Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination (21 page)

Another person who testified was my father, who came up specially from our home town to try to save me from hanging. I remember that he hired three lawyers for my defense.

Other witnesses for the defense were my friend Kimura —the very person who first discovered that I was a somnambulist—and several of my classmates. Even now, my heart goes out in gratitude to these staunch friends, for they spared no effort on my behalf.

As was to be expected in so complicated an affair, the trial which eventually got under way dragged on and on, with the prosecution and defense waging a bitter struggle. Fortunately for me, however, the testimony of the many witnesses for the defense was so convincing that I was finally handed the verdict of
not guilty.

But, you are sorely mistaken if you think even for a moment that this verdict restored my peace of mind. Now, although I was declared innocent, the murder still remained to be solved. Who had done it? Inside my tortured mind a terrifying voice kept repeating: "You are a murderer! You are a fiend! You have cheated the rope, but you cannot escape your own conscience!"

As soon as I was free, I went home with my father, and shortly afterward, I fell desperately ill. Had it been a physical ailment, I would no doubt have soon recovered. But this was something different—a mystic mental disease for which there seemed to be no known cure. Finally, after six months, I managed to get up, but all the time I knew, and so did my family, that I was no longer normal. Instead I was a man without a soul—a mental cripple destined to live the remainder of my life in anguish and misery. Thus did my normal life end.

Soon after, my younger brother succeeded my father as head of the family, while I continued to live on as a parasite, always dependent upon the labor, compassion, and resources of others. In this way, twenty miserable years have dragged by—and today I am the monstrosity that you see before you—seemingly normal outside, but a hideous cripple inside. Compared to the ugliness of my mental structure, Mr. Saito, I consider your physical features to be positively handsome.

The narrators face broke into a smile, and he repeated: "Yes, you're handsome, my good man. Compared to me, you're handsome!" Caught by the ironic humor of his own statement, Ihara broke into an eerie laugh. After a while, however, he quieted down and drew the tea things nearer to him. "Forgive me," he apologized, noticing the other's frowning. "I was not laughing at you—no one but myself can appreciate the humor of my life story."

Saito cleared his throat. "A tragic story indeed," he commented. "Strange how wrong one can be in one's first impressions. From the very first time I saw you, I took you to be a contented man of leisure. But tell me one thing. Are you still a somnambulist? Do you still wander in your sleep and. . .er. . .commit crimes?"

Ihara smiled again. "Strange to relate," he replied, "I have never had another fit since the old man was murdered. According to the opinion of different doctors, my 'somnambulistic nerves' must have been paralyzed by the shock I suffered at the lodging house. Can you now imagine why I laughed at myself a moment ago? Can't you realize what a comic figure I have cut these past twenty years, wasted in fear of something which was never more to happen?"

Again, Ihara began to laugh, but Saito cut him short. "One moment," he said. "Tell me something about that friend of yours at the lodging house—the man you called Kimura. He was the one who first called attention to your somnambulism, wasn't he?"

Ihara nodded. "Yes, he was the first to find out," he replied. "But then, there were also the others—the man who swore that his watch had been stolen, and later the man who spread the alarm that I had been prowling around like a ghost in the cemetery."

"But were these the only occasions which made you think that you were a sleepwalker?" Saito asked, his eyes gleaming through narrow slits. "Weren't there any other incidents?"

"Yes, many," Ihara replied. "Once, another lodger said that he heard footsteps late one night along the corridor of the house, while another accused me of trying to break into his room. . . . But why all these questions? What are you driving at?"

Saito forced a laugh. "Forgive me," he said softly. "I wasn't trying to cross-examine you. I just couldn't convince myself that a man of your high intelligence would be capable of doing such things without being aware of what he was doing. You, of course, call it somnambulism. But I am not quite satisfied. You know it is quite common for people who are deformed, and live aloof from the world, like me, to be very skeptical, so I find all this hard to believe. How can sleepwalkers know what they're doing? They can only believe what they are told by others. Even a doctor knows only what he's told about a case like this. Unless they are told what you are supposed to have done, it is absolutely impossible for them to diagnose a case as somnambulism. Now, maybe I'm just a suspicious fool, a born skeptic apt even to disbelieve that the world is round; but I want to ask you: Are you certain—positively, absolutely certain—that you really
did
walk in your sleep? If you aren't, don't you think that you were a little too gullible and naive in immediately swallowing what others told you?"

Hearing these words, Ihara began to fidget, while in the pit of his stomach he suddenly felt a sickening sensation. Actually, it was not because of what the other had said—but the way in which he had said it. Staring back at the other's grim countenance, Ihara again seemed to sense that he had seen this ugly mask somewhere before. However, he replied: "I didn't really believe it at first. But gradually, when these fits became
more frequent—"

Saito again interrupted. "Please don't argue without facts," he said sternly. "How—
how
did you know that your fits became more frequent?"

"Because I was told—" Ihara stopped short. Yes, the other was right. He had only had the word of others about what he had done.

Saito immediately took advantage of the other's hesitation. "There—you see?" he gloated. "At no time were you sure! On every occasion it was the word of someone else—of that so-called friend Kimura, for example!"

"Yes, but there were others," Ihara broke in. "There was the clerk who discovered me at the cemetery, the man who missed his watch, the man who saw me break into his room. . . . Besides, what about the many clues I left behind me? Don't forget, every time I had a fit, I left something behind, or took something away. Certainly, things can't move by themselves!"

"That's the most suspicious point of all," insisted Saito. "Even a fool knows that things could easily be moved or planted here and there if there's something to be gained by doing so. And as for your many witnesses, I don't consider any of them to be trustworthy. Take, for example, the man who found you prowling in the graveyard. After constantly hearing that you were a somnambulist, wouldn't he have identified you as the 'ghost' whether you were or not? The same goes for all the others. I tell you, man, that from everything you have told me I am strongly inclined to believe tha* you were the victim of a clever hoax by someone who was using you for his own purposes. I'll even tell you who that culprit was! He was none other than
Kimura,
the man who had always posed as your friend!"

"Kimura?" Ihara gasped.

"None other," the other emphasized strongly. "Now look here. Let's say that Kimura harbors a strong grudge against the landlord and wants to kill him. Like all criminals, however, he's afraid of getting caught. What, then, is his first logical move? To seek a scapegoat, of course, some poor innocent fool who will bear all the suspicion. Now, under these circumstances, would it not have been convenient for him to choose you—a credulous and weak-minded man—for that very role? Once he was decided, the rest was easy. After getting your admission that you had once suffered from somnambulism in your childhood, he carefully and skilfully wove his plot. First, he aroused your apprehension about your mental condition. Next, he stole small objects, such as the watch you mentioned, and planted them in your room while you were asleep. Another detail was to disguise himself like you and to wander about in the cemetery. Finally, after the plot was well-prepared, and with your 'sleepwalking' well-established, he murdered the old man, planted one of your handkerchiefs at the scene of the crime, and likewise planted the old man's securities in your room. . . . There's the whole story from a different angle—an angle which you no doubt never considered, but which is nevertheless quite possible!"

When Ihara heard this amazing theory, his whole frame began to tremble. "But—but what about Kimura's con-science?" he blurted out. "Supposing I had been convicted of the murder and sentenced to the gallows? Would he have allowed an innocent man to be executed for his own crime?"

Saito gave a weird chuckle. "There," he said, "you have a point, but my theory covers that as well. Do you imagine, even for a moment, that a somnambulist would be convicted of a crime which he did not know he had committed? In the Middle Ages it may have been possible, but not today. No, my friend, Kimura knew all along that you would be acquitted, and so he didn't worry about you!"

After thus finishing expounding his theory, Saito paused briefly and eyed his companion intently. Then he went on in a new tone of voice.

"Forgive me, Mr Ihara, for having suggested all these possibilities," he said. "I only mentioned them because I was greatly moved by your confession. If you still believe that you really did kill a man while in a trance, there is nothing further I can say or do to change your mind. However, I hope that the theory I've outlined will help lessen your mental anguish hereafter."

Ihara heard the consoling words, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "Why?" he muttered aloud. "Why did Kimura murder the old man? What reason could he possibly have had? Was it revenge? Only
he
can explain this!" Slowly he raised his eyes and stared into his companion's eyes. Saito, however, looked down at the floor. Softly, winter shadows had begun playing over the foliage in the garden, and all at once the crippled ex-soldier suddenly shivered with cold.

"It's become chilly again," he remarked, rising nervously. "I'm off to take another bath."

Still avoiding the other's piercing look, he quietly sneaked out of the room like some skulking animal.

Left to himself, Ihara continued to stare, eyes bloodshot with fury, at the doorway through which the other had departed, clutching in his hand the steel chopsticks from the brazier and jabbing them into the ashes. After a long moment the hardened look on his face relaxed and was finally replaced by a bitter smile playing around his mouth.

"The devili" he cursed. "I should have known he was Kimura all along!"

                 TRAVELER
                                       WITH THE PASTED
                                           
RAG PICTURE

I
F TRAS STORY I AM ABOUT TO
tell was not a dream or a series of hallucinations, then that traveler with the pasted rag picture must have been mad. Or it may even be that I actually did catch a glimpse of one corner of another world as if through a magic crystal, just as a dream often carries one into the realms of the supernatural, or as a madman sees and hears things which we, the normal, are quite incapable of perceiving.

One warm, cloudy day in the dim past, I was on my way home from a sight-seeing trip to Uotsu, the town on the Japan Sea noted for its many mirages. Whenever I tell this story, those who know me well often contradict me, pointing out that I have never been to Uotsu. Then I find myself in a greater quandary than ever, for I do not have even a shred of evidence to prove that I have actually been there, and I begin to ask myself: "Was it only a dream after all?"