Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination (16 page)

Also, there was another peculiar circumstance in this singular chain of events. After my first crime I chanced upon a surprising discovery, one which showed me how easy it would be to commit my next crime without any danger of detection.

One day I was making an entry for the day in his diary, copying his handwriting carefully. This was really a nuisance, but it had to be done, for it had been another of his daily habits. After writing a few lines, I compared the part written by me with a part written by him, and I was startled to find a fingerprint on one corner of the page; evidently it was my brothers.

For a moment the shock of the discovery stunned me, for I had overlooked this most important detail. Carelessly I had thought all along that the mole on my thigh was the only difference between my brother and me, and now I was stumped. What a fool I had been! Why, even a grade-school student knows that every person in the world has his own type of fingerprints, and I, of all people, should have known that even twins never have identical fingerprints! Now, at the sight of his fingerprint in the diary I was overcome by the fear that it might betray me.

Secretly I bought a magnifying glass and studied the smudge, which turned out to be a thumbprint. I stamped my own thumbprint on a piece of paper and compared the two. Upon casual observation, the two prints seemed very similar. But then I examined them closely, line by line, coil by coil, and detected many differences. I next secretly took the fingerprints of my "wife" and the maids for caution's sake, but they were so different that I didn't even need to compare them with the one in the diary. Assuredly, the one in the book was my brother's thumbprint. Since we were twins, it was natural that it resembled my own.

Thinking it would be a serious matter if any other fingerprints of this sort existed, I made an exhaustive search for more. I examined all the books, page by page, looked in the dust in every corner of the shelves, in the closets, the wardrobe, in fact in every conceivable place where his fingerprints might have been left. But I could find no others. This relieved me somewhat, but I was taking no chances. Quickly I tore the page out of the diary and was about to throw it into the charcoal brazier, thinking that if this single piece of evidence was destroyed, I would have nothing further to worry about. But then a bright idea suddenly struck me. It seemed to come like an inspiration—not from any angel, but from the devil himself.

Wouldn't it be very handy, I told myself, if I could make a cast of the thumbprint. Why, I could plant it on the scene of my next crime. . . and the ones after that. No one could remember the fingerprints of my actual self, so no one could tell whose they were. . . and the very fact that my own fingerprints would not match those of my brother's would establish my innocence. As for the police, they would have to search for the person who bore the fingerprints, not knowing that he was buried a good thirty feet under the ground.

This wonderful idea raised me to a seventh heaven of delight Why, I would be able to play the fantastic role of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in reality—and never be caught.

Putting my wicked plot into operation, I soon stole a large sum of money from the house of a friend and purposely left my brothers thumbprint. This was easy, for I once had some experience as a photoengraver, and of course I had made a block.

After this, whenever I was short of money for my merrymaking, I resorted to this means, and was never once suspected or apprehended. Intoxicated by my success, I continued to steal right and left, and as the law never seemed to catch up with me, I finally went to the extent of committing another murder'

Of this last crime of mine you must have read the records, so I'll not go into too much detail. Suffice it to say that I learned of a large sum of money in the possession of another friend—two million yen to be exact, reposing in his safe. When I further learned that the money was kept secretly as campaign funds for a political campaign, the setup seemed just about perfect.

After studying every detail, I stole into his house one night as my natural self—the younger brother. Creeping into the room where the money was kept, I opened the door of the safe with gloved hands and took out the bundles of banknotes. (I knew the combination because he had once opened the safe in my presence, trusting me because I—that is to say, my dead brother—was an old acquaintance.)

Suddenly the lights I had extinguished were turned on. Startled, I turned around and found the owner of the safe confronting me! Desperately, I snatched a knife out of my pocket and stabbed him in the chest. Groaning, he sank to the floor and, in a few moments, was dead. I strained my ears, but fortunately no one had been aroused by the sound of the brief struggle.

After recovering my breath, I took out the engraved thumbprint of my brother and dipped it in the blood that had been spilt on the floor. I then stamped it on the wall nearby, and after making sure that there was no other evidence, I ran away at top speed, taking every precaution against leaving any footprints.

On the following day, a detective paid me a visit. But this did not disturb me at all, for I was still confident that the trick would work again. He told me apologetically and politely that he had visited every person who must have known of the large sum of money in the safe of the victim. Furthermore, he said that a thumbprint had been left on the spot, that it had not matched that of any ex-convict, and that he was sorry to trouble me but he wanted me to let him have my thumbprint as I had also known of the money in the safe. "Merely a matter of routine," he assured me.

Laughing at him inwardly, I asked many questions as if to show that I grieved the loss of my friend, and then let him take my thumbprint. After the detective left, I immediately forgot all about him and hurried to my favorite merrymaking hangout with a well-filled purse.

Two or three days later the same detective paid me another visit. I found out later that he was a crack sleuth of the Metropolitan Police Board. When I casually walked into the drawing room, the detective looked at me with a peculiar smile. The next moment my head was swimming. . . swimming in a whirlpool of despair. Calmly, the man had placed a sheet of paper on the table, and when I looked, I saw what it was—a warrant for my arrest!

While I gazed at the paper, almost hypnotized with terror, he approached me quickly and handcuffed me. The next moment I noticed that a burly policeman had been waiting outside the door.

Shortly after, I was behind iron bars. However, I was naive enough to believe that I still had a chance. I was confident that they could never prove that I had committed the murder. But what a surprise awaited me! When I appeared before the procurator and heard his summation of the charges against me, I was pinned to the floor in open-mouthed amazement. I, who had always been so clever, had made such an absurd mistake that I was almost tempted to laugh out in self-mockery. Surely, this must have been my brother's curse!

How had I erred? Really, it was too foolish for words. The thumbprint which I had believed to have been my brother's was actually mine! The mark I had found in the diary was not a direct fingerprint but had been pressed there after I had once wiped my ink-stained fingers off. So it was the ink which remained in the shallow grooves between the ridges rather than the ridges themselves which had made the mark, producing a print like the negative of a photograph.

It had been such a careless mistake that I could hardly believe it was true. The procurator voluntarily told me of a case that had happened in 1913. He said that the wife of a merchant in Fukuoka was wantonly killed one day and that the police arrested a suspect. The fingerprint left on the scene of the crime and that of the suspect didn't seem to tally, although they looked very much alike. After being put off the scent completely, the police asked a specialist to study che prints scientifically, and at length, they were proved to be identical. The case had been the same as mine. The fingerprint on the spot had been the negative. But the expert, after close investigation, had reversed one of the photographs of the two fingerprints, changing the black to white—and the photographs then matched perfectly, thus proving the case.

Now I have told you everything. I beg you, Father, to make the facts known, especially to my "wife," for only then will I be able to climb the thirteen steps to the scaffold on steady feet.

      
RED
                 CHAMBER

T
HE SEVEN GRAVE MEN, INCLU
ding myself, had gathered as usual to exchange bloodcurdling horror stories. We sank into the deep armchairs, covered with scarlet velvet, in the room which had been dubbed the "Red Chamber" and waited eagerly for the narrator of the evening to begin his tale.

In the center of the group was a large, round table, also covered with scarlet velvet, and on it was a carved bronze candelabrum in which three large candles burned with flickering flames. On all sides of the room—even over the doors and windows—heavy red-silk curtains hung in graceful folds from ceiling to floor. The flames of the candles cast monstrously enlarged shadows of the secret society of seven on the curtains in hues dark like that of blood. Rising and falling, expanding and contracting, the seven silhouettes crept among the curves of the crimson drapery like horrible insects.

In this chamber I always felt as though I were sitting in the belly of some enormous, prehistoric beast, and thought I could even feel its heart beat in a slow tempo appropriate to its hugeness.

For a while all of us remained silent. As I sat with the rest like one bewitched, I unconsciously stared at the dark-red shadowy faces around the table and shuddered. Although I was perfectly familiar with the features of the others, I always felt chills creep down my spine whenever I studied them at close hand, for they all seemed perpetually unexpressive and motionless, like Japanese Noh masks.

At last, Tanaka, who had only recently been initiated into the society, cleared his throat to speak. He sat poised on the edge of his chair, gazing at the candle flames. I happened to glance at his chin, but what I saw seemed more like a square block of bone—without flesh or skin— and his whole face was akin to that of an ugly marionette strangely come alive.

"Having been admitted to the society as an accredited member," Tanaka suddenly began without any introduction, "I shall now proceed to contribute my first tale of horror."

As none of us made any move or comment, he quickly launched forth into his narrative:

I believe [he said] that I am in my right mind and that all my friends will vouch for my sanity, but whether I am really mentally fit or not, I will leave to you to judge. Yes, I may be mad! Or perhaps I may just be a mild neurotic case. But, at any rate, I must explain that I have always been weary of life. . . and to me the normal man's daily routine is—and always will be—a hateful boredom.

At first I gave myself up to various dissipations to distract my mind, but unfortunately, nothing seemed to relieve my profound boredom. Instead, everything I did only seemed to increase my disappointment the more. Constantly I kept asking myself: Is there no amusement left in the world for me? Am I doomed to die of yawning? Gradually I fell into a state of lethargy from which there seemed to be no escape. Nothing that I did—absolutely nothing—succeeded in pleasing my fancy. Every day I took three meals, and when the evening shadows fell I went to bed. Slowly I began to feel that I was going stark raving mad. Eating and sleeping, eating and sleeping—just like a hog.

If my circumstances had required that I hustle for my daily living, perhaps my constant boredom would have been relieved. But such was not my luck. By this I do not mean to imply that I was born fabulously rich. If this had been the case, then again there might have been a solution to my problem, for certainly money would have brought me thrills in plenty—orgies in luxurious living, eccentric debaucheries, or even bloody sports as in the days of Nero and the gladiators—so long as I could pay the price. But, curse my luck, I was neither destitute nor rich, just comfortably well-off, with funds sufficient to ensure only an average standard of living.

To any ordinary audience I would at this point enlarge upon the tortures of a life of boredom. But to you gentlemen of the Red Chamber Society I know this is unnecessary. Assuredly it was for the very purpose of banishing the specter of boredom that has haunted you, as it has me, that you formed this society. Therefore I will not digress but continue with my story.

At all times, as I have stated, I wrestled with the all-absorbing question: How am I to amuse myself? On some occasions I toyed with the idea of becoming a detective and finding amusement in tracking down criminals. At other times I pondered the possibilities of psychic experiments, or even of eroticism. How about producing obscene motion pictures? Or better still, how about private pornographic stage productions with prostitutes and sexual maniacs for the cast? Other ideas which occurred to me were visits to lunatic asylums and prisons or, if permission could be gotten, the witnessing of executions. But for one reason or another none of these ideas appealed to me very strongly. To put it another way they seemed like a soft drink offered to a dipsomaniac who is thirsting for gin and absinthe, cognac and vodka, all in one glass. Yes, that was what I needed—a good stiff drink of amusement—real soul-satisfying amusement.