That was when Fukuzawa finally realized his thoughts were heading in a bizarre direction:
—Ranpo solving more difficult mysteries.
—Fukuzawa, right there with him.
“So we’re going to the station, right?”
Ranpo’s voice dragged Fukuzawa back into reality.
“I really wanna ride in the police car, but just thinking about doing paperwork and being interviewed is boring me to tears. I’m just gonna get in there and out in two seconds and go home. It’ll probably take forever to get it over with if you’re there, old guy, so I’ll go on ahead, okay?”
Fukuzawa didn’t reply.
“Hey, you listening? I’m leaving…?”
“…Hmm? Oh, okay.”
Ranpo looked up at Fukuzawa for a few moments.
“Oh? I see… Anyway, about ready to go, Officer?” Ranpo asked before patting the officer on the back.
Absurd. Working together with Ranpo from now on? Solving cases together? Absolute nonsense.
However, Ranpo was truly extraordinary. Somebody had to protect that talent and utilize it to its fullest potential. On the other hand, Fukuzawa had always been alone ever since that one incident. He didn’t need anyone’s help, and he didn’t feel the need to work together with others. To Fukuzawa, depending on others meant there was something he lacked. Deliberately ignoring his own shortcomings and relying on others would only warp who he was.
He could also become a demon that killed others if his allies so requested. He could hardly even imagine teaming up with someone, let alone creating an agency and becoming its leader.
Many people had witnessed Ranpo’s talents bloom today. Nobody was going to put him on phone duty or make him run errands at a construction site ever again. Whether it be for good or evil, somebody was going to use Ranpo’s talents and do something big. Perhaps the day would come when he would rise to the top of some group of thieves or an illegal organization. But that day wasn’t today; therefore, it had nothing to do with Fukuzawa himself.
“I’m going to discuss the aftermath with Ms. Egawa,” Fukuzawa said to Ranpo. “You go ahead to the station. Officer, take good care of him for me.”
“You got it,” the officer replied with a smile.
“Come on! Let’s go!”
Ranpo hopped over to the exit with mirth in his step, and Fukuzawa’s eyes were naturally drawn to him. All of a sudden, Ranpo stopped at the exit and turned around.
“Mr. Fukuzawa,” he said with a smile. “Thank you.”
And just like that, he got into the police car and left.
Fukuzawa went to see Murakami after that. The dressing room was being used as a temporary interrogation room. Inside were three guards and Murakami sitting in the center. When the actor saw Fukuzawa, he feebly smiled before lowering his head.
“I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever been handcuffed.” He showed the handcuffs around his wrists and smiled. “Everything’s an experience. This’ll only enrich my acting.”
Fukuzawa was both exasperated and impressed at the same time. It appeared that performers faced a fate incomprehensible to most.
“I have two or three things I want to ask you.”
“Be my guest.”
“I want to see the device that made the blade come out of your stomach.”
“Oh, that? It’s over there.”
Murakami pointed at the device with his chin. Leaning against the wall was a thin, cylindrical instrument that looked as if a sheet of metal had been bent into a circle. It was as thick as a human’s torso, with piano string–like wire with a loop on the end sticking out.
Murakami explained how he wrapped it around his waist and hid it under his clothes. Then he ran the piano wire through his costume and pulled it to tug the metal plate over his stomach open. The metal plate was thin, and its surface was finely polished, which was probably what made it look like a blade under the powerful lights. It was a rather simple device to understand after hearing how it worked. It was a device only a theatrical performer would have thought of due to his familiarity with how props appeared to the audience.
“The biggest hurdle was seeing whether it would fool the first person who came running over,” Murakami boasted with a smirk. “I knew you were used to seeing dead bodies, being a bodyguard and all. That’s why I was cheering on the inside when my acting fooled you. It’s an accomplishment I’ll be proud of for the rest of my life.”
And as a result, everyone in the crowd was deceived, and the police were utterly confused. Fukuzawa couldn’t blame him, especially since he wasn’t the type to lecture others. He simply said, “You’re hopeless.”
“You could say that again.” Murakami smiled.
“There is one more thing I want to ask you,” continued Fukuzawa. “It’s about the man in the suit who was tied up and unconscious. Who is he? Why did you do that to him?”
“Oh, that guy? I heard he’s…another one of the plan’s objectives,” said Murakami with a shrug.
“You ‘heard’?”
“Yes. Originally, I came up with this plan with the playwright, Kurahashi, but he apparently had his own goals in mind. I don’t know all the details…but apparently that man in the suit rarely ever shows himself, so meeting him was one of Kurahashi’s goals or something. I wasn’t expecting him to catch the guy and tie him up, though.”
“What?” Fukuzawa knitted his brows, at which moment—
“The suspect! Bring me the suspect!”
—what sounded like pounding footsteps was immediately followed by the door to the dressing room being thrown open. A slightly older detective stood at the doorway, trying to catch his breath.
“What happened?” asked Fukuzawa.
“W-Watchdog! We’ve got big trouble! Has the suspect been here this entire time?!”
“He’s been under surveillance the whole time, as you can see.”
Fukuzawa glanced at the nervous-looking actor, whose eyes were darting back and forth between Fukuzawa and the detective. It seemed he had no idea what was going on.
“The playwright—he was found dead in his home! Somebody killed him!”
“What?!”
The detective spoke while trying to catch his breath, his eyes shaking with fear.
“The door to his room was locked, and something impaled him from behind—but there was no weapon or any signs of a struggle at the scene! It’s like an invisible person just came in and stabbed him!”
Ranpo Edogawa sat in the back of the police car alone, idly gazing at the nightscape as it went by. The sun had disappeared before anyone even noticed. As darkness with hints of blue hung over the city of Yokohama, only white and yellow lights drew his eye as they drifted across the car window’s glass like rain. Ranpo stared at the city while resting his elbow on the door. The city’s night was bright. The countryside he grew up in didn’t have artificial light, and everyone would be getting ready for bed at this hour.
The city is so much better.
Ranpo was absorbed in thought. Boisterous and puzzling still beat out quiet and dismal in his book. He hated the countryside. He hated the people, the school, and essentially everything else there. The only thing he liked was his parents.
“Hey, Officer.” Ranpo suddenly struck up conversation with the young cop driving. “How much longer until we get there?”
“We’re almost there,” the officer answered with a bright, amiable tone.
“Oh,” Ranpo vaguely replied before returning his gaze to the city.
After glancing at Ranpo through the rearview mirror, the officer cheerfully said:
“You really impressed me today! Seriously, that deduction made me emotional! You’re a real mini detective! You and Fukuzawa make a great team together. I can already see your name in tomorrow’s morning paper!”
“Eh, what can I say? But I don’t think that old guy’s gonna team up with me.”
“Huh? Really? I totally thought yo
u two were—”
“He’s afraid of others,” Ranpo bluntly stated.
A few seconds of silenced passed through the car.
“Uh… That bodyguard guy’s supposedly a master martial artist. Plus, he’s known to be extremely scary… I heard even the police and military’s top brass get nervous when they meet him.”
Many members of police organizations hold qualifications in kendo and jujutsu. At times, their respect for masters of the art, be in a senior disciple or instructor, surpasses professional rank and position. Therefore, a martial artist of Fukuzawa’s caliber had quite a bit of influence in these organizations. In a sense, Fukuzawa was feared by both villains and police alike.
“It’s not quite the same. The old guy is afraid of something else.”
“Uh-huh… If you say so. You never cease to impress me. You just met Fukuzawa, and yet you’ve already seen right through him. I guess you can never underestimate the power of skill users, huh? What was it again? ‘The ability to uncover the truth’?”
“Yep,” confirmed Ranpo with a relaxed nod. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”
“Wait, wait, wait. Of course I do,” the officer replied in a panic. He then assumed a fake smile in a troubled manner. “Heh… I guess the cat’s out of the bag?”
“You wouldn’t even need to be a skill user to see through you. You mentioned that I had ‘just met Fukuzawa,’ which meant you called headquarters and found out that he and I first met this morning during the case of the murdered CEO. Why? Because you wanted to know how good I was.”
“I’m impressed. I underestimated you.”
“I don’t blame you. I don’t like being doubted, so…how about I prove to you that I’m a skill user?”
Ranpo pulled out a pair of black-framed glasses from his pocket—his priceless gift from Fukuzawa.
“Oh, are you sure? What a treat. Feels like I’ve got a front-row seat to the honored skilled detective’s show.”
Ranpo put on his glasses with a sigh, then looked out the window.
“This car isn’t going to the police station, is it?”
Silence. Ranpo and the officer exchanged glances through the rearview mirror until a few moments went by.
“Sigh. You got me,” admitted the officer as he scratched his cheek. “I should have mentioned it before, but I got a call over the radio earlier. They told me there was an accident and to bring the great detective with me.”
“I see,” said Ranpo. His tone conveyed no indication as to how he was feeling.
“But you wouldn’t need to be a skill user to guess that much, right? I mean, I’m not doubting you, though. I just thought that since the police station was near the train station, it would be pretty obvious that we weren’t going there.”
“You’re exactly right.” Ranpo grinned. “Shall we raise the bar, then? How about this? You’ll ask questions about today’s incident, and I’ll use my skill to answer. If I get stumped, you win. If I uncover all the mysteries, I win. How does that sound?”
“Oh, now we’re talking! It doesn’t matter whether I win or lose because this is going to be fun! There’s no reason for me to say no! Can I start?”
“Be my guest,” Ranpo said.
The officer then pondered to himself for a few seconds while tilting his head.
“I’m sure this is something everyone wanted to ask, but…” The officer tapped the steering wheel with his finger as he spoke. “Like, you remember that man in the suit who was tied up onstage? The one who used the fake name. How was he captured and carried to that spot behind the screen?”
“Using a rug,” replied Ranpo while pushing up his glasses with a finger. “There were a few long-haired rugs near the theater entrance, right?”
The officer looked up while rubbing his chin with a finger. “Oh… There were, now that you mention it.”
“After the panic, one of those rugs went missing,” claimed Ranpo. “The floor was bare, and there was a faint but strange smell coming from where the rug used to be. What’s that stuff called again? The stuff you find in paint and plastic that has that weird smell…”
“Organic solvent?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Ranpo nodded. “It was faint, but I smelled the same thing coming from the man who was tied up. In other words, the criminal wrapped that man up in the carpet and carried him there. The smell was probably coming from an adhesive. The criminal used a spray adhesive on the carpet to catch that suited man as he tried to escape. Then he used some drug to knock him out before rolling him up in the rug and taking him away. That man must be really good at running away for someone to go through that much trouble.”
“Hmm… Well, the stage was very hectic after the incident with ambulance crew and performers cleaning up blood and whatnot, so I guess if someone came walking through with a rug, they wouldn’t really stand out… But why? I know the accomplice was probably the one who carried him, but why would he go through all that trouble?”
“It wasn’t the playwright.”
“Huh?”
“The playwright didn’t even lift a finger. In fact…he was probably killed before the play even started,” Ranpo added as if it were obvious. A change came over the officer’s countenance.
“Th-that can’t… Then who?”
“Everyone—other than me, of course—is so stupid and foolish and oh so lovable for it, which is why I wanted to save as many people as I could,” Ranpo said as he languidly rolled his neck. “But there’s nothing I can do for people who die before I know the truth, and that includes that elderly man who was killed solely to deceive.”
“Elderly man…?” asked the officer.
“I’m talking about that poor elderly man who died at the hospital in Murakami’s place,” said Ranpo with a subtle lift of his brow. “When I was explaining how I solved the mysteries, I lied that Murakami probably switched out IDs with someone who just happened to be similarly injured like him. But wouldn’t that just be too convenient for something so important to the trick? It was unnatural. It wouldn’t make sense for someone who was elaborate and bold with his scheme to leave things to luck like that. They waited for the perfect moment to stab and kill that elderly man. Sigh… All that just to kidnap a single man?”
“Do you mean…the murder wasn’t the objective?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. This large-scale scheme was put together solely for the purpose of kidnapping that gentleman in the suit. It was one long, elaborate trap. The playwright and Murakami were being used as well. They’re nothing more than pawns, too… Now do you believe I’m a skill user?”
“I—I…”
Ranpo leaned toward the flustered officer. “So how about you just tell me where this car is really heading?”
He then brought his head to the side of the driver’s seat and whispered into the man’s ear:
“I can smell organic solvent on your clothes, Officer.”
“Why can’t you get ahold of him?!” roared Fukuzawa.
The second floor of the theater was being used as a temporary police station where they were holding a meeting.
“I told you, I wish I could, but they still haven’t arrived at the station. They should have had plenty of time to get there, though…”
Three officers were sitting in the theater’s conference room while exchanging information with their colleagues over the phone. The moment Fukuzawa heard that the playwright had been killed, he knew. The case still wasn’t over yet. If anything, this was only the beginning.
Because…
“There were two factors to this murder… You can think of it like a shrimp and a whale.”
Ranpo knew that from the very start. He knew there were two sides to this case. He figured out there was a greater, more sinister side to this other than the staged murder. The playwright was dead. This wasn’t a sham, but a real murder. Murakami had been clearly flustered ever since he heard the news. He was honestly confused and kept asking the police to explain things o
ver and over again.
Fukuzawa felt in his gut that this wasn’t an act. While he was nowhere near as talented as Ranpo when it came to observation and reasoning, Fukuzawa had sharp enough insight to see that Murakami’s fear was real. Even a famous performer like him had forgotten how to act. Regardless, the playwright’s house where he was found was rather far away from the theater, and Murakami had been under police surveillance ever since Ranpo finished his stage monologue. Timewise, it would have been physically impossible for him to go to the playwright’s house, kill him, and return to the theater before that.
Who was really the one pulling the strings?
Who was the real culprit?
According to Ranpo:
“It’d be easy to catch the shrimp…but if you want to get the whale, you’re gonna have to use the shrimp.”
He’d probably already figured out who the “whale” was. Murakami was obviously the shrimp. Ranpo implied that the shrimp was the mediocre part of this case. It made sense, though. Nobody died, and solving the case itself wasn’t that difficult, either. Even without Ranpo, Murakami wouldn’t have been able to live as a dead man and hide out for the rest of his life. The truth would have come to light.
But in the end, only half the case was solved. There was someone pulling the strings who used Murakami and the playwright for their scheme. The only person who could have answered that was dead. Now the only one who could follow the lost path to the real criminal…was Ranpo.
What if Ranpo’s sensationalized monologue onstage was all part of a bigger plan? What if his plan to catch the whale was still ongoing?
“What was the name of the police officer taking Ranpo to the station?” Fukuzawa asked.
“Jun Mitamura,” answered the detective, intimidated by Fukuzawa.
“Why can’t you reach him?”
“That’s odd… His cell phone is turned off. He isn’t answering his radio, either.”
The Untold Origins of the Detective Agency Page 16