by Soji Shimada
“Nothing. But why don’t you take a look for yourself?”
“I’ll do that.”
“There is one thing—the doll, Golem; its hands are constructed in a curved shape as if it were gripping something. I thought the knife could have fitted into one of its hands. I gave it a try.”
“What? You’re quite the detective, aren’t you? Talk about an overdeveloped sense of curiosity! And, what did you find?”
“A perfect fit. Like putting a dummy into a baby’s hand.”
“Ha! Well, you certainly have an eye for the ghoulish. But no matter how you look at it, it has to be a coincidence, no?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“But so much in this case has gone wrong or drawn a blank, the lack of alibi for the Kanais in Room 9 seems to be the only thing left that we can be sure of. At least that is not going to turn out to be a let-down, is it?”
Ushikoshi sounded as if he were trying to console himself. The three detectives lapsed into silence.
“Sorry? Ozaki, do you want to say something?”
Ushikoshi had noticed the junior detective fidgeting.
“Well, sir, the thing is, I’ve kept quiet about it up till now…”
“What is it?”
“It’s a difficult thing to admit, but last night after I left the salon to go to bed, I just couldn’t get it out of my head that the only people who had already gone to bed besides Okuma and myself were Kikuoka and the Kanais, and I began to wonder if they might be up to something while everyone else was still in the salon. So I went to each of their rooms and just under the doorknob, I used some hair oil to stick a hair across the space between the door and the wall. If the door was opened, the hair would get pulled off. I’m sorry that it wasn’t a very mature thing to do. I’m a bit embarrassed—”
“What are you talking about? It was inspired! Did you do the same with any of the other rooms?”
“I didn’t do any of the rooms where there was no way to come out except through the salon. I limited it to the rooms where you could get out without being seen. As for the other people staying in the west wing—Sasaki, Togai and the house staff—I planned to do the same with their doors, but they stayed up so late that I’m afraid I fell asleep before I could do it.”
“What time did you stick the hair on those doors?”
“Right after I told you that I was going to bed. So around a quarter past or twenty past 10.”
“Hm. And then?”
“I woke up once and went to check on those two rooms.”
“And what did you find?”
“The hair on Kikuoka’s door had come off. The door must have been opened at some point. But the one on the Kanais’ door…”
“Was?…”
“…Still there.”
“What?”
“The door hadn’t been opened.”
Ushikoshi looked down at floor. He seemed to be biting his lip. Then he raised his head and glared at Ozaki.
“Congratulations. You’ve just destroyed the last shred of hope in this case. Now I truly give up.”
SCENE 8
The Salon
The morning of the 28th of December dawned without further incident. It was a very minor victory for the detectives. Nothing had happened in the night, but they could hardly claim it was because of their presence…
The increasingly bitter occupants of the Ice Floe Mansion had begun to notice that the expert detectives with their airs didn’t seem to know any more about what was going on than they did. Of the three nights they had spent in the mansion since the evening of the Christmas party, there had been a murder committed on two, one of which the killer had impudently pulled off right under the noses of several police officers. And the bitter truth for these experts was that, beginning with the time of death, fingerprints and all the usual clues, all they’d managed to confirm was that there was absolutely nothing to go on.
Finally, the sun went down on what seemed to the guests a very long day, and to the detectives much too short. It was evening and both parties were called for dinner. They sat themselves without much enthusiasm around a table laden with the usual lavish food.
As the guests joined them, conversation began to dry up, which seemed to bother Kozaburo Hamamoto. He tried to keep up a jovial front, but everyone felt the absence of the gravelly voiced man with his exaggerated compliments.
“I’m so sorry that what was supposed to be a fun Christmas holiday has turned into something so dreadful,” said Kozaburo, after dinner was over. “I feel truly responsible,”
“No, please don’t feel that way, Mr President,” said Kanai from the next seat. “You have absolutely nothing to feel responsible for.”
“It’s true, Daddy. You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
Eiko’s normally shrill voice came out closer to a shriek. This was followed by a few moments of silence. It was Chief Inspector Ushikoshi who decided to pick up the conversation.
“We’re the ones who should accept responsibility.”
There was resignation in his voice. But Kozaburo continued speaking.
“There is one thing I am determined to avoid, and that is any kind of secret whispering among us about the identity of the killer. If amateurs like us get started on trying to solve these crimes, then the relationships between us will be destroyed.
“That said, the police do seem to be having a lot of trouble solving the crime, and we really do all hope for a swift conclusion to this awful matter. Is there no one here who has noticed something, or has some kind of wisdom that they can share with these detectives?”
Hearing this, the three detectives’ expressions turned sour and their body language became defensive. Perhaps it was the detectives’ behaviour, but nobody in the room took Kozaburo up on the idea. He decided a few more words might be appropriate.
“Sasaki, you’re usually very talented at solving this sort of riddle.”
“Well, I have come up with a few ideas.”
He’d clearly been waiting for this moment.
“How about it, gentlemen?” said Kozaburo.
“We’d like to hear them,” said Ushikoshi, without much enthusiasm.
“Well, first of all, the locked room in the murder of Kazuya Ueda, I think I can solve that mystery. It was the shot-put.”
There was no reaction from the detectives.
“That shot-put had string wrapped around it, with a wooden tag attached. The string had been extended, probably by the killer, and clearly for the purpose of creating that locked room. The latch—the type that moved up and down like a railway crossing gate—was propped up with that tag, stuck to the latch with Sellotape. Then the shot-put at the other end of the string was placed on the floor by the door, and when the killer closed the door behind him, because of the sloping floors in this mansion, the shot-put rolled away until the string was pulled tight and the wooden tag peeled away. And then of course the latch dropped and the door was locked.”
“Ah, of course!” said Kanai. Togai looked as if he had just swallowed something nasty. The detectives nodded wordlessly.
“Well, Sasaki, do you have anything else for us?” asked Kozaburo.
“I do have something, but I haven’t thought it all the way through yet. It’s the other locked room, Mr Kikuoka’s room. I don’t think it’s completely impossible to achieve, because it wasn’t really a completely locked room. There’s a hole for ventilation—small, but still an open space. The killer could have stabbed him with the knife, then balanced the coffee table on top of the sofa, securing it with a cord, and then attached it somehow to the en suite bathroom knob, and out through the vent hole. Then he’d have let it go from the corridor, and the table would fall off the sofa so that one of its legs pushed the button on the inside of the door—”
“Obviously, we’d already thought of that,” snapped Ozaki. “But there are no marks anywhere on the door frame or in the wall where a pin or staple or anything was used. And that method wo
uld require a huge amount of cord. There’s no kind of rope or cord like that anywhere in this house, or in anyone’s possession.
“What’s more, the suspect had absolutely no idea when the Hayakawas might come down to the basement. To set up a trick like that would take more than five minutes; probably ten. And anyway, the way you just described it includes setting three different locks. It would take even longer than that for sure.”
Sasaki didn’t respond. And this time the silence was much more uncomfortable than before. Kozaburo decided to try to break the tension.
“Eiko, let’s listen to some music. Put a record on.”
Eiko got up and soon the gloomy air of the salon was filled with the sound of Wagner’s Lohengrin.
SCENE 9
The Tengu Room
By the afternoon of the 29th of December, the residents of the Ice Floe Mansion were sprawled around the salon, listless. It felt like the waiting room for condemned prisoners. Today’s sense of fatigue had been created by the previous days’ excess of nervous tension and fear. But boredom too was setting in.
Seeing the atmosphere in the room, Kozaburo proposed showing the Kanais and Kumi his collection of mechanical dolls and automata that he’d brought back from Europe. He’d already shown them to Michio Kanai and Kikuoka back in the summer, but Hatsue and Kumi were yet to see them. He’d intended to invite them to view everything much earlier, but all the fuss had distracted him from his plan.
Kozaburo had a lot of Western dolls in his collection, and he imagined that they would interest Kumi. Eiko and Yoshihiko were tired of seeing everything, so they chose to stay behind in the salon. This meant that Togai also decided to stay. Sasaki was interested in antiques, so although he’d also seen everything several times already, he decided to tag along.
A few days previously when Kumi had been on her way to be interviewed in the library, she had glanced through the window of the Tengu Room. It had given her a bad vibe, but today she reluctantly agreed to go anyway, ignoring the vaguely bad premonition she had as they set out.
Kozaburo Hamamoto, along with Michio and Hatsue Kanai, Kumi Aikura and Sasaki took the west stairs up to the door of the Tengu Room. As she had done the previous time, Kumi looked in through the window, the only one in the house that overlooked an interior corridor rather than the exterior. It was a huge window, giving a view of the whole room.
The window stretched all the way from the south wall corner to about 1.5 metres shy of the doorway, a total width of about 2 metres. It could be slid open about 30 centimetres from either the left or right side, leaving either or both sides open. That’s how all the glass doors of the cabinets in this room were usually slid open too.
Kozaburo got out a key and opened the door, revealing that no matter how much of an impression you could get of the room by viewing it through the window, it wasn’t until you stood inside that you could really take in the spectacle. First of all, right by the doorway stood a life-sized clown. It had a cheerful smiling face, but a rather depressing, musty smell.
There were all kinds of other dolls in the room, both large and small, all a little threadbare. They had aged, and looked almost on the point of death, but their youthful expressions were still intact. Their grimy faces with their peeling paint seemed to Kumi to be concealing some kind of vague madness. Either standing or sprawling in a chair, each one smiled faintly with some kind of unfathomable emotion. They were suspiciously quiet, looking like something you’d see in the waiting room of a psychiatric hospital in your worst nightmare.
As if their flesh had gradually been stripped away over time, the paint of their faces had peeled and scabbed over, exposing a little of the craziness inside. The part that had decayed the most were the smiles on their red, peeling lips. By now they didn’t even seem to be smiling any longer—these dolls had the most enigmatic look of pure evil. Their smiles had the power to send an instant chill through anyone who looked at them. Decomposition—that was the perfect word for it. The smile that had been on the faces of these cherished dolls had transmuted, decomposed. There was no better way of putting it.
A deep-seated grudge. They’d been brought into the world by the whimsy of human beings, but then not permitted to die for a thousand years. If the same thing were inflicted on our bodies, the same look of madness would appear on our faces too. Ever in search of revenge, our madness would grow in intensity, fed by the grudge we harboured.
Kumi let out a small but genuine scream. However, it was nothing compared to the residents of this room whose mouths were permanently poised on the edge of a scream.
The south and east walls were completely red with Tengu masks, with their huge long noses and fiery eyes that glowered at the room’s doll occupants. It seemed to the guests that the Tengus’ job was to stifle the screams of the dolls.
Hearing Kumi scream seemed to put Kozaburo in a cheerful mood.
“Well, this place is as amazing as ever,” said Michio Kanai, and Hatsue nodded with great enthusiasm. But this kind of small talk felt out of place in the heavy atmosphere of the room.
“I’ve always wanted to set up a museum, but I was always so busy with work. In the end, this display room is all I was ever able to put together.”
“It’s already a museum,” said Kanai.
Kozaburo gave a little laugh.
“Well, this is, anyway.”
He opened one of the glass cases and took out a small figurine, about fifty centimetres tall, of a boy sitting in a chair. The chair had a little desk attached to it, and the boy had a pen in his right hand; his left rested on the desk. He had a sweet expression on his face, and this figurine lacked the visible wear and tear of the other dolls.
“He’s so cute!” said Kumi.
“It’s a clockwork doll, or automaton, known as The Writer. It was made in the late eighteenth century. I heard about it and went to great pains to get hold of it.”
The assembled guests made various admiring sounds.
“Did it get its name because it can actually write words?” asked Kumi, sounding a little scared.
“Of course. I think it can still manage to write its own name. Would you like to see?”
Before Kumi had a chance to respond, Kozaburo tore off a sheet from a memo pad and slipped it under the doll’s left hand. Winding the spring in the doll’s back, he gave its right hand a gentle nudge. The doll’s right hand began to make awkward, jerky movements which started to leave marks on the memo paper. There was a small clacking sound that must have been the grinding of the cogs inside.
Kumi was relieved to find the movements delightful rather than menacing. Even the occasional change in pressure of the doll’s left hand on the paper was charmingly realistic.
“That’s adorable! But at the same time a little bit scary.”
Truth be told, everyone present was feeling slightly relieved. No one had been sure what to expect.
The doll was only able to write a tiny bit. It came to an abrupt halt with both hands just above the desk. Kozaburo removed the paper and showed it to Kumi.
“Well, it’s over two hundred years old, so it’s not surprising it’s not as good as it used to be. Can you make out the letters M, A, R, K? This boy’s name is Marko so he almost got his full name down.”
“Signing autographs, just like a celebrity!” said Kumi.
“Yeah, I’m sure there’ve been plenty of celebrities who couldn’t write more than their own name,” said Kozaburo with a grin. “Apparently he used to be able to write much more, but this is his whole repertoire now. I guess he must have forgotten his alphabet.”
“His eyesight’s probably failing with age, if he’s really two hundred years old.”
“That’s a good one,” said Kozaburo. “Maybe I’m the same way. But at least I’ve given him a ballpoint pen to use. The pen he used to have was much harder to write with.”
“How wonderful! If you don’t mind my asking, is it worth a lot of money?” said Hatsue.
“I don’
t think you can put a price on it. It’s something that could easily belong in the British Museum. If you’re asking me how much I paid for it, I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I wouldn’t like to shock you with my total lack of common sense.”
“Ah!” said her husband.
“But if we’re talking money, this piece here was even more expensive. This is The Dulcimer Player.”
“Did it come with that desk?”
“It did. The mechanics are hidden inside.”
The Dulcimer Player was a noblewoman in a dress with a long skirt, seated in front of what looked like a miniature grand piano. Both were attached to the top of a beautiful mahogany desk. The doll itself wasn’t particularly large, probably no more than about thirty centimetres.
Kozaburo must have operated some sort of hidden device, because all of a sudden the noblewoman’s hands began to move and music filled the room.
“She’s not really playing, is she?” said Sasaki.
“No. That would be too complicated to design. I suppose you could think of this as a very elaborate music box. A music box with a doll attached. It’s the same principle.”
“But the music isn’t that tinkling sound you get with a music box,” Sasaki pointed out. “It’s much more rounded and mellow than that—there’re not only high notes but low ones too.”
“Yes, it sounds more like bells to me,” said Kumi.
“Probably because the box itself is so large. And unlike the little boy, Marko, she has quite a wide repertoire. About the number of tunes on one side of a long-playing record.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s a masterpiece from the French rococo period. And this one here is German-made from the fifteenth century. It’s called Clock with Nativity Scene.”
Kozaburo showed them an elaborate metal clock in the shape of a castle. On the top was the Tower of Babel, and the T-shaped pendulum hung from a spherical rendition of the cosmos with the baby Jesus at its centre.