery attack. After being pushed back a few steps, Ranpo fell
on his rear as he if had been hit with a large invisible mallet. He blinked, still sitting, with a perplexed expression. The master class–level chi energy attack had knocked him unconscious for a second. Fukuzawa suddenly returned to his senses, albeit startled.
“Sorry… You all right?” He approached Ranpo and helped him up.
“Buh…?”
Ranpo was still idly blinking. Fukuzawa was overcome with a sense of shame. It was inexcusable for a martial arts master to use what could be considered condensed bloodlust on an ordinary person. It was evidence of just how disturbed Fukuzawa was. He never thought he would be this upset. It was something he had already come to terms with; it was a past he had already cut ties with. The only ones who knew the truth were his past comrades.
It wasn’t an act of evil. The mayhem probably would have gone on without Fukuzawa’s blade, thus leading to thousands of more victims. But it was a shady job that must never see the light of day. Everyone involved in Fukuzawa’s work was a high-ranking government official, but he hadn’t contacted them since then. Every one of them had kept their mouth shut about the incident, and Fukuzawa had planned to take this secret to the grave. And yet, a boy he had just met saw right through him—very easily at that.
“Don’t…talk about that,” Fukuzawa finally managed to say. “I get it now. You’re the real thing.”
No secrets were safe in Ranpo’s presence, but he had no idea he was special, which was exactly why this wasn’t the time to be getting worked up. There had to be a way to get Ranpo to recognize his abilities; Fukuzawa would need to think of something.
Just then, a bell rang over the intercom, signaling that the performance was to start in five minutes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin. Please come inside,” said the worker in front of the door.
“Come on.”
Fukuzawa grabbed Ranpo, whose eyes were still glazed over, and headed toward the door to the auditorium.
He would have Ranpo observe the stage. The boy might be able to figure something out that way.
Thoughts raced through Fukuzawa’s jumbled mind. He still felt on edge. Having his secret known startled him, and he was taken aback by Ranpo’s powers of observation. But was that it? It was as if something else lurked in the depths of Fukuzawa’s uneasiness—something he was in no place to deal with right now.
The show started the moment Fukuzawa and Ranpo took their seats, front row center. The seats were too close to the stage, which made them far from fit for theatergoing. But Fukuzawa chose them because they were nearest to the stage in case he needed to rush over to protect a performer from an attack. Ranpo sat next to him. His legs were trembling while he idly stared off into space, as if he was still shaken up from earlier.
The theater seated roughly four hundred people. Looking around, almost all the seats were filled. The audience was a mix of ages and genders, but the biggest demographic by and large were women in their twenties.
As the chime sounded and the curtains rose, the show finally began. Fukuzawa had already read the script, so he knew what the play was about.
The death threat said, “An angel shall bring death, in the truest sense of the word, to the performer.” The use of the word angel was probably not a coincidence or joke. After all, this play was a story about an angel.
Fukuzawa thought back to the script. If the play were summarized in one phrase, it would be: a story about an angel who murders. It was a story in which each of the twelve characters are killed by the angel one after another.
The characters killed in the story have no idea they are being massacred by an angel because there is nothing unique about the ways they are murdered: stabbed with a knife, a fatal fall, strangulation, poison. Furthermore, nobody ever sees any of the murders take place; they simply die one by one. Therefore, the characters have no idea if they are being supernaturally judged by an angel or murdered by a serial killer.
One of the characters posed an idea. “If it was an angel, they would use the divine blade in their hand. There would be no reason for them to wait until someone is alone to kill them in some physical manner.” That’s why he claims that one of the twelve characters is a serial killer who is making it seem like the killer is an angel.
Another character said: “If this was the work of man, then that would mean the killer was one of us. But that’s impossible. There is no reason for us to kill one another. The angel would have a motive, though. We are sinners who disobeyed the angel, and it is an angel’s job to purge those who have done evil. To look at it from another perspective, all twelve of us are the same. We have all sinned, and we are connected through our fear of the angel. What would killing a fellow runaway help?”
The protagonist, Murakami, was like a leader who kept them together. Standing on the stage, Murakami yelled out, “O Lord, we have sinned. You have clipped us of our wings and left us on this planet to punish us. Wasn’t that enough to atone? Why must we suffer such cruelty?”
The twelve sinners were also angels in the past. They admired humans and sought to coexist with them, which enraged God so much that he stripped them of their powers and banished them to earth as humans. The play was titled The Living World Is a Dream, the Nocturnal Dream Is Reality. The plot involved former angels banished from the celestial world and rendered mortal who gathered at an old theater to earn God’s forgiveness.
During all of this, the twelve characters were killed one after another, so they tried to uncover whether it was an angel killing them or one of their fellow men. In a sense, it was a mystery story as well. Between the mystery parts, it focused on the relationships among the characters, their love, and their hatred. The former angels worked together as lovers, siblings, and enemies, but at the same time, they doubted one another. They wandered the old theater, wondering if their brethren could be the killer. Their goal was to find a certain skill user who lived there.
“What’s a skill user?” Ranpo suddenly asked.
Fukuzawa hesitated for a moment, but not because he didn’t know how to explain that skill users weren’t very well-known to the public. It was the middle of the performance—they’d stick out like a sore thumb if they started talking in the first row.
“You’ll see” was the only thing he ended up saying.
What was unique about this play was that it mentioned the existence of skill users. Revealing their existence wasn’t prohibited, but there was a darkness that surrounded it. Due to the war, the number of skill users legally working decreased, and most of them either disappeared from public eye or started working for an underground organization. In addition, there was a government agency managing domestic skill users, so broadcasting the existence of skill users could become a problem. Not many people knew of their existence outside of rumors and fairy tales; thus, a play that included one of them was an anomaly. Due to these circumstances, the skill user was depicted in good taste but as total fiction.
One skill per person.
Some could freely use their skill, while others were uncontrollable and happened automatically.
While some people were born with skills, others suddenly developed theirs.
Skills do not always make the possessor happy.
The characters in the play were searching for a skill user who fit these rules. One after another, their fellows disappeared. They grew suspicious of one another, but they continued wandering the theater in search of that one ray of hope, for that one skill user was the only one who could forgive them of their sins.
During the play, it was explained that skill users were former angels who were once kicked out of the celestial world but allowed to return. They would get back a small portion of their unlimited powers and be allowed to stand before God again. They were new angels who finished atoning for their sins—skill users.
Fukuzawa couldn’t help but think about this creative interpretation. He had encountered countless skill users due to the nature of his work. The assassin who killed the secretary was m
ost likely one as well. There would be no way he could have made that shot with his arms tied behind his back and a sack on his head otherwise.
If he was an angel who was atoning for his sins, then the heavens were going to be chaos. Regardless, it was clear that the person who wrote the script knew about skill users and probably had hoped to accomplish something by making it into a play.
Was that somehow related to the death threat?
A murderer who referred to themselves as V…
A play about the search for a skill user…
Fukuzawa’s gaze wandered among the crowd. Not a single soul opened their mouth as their eyes were glued to the stage. They forgot to make expressions. They even forgot who they were as they gazed intently at the play. The power of performance was making the audience forget they were there—taking them somewhere far away. The audience had come all the way here and paid for the event. They knew it would happen; that was why they came. Everyone let the drama, the eccentric script, and the breathtaking acting, especially Murakami’s, take them away as they temporarily left their bodies behind.
But Fukuzawa couldn’t allow himself to do that. Leaving his body behind now would lead to trouble. He focused his attention and stared at the crowd.
Surely the enemy wasn’t shamelessly sitting there with the audience, but acting like a customer to sneak in was common. Fukuzawa casually looked behind himself as he sat in the front, searching for someone acting suspicious or getting out of their chair for no good reason during the act.
Straining his eyes in the darkness, he saw someone every now and then who wasn’t necessarily suspicious, but who didn’t seem to be very enthusiastic. A mother and her child. A young couple. An old man scowling. A middle-aged woman dozing off, having succumbed to her fatigue. A man wearing an overcoat who seemed to be focusing on the theater itself rather than the actors on stage.
The Untold Origins of the Detective Agency Page 11