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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Bizarre House Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
THE TWISTY AND INGENIOUS THIRD INSTALLEMENT IN THE BIZARRE HOUSE MYSTERIESThe famed mystery writer Miyagaki Yōtarō lives a life of seclusion in the remote Labyrinth House. When Yōtarō invites four young crime authors to his home for a birthday party, they are honoured to accept. But no sooner have they arrived than they are confronted with a shocking death, then lured into a bizarre, deadly competition...As the twisted contest gathers pace, murder follows murder. The ingenious sleuth Shimada Kiyoshi investigates, but can he solve the mystery of the house before all those trapped in its labyrinth are dead? And can you guess the solution before he does?
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PRAISE FOR YUKITO AYATSUJI’S BIZARRE HOUSE MYSTERIES
‘Fiendish foul play… This is a homage to Golden Age detective fiction, but it’s also unabashed entertainment’
SARAH WEINMAN, NEW YORK TIMES
‘Highly ingenious’
GUARDIAN, BEST CRIME AND THRILLERS
‘Very clever indeed’
ANTHONY HOROWITZ
‘From the first page you know you’re in the hands of a master. The atmosphere, the setting, the characters… it is flawless’
IAN MOORE, AUTHOR OF DEATH AND CROISSANTS
‘A terrific mystery, a classic… Very much in the manner of Agatha Christie or John Dickson Carr’
MICHAEL DIRDA, WASHINGTON POST
‘A brilliant and richly atmospheric puzzle… Every word counts, leading up to a jawdropping but logical reveal’
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW
‘One of the most enjoyable classic crime novels I’ve ever read. It’ll keep you guessing until the very end’
ALEX PAVESI, AUTHOR OF EIGHT DETECTIVES
‘Another ingenious puzzle… John Dickson Carr would be proud to come up with as clever a locked room mystery as this… exceptional fun and superbly plotted’
PAUL BURKE, CRIME TIME FM
‘Behold, the perfect escapist drug! If I could crush this book into a powder and snort it, I would’
VULTURE
‘A stunner of a plot, with an ending which I simply could not believe when it was first revealed’
AT THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
‘Exceptional… Superbly plotted and wickedly entertaining’
NB MAGAZINE
‘A captivating read, culminating in an ending as satisfying as it is shocking… Can stand shoulder to shoulder with the very best mystery novels’
THE JAPAN SOCIETY REVIEW
For Y.U. and Y.T.
CONTENTS
Prologue
It was on Friday, the 2nd of September 1988, that a book was delivered to Shimada, who had been sleeping off a summer cold at home.
Was the colour of the cover lavender, lilac or orchid? He wasn’t sure, but it was a light purple shade.
The book was a common size for paperbacks. In the centre of the cover was a frame in the same colour, tilted at a forty-five degree angle, and inside of it was a picture. Against a scarlet backdrop, reminiscent of a sea of blood, was the dark head of a bull…
The title was printed in relief to the upper right of the frame, on the light purple background, and to the upper left, the name of the author was also printed in relief.
A green strip of paper was wrapped around the cover, a so-called obi, a common practice in Japanese publishing. “Kitansha Novels—September Release” it read, with a tagline printed in Gothic typeface and a white outline around the letters. 10
Shimada thought to himself: “Hmph, the marketing slogans for these kinds of books are getting sillier and sillier lately.”
He had heard books weren’t selling much nowadays, but apparently there was still a market for mystery fiction. The number of whodunits on bookshop shelves had been increasing over recent years…
To be honest, there were so many of them now, it was difficult to tell them apart. While it was none of his business, he was starting to worry that readers would eventually just drop murder mysteries entirely because the market was being flooded with mass-produced books of questionable quality.
Shimada looked at the back cover. There was a blurb, a short biography of the author and his photograph. Shimada didn’t think the picture was very flattering.
The Labyrinth House is famous for its complex underground maze. One day, four mystery writers gather at the house, each planning to write a story set inside the bizarre building. But little do they know that they will be caught up in a whodunit themselves! Soon, the writers find themselves cut off from the outside world, and then a series of murders strikes the Labyrinth House… Readers of this superlative mystery must prepare themselves for the most baffling of puzzles, the most shocking of twists! An unrivalled sensation!
11Shimada couldn’t help but grin, as he imagined how the author must have felt when his editor came up with this overly dramatic copy.
This was the kind of novel he might pick up in a bookstore, but never buy. He certainly didn’t dislike murder mysteries, but he tended to prefer the translated ones. And while he occasionally did read Japanese mysteries, he was always disappointed by them.
But of course, this book was different, as he knew the author very well. It had been sent to Shimada as a gift, so he felt obligated to read it. Especially since it was about the Labyrinth House Murder Case.
Shimada took the book back to his futon, where he lay on his stomach.
He had got over the worst of his fever the previous night. His muscles were still aching slightly, but he was on the mend and beginning to feel eager for stimulation. He could get through a novel this size in a few hours.
He rested his chin on his pillow, and flicked through the book. He had a look at the table of contents. When he saw there was an afterword, he quickly paged to it, as he had a habit of reading afterwords before the main story.
AFTERWORD
These words should really have come at the beginning of the book, but because so few readers are disciplined enough to actually read an “Afterword” after the main story anyway, I thought I might as well put it at the end instead. Please consider the following as a kind of introduction for people who have yet to read the book.
12Even now, I still feel somewhat uneasy about publishing this story as a novel. As I assume many of you will have gathered when you saw the title, TheLabyrinthHouseMurdersis directly based on a real-life murder case.
It occurred in April 1987, over the same days as in the book. The media made a sensation out of the incident at the time, since it was such a baffling case, and because it occurred at the curious residence of a well-known mystery writer.
However, it is safe to say the press have not managed to provide a proper analysis of the whole affair.
That is only to be expected, of course. The incident occurred under highly singular circumstances and all those who knew the truth declined to speak to the press. Even the police were perplexed by this extraordinary case, and while they ostensibly accepted the “truth” that had been revealed, they did not make any definitive announcement about it. The press were therefore restricted to writing vague articles based on non-committal police statements.
If the truth about the case was never made public, what gives me the right to write about it, you might wonder. Perhaps it seems arrogant, or presumptuous of me to do so.
Allow me to make a confession, therefore. I was present when it all happened. I, Shishiya Kadomi, was one of the people in the Labyrinth House in April 1987, when that series of murders occurred there.
I have decided to publish an account of my experience in this format for two main reasons.
The first is that a certain editor very strongly urged me to do so. As for the other reason, perhaps I could say this is my memorial to those who passed away during the tragedy.
That might sound somewhat tasteless, but I know at least some of the victims were great lovers of the unique genre 13that is the murder mystery. That is why I truly believe that a reconstruction of what happened in the form of a book is the best way to honour those who perished.
However, I doubt many readers will care much about these personal circumstances.
No matter what inspired me to write it, after all, this is nothing more than a murder mystery, a piece of entertainment that allows the reader to escape the boredom of daily life. Of course, that is perfectly fine. No, in fact, that is precisely what this book should be.
Finally, I want to make clear that after careful consideration, I have changed the names of most of the people and places in this novel. I appear in the story myself, but not under my pen-name of Shishiya Kadomi.
So which of the characters is Shishiya Kadomi?
Some readers might be interested in that mystery. But some things are best left a secret.
Summer of 1988 Shishiya Kadomi
Shimada was already familiar with the details of the murders that had occurred in April last year at the Labyrinth House. It had been a truly bizarre affair, but he knew that the matter had, in a certain way, been resolved.
“Recreating a real-life case as a murder mystery, huh?”
Shimada opened to the beginning. The face of the author, whom he had not seen for some time now, appeared in his mind.
“Well, let’s see what you came up with.”
Shimada started reading.
AUTHOR: SHISHIYA KADOMI © 1988 SHISHIYA KADOMI. Printed in Japan.
Publisher: Uchida Naoyuki Publishing House: KITANSHA Ltd.
Tokyo, Bunkyō-ku, Otowa *-* *-* * Postal Code: *** Telephone: Tokyo (03)-***-**** (main number)
Printing House: Takagi Printing Ltd. Bindery: Nakatsu Book Bindery Ltd.
CONTENTS
Fig. 1 Floor Plan of the Labyrinth House
LISTOFCHARACTERS (WITHAGESINAPRIL1987)
All names are given in Japanese order, family name preceding given name.
22
For them
Prologue
“It is nice to see you again after such a long time,” Utayama Hideyuki said once more, taking a seat on the sofa that was offered to him. “I am glad you are in good health.”
“In good health?” The frowning man sitting opposite Utayama pouted his dry lips. The small eyes behind his lightly tinted, gold-rimmed spectacles blinked slowly. “Healthy is the last thing I am. You of all people should know very well that I’ve been cooped up here ever since I sold off my place in Tokyo.”
“Oh, well, yes…”
The man’s splendidly white hair was brushed back above a square forehead; he had thin cheeks, a sharp chin and a large, slightly crooked nose. Miyagaki Yōtarō, the elderly gentleman as reflected in Utayama’s eyes, hadn’t changed much since they had last met the previous spring.
The man’s pallor did indeed look unhealthy. His cheeks were sunken and the spark had disappeared from his hollow eyes.
Miyagaki had developed the habit of complaining about his health over the last few years. Each time they’d meet, Utayama was subjected to a litany of woes about the old man’s physical condition. And yet Miyagaki detested doctors, and no matter how much the people around him urged him to have a check-up at the hospital, he refused to do so.
“Has your condition really worsened that much?” Utayama asked seriously, to which Miyagaki shrugged, before replying with a smirk: 24
“It’s the worst. I’ve already given up. Nothing I can do about it any more. Nothing more natural than to grow old and die. When I was young, I always said I wouldn’t grow old. That a short life is a grander thing than a long one. I’m not going to go back on those words now. I’ve got no intention of becoming the world’s oldest living person.”
“Oh…”
Utayama nodded and forced an understanding smile onto his face, but deep down he felt uneasy. Miyagaki sounded more defeatist than ever.
Utayama, an editor in the literary department of the major publisher Kitansha, had known the detective murder writer Miyagaki Yōtarō for a long time, both as his editor and as a fan. Miyagaki’s first mystery had been published when he was just twenty-one, in 1948, in the period after the Second World War when detective novels were enjoying a revival in popularity. His debut TheHouseoftheMeditatingPoethad been praised at the time by a big name in the industry: “An impressive, riveting masterpiece. I almost can’t believe it’s written by a young newcomer. Hats off to him!”
Since then, Miyagaki Yōtarō had remained a slow writer, generally publishing a full-length novel only every year or so. His father had been a very wealthy man, so he didn’t need to write to make a living, which was one reason for his slow pace. However, this also made it possible for the quality to remain consistently high. Even when the wave of social detective novels took over the world of Japanese mystery fiction, shoving traditional puzzle mysteries aside, Miyagaki persevered and carved out a place for himself on the crime scene.
In particular, his novel ForaMagnificentDownfall, published ten years earlier when he was fifty, was seen as his magnum opus, 25the ultimate “Miyagaki Mystery”, and garnered much praise. For aMagnificentDownfallwent on to be considered one of the great classics of Japanese mystery, alongside the three giants: TheBlackDeathMurderCaseby Oguri Mushitarō, DograMagraby Yumeno Kyūsaku and Offerings to the Void by Nakai Hideo.
Utayama had always considered Miyagaki the shadow master of contemporary mystery fiction. He had never been a big hit with the wider reading public, never what one would call a best-selling author. But there were very few mystery writers who could boast such a large number of long-standing, dedicated fans.
His books brimmed with his unique philosophy and were a showcase for his vast knowledge of matters both academic and trivial. Along with his refined writing style and deep characterization, this won the approval of even those critics who were usually only concerned with “pure” literature, although they would always add the caveat “for a mystery novel” to any words of praise they offered. What Utayama loved most about Miyagaki, was the innocent, childlike conviction that led him to stick to his signature style.
“Fora mystery novel? But they are mystery novels!” he’d say.
The stubbornness with which Miyagaki continued to pour his heart and soul into his beloved mystery genre was even in a way reminiscent of the grand master Edogawa Rampo. After the publication of ForaMagnificentDownfall, Miyagaki mainly focused on editing his mystery fiction magazine Reverie, looking for new blood to carry the genre forward.
But then, last April, Miyagaki had suddenly dropped all of his work, sold off his house in Seijō, Tokyo, and moved to Tango, where his father’s family came from.
“This metropolis is too busy for an old man like me,” he had told Utayama. “Too many people, too much information flying 26around. I’m going to retreat to the peaceful countryside. It’s time to say farewell.”
Miyagaki had also declared he would leave all of his work on Reverie to other people, that he had no intention of writing any more books—or indeed anything at all.
For Utayama, this news came as a bolt from the blue. He had been posted to the magazine editorial department for some time and had only recently returned to his old home on the literary editorial team. He had been hoping to work on a new novel with the master, so the retirement announcement was a big shock to him.
When discussing today’s meeting on the phone a few days earlier, Miyagaki had made one thing very clear:
“You can come to visit, but don’t bring up work. I’m not interested in even doing short pieces. You’ll remember I told you that in no uncertain terms when I moved here last year.”
Like many authors, Miyagaki could be very stubborn when it came to protecting his personal life especially the last few years, since he had stopped writing. He had always been very difficult to handle, and now would not even talk to editors who had worked with him for a long time. Utayama thought this behaviour was a reflection of Miyagaki’s frustration at the decline of his creative capabilities.
Thus Utayama had chosen his words very carefully on the phone, making sure not to offend the great author.
“Of course, I understand. This has nothing to do with work, I just wanted to see you again after such a long time. I’m going back to my home town for New Year anyway, so I thought I could visit you too.”
“Oh, yes, I remember you’re from Miyazu, aren’t you?”
Utayama’s family ran a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn, in Miyazu in Kyōto Prefecture, near Amanohashidate, famous as 27one of the country’s great scenic views. Utayama tried to return home every year for New Year and the O-Bon festival. Miyagaki’s house was nearby, at the end of the Tango Peninsula, just outside T— Hamlet.
Utayama had borrowed a car from his older brother, who had taken over the family business. Although his wife had come to Miyazu, she wasn’t making the trip with him. He didn’t have the confidence for the mountain road in the winter, so he took the long route, via the coastal National Highway. From Miyazu, the drive wouldn’t even take two hours. The landscape was carpeted with snow, but fortunately, the roads were safe.
The Labyrinth House had been built over ten years ago by Miyagaki Yōtarō as his second home. At first, he had only stayed in the house during the summer, and Utayama had visited him then. As the name suggests, the building was designed in a very peculiar manner, with complex hallways that made a maze. On his first visit, Utayama had been absolutely baffled by it to Miyagaki’s delight. He always took a mischievous, childlike pleasure from the looks of surprise on his guests’ faces.
“Sir, do you really have no intention of picking up your pen again?” Utayama now finally dared to ask, as he spooned some sugar into the tea that the elderly, but not particularly friendly housekeeper had brought him. He had promised Miyagaki on the phone not to bring up work, but as an editor he still hoped he could get the “Shadow Master” working on a new book again.
“Hmm… I knew it.”
Utayama was prepared for an angry outburst. But despite his fears, Miyagaki didn’t seem too offended by his question. He wrinkled his nose as he took out a cigarette from the case on the table. 28
“You’re still far too young to set aside the pen completely,” Utayama went on. “Mystery writers have become lazy recently, complacent, but you could spark the genre into life again.”
Miyagaki lit his cigarette. “That’s a fantasy. I can’t write any more.”
“No, sir, you still have so much…”
“Don’t expect too much from me. Van Dine was right: no one can write more than six good detective novels during their lifetime. How many do you think I have written these last forty years? Even if you only count the full-length books, I have easily written more than double that limit.”
Miyagaki closed his eyes, and suddenly began to cough heavily. When he finally stopped, his hollow eyes stared at the tip of the cigarette between his fingers.
“I had been thinking things over until last spring, when I finally decided to put an end to my career myself. I don’t have what it takes to write a murder mystery I can be happy with any more. Almost a year later, my feelings have not changed.”
“Sir, with all due respect, it sounds to me to like you are going through a episode of self-doubt.”
“Do I have to say it again? I have always been a coward. Would you like to know the desire I’ve harboured ever since I was young? I have always wanted to kill someone with my own hands. Just once. But of course, I never was able to do it. Writing stories about murder for all these decades: that was little more than a surrogate for this wish.”
Miyagaki glared at Utayama as he roughly stubbed out his cigarette. Actually, the old man seldom smoked. Utayama opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by a short chuckle.
“I’m just joking, of course. But… hmm, I do fear failure. Detective novels are in a way my raisond’être. If I could, I would 29very much like to continue writing them. But the last thing I want is to write a bad novel, a work that would blemish the reputation of Miyagaki Yōtarō. That fear is stronger than my wish to write. That is why I decided it’d be better to give up on writing altogether.”
Utayama was conflicted. If he could convince Miyagaki to write a new book, it would be a coup for him as an editor. But what if, as Miyagaki himself claimed, he truly didn’t have the ability any more to produce a novel worthy of his reputation? As a true Miyagaki Mystery fan, to publish a book like that would feel like a betrayal.
“No need to look so upset,” Miyagaki said, as the scowl on his face relaxed slightly. “You know me, I might change my mind again. Actually, I am playing around with an idea now. When the time comes, I will be sure to let you know.”
“Do you mean an idea for a new book?” Utayama’s voice jumped an octave higher. Miyagaki grinned, reaching out for his teacup.
“You just can’t help it, can you? No, forget about it for now. Don’t make me remind you what you promised me on the phone.”
Utayama felt a bit embarrassed at that. He evaded Miyagaki’s piercing gaze and glanced around the room.
It was square with an ivory carpet and walls of a calming terracotta colour. In the centre of the carpet was an antique sofa set, on which Utayama and Miyagaki were sitting. This was the drawing room, to which Miyagaki had given the name Minotaur.
A low sideboard was placed against the wall behind them, and on top of it stood the stuffed head of a bull with two splendid horns, a decoration no doubt inspired by the room’s name. The Minotaur was a monster from Greek mythology with the head of a bull and the body of a man. The monster was said to live in the 30labyrinth of King Minos on the island of Crete. This room named after it was located in the deepest part of the Labyrinth House.
The lights were reflected in the glass beads embedded in the black bull’s eye sockets, making the head look almost alive. Utayama shuddered. It felt almost as if the bull’s head was glaring disapprovingly at him, impolite guest that he was.
“Oh, yes, there’s something I should tell you, even though it’s not set in stone yet,” Miyagaki said.
“Uh… Huh?”
“You don’t have to look so surprised.”
Utayama shook his head, a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to explain to Miyagaki he had been distracted by the bull’s eerie eyes.
“I was thinking of having a little party here at this house, for my birthday, the first of April,” Miyagaki said. “It’s my sixtieth. I would like for you to come. You can bring your wife along too.”
“Oh, of course, we’d love to!”
Up until two or three years ago, Miyagaki, who was single, had hosted gatherings at his home from time to time. In fact, he would often invite young writers and editors around for drinks.
“I will have an invitation sent to you, so keep your schedule open,” Miyagaki said. Utayama looked at the pale face and asked who else would be invited.
“I haven’t decided yet. But it won’t be a big thing. Just people I know well, like yourself.”
A few faces flashed through Utayama’s mind.
“There is one interesting guest I might invite, actually.”
“Yes?”
“I only became acquainted with him recently. He’s from Kyūshū, the son of a priest who’s in charge of a temple… I think you’ll find him an interesting man too once you meet him.” 31
“I can’t wait.”
“Anyway, how about having dinner here before you return? My housekeeper is actually a very good cook.”
Utayama looked at his wristwatch. “Oh, no, thank you, but my wife is waiting for me back home. She’s pregnant… so, you know, I’d like to get back.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
Miyagaki’s white eyebrows furrowed deeply. Utayama knew the old man hated children, but also knew he could only refuse the dinner invitation by being honest.
“I’m sorry,” said Utayama, bowing deeply. Miyagaki non-chalantly assured him that he wasn’t offended and took a fresh cigarette from his case. After a few drags, he started coughing again, so put it out.
They chatted for another half an hour or so, then Utayama announced he had to leave.
He couldn’t quite tell whether the writer for whom he still had high hopes was doing well or not. But he could see Miyagaki’s creative flame was not extinguished yet. That alone made the day’s long trip worth it.
Of course, Utayama could not have known then that this was the last time he would ever speak with Miyagaki Yōtarō in this life. 32
CHAPTER ONE
An Invitation to the Labyrinth House
1
“It’s really spring now. Everything looks completely changed from when we were here over the New Year. Even the sea looks different,” said Keiko from the passenger seat, in a carefree, almost childlike tone. Utayama grinned. Keiko was seven years younger than him, though that still made her thirty-three this year.
His eyes followed Keiko’s gaze to the Wakasa Bay on their right. Indeed, the sea looked completely different from when he was here about three months earlier. The sunlight was different. The blueness of the calmly lapping water was different. The whiteness of the splashing waves was different.
“But I like the Sea of Japan in the winter better actually, when it looks so intensely deep,” she said.
They had been married for four years now, and their first child would be born this summer. Utayama had to reflect for a second before replying:
“I think I’m more inclined to be afraid of the sea in the winter. When I was in primary school, my older cousin drowned in the winter sea. He went out fishing and was swept away by the waves.”
“Oh… did you tell me about him before?” 34
“I think so…”
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the 1st of April, and Utayama Hideyuki and his wife Keiko were on their way to the Labyrinth House. They were driving along the coast on National Highway 178, the same road Utayama had taken last time. Once again, he had borrowed his brother’s car.
Utayama had received a letter from Ino Mitsuo, Miyagaki’s secretary, exactly two weeks earlier, that explained there would indeed be a party to celebrate Miyagaki’s sixtieth birthday. It was to start at four o’clock on the 1st of April. Location: Labyrinth House. Guests were expected to spend the night there. Ino would answer any further questions.
Utayama had made sure to keep the date free after he had heard about the party during his visit in the winter. He was also happy to bring his wife along. Miyagaki and Keiko had already met, when he was still living in Tokyo, and she was now in her second trimester and could safely travel.
Utayama had been a bit worried about the number of guests at first, even though Miyagaki had told him there wouldn’t be many. He didn’t feel like taking Keiko anywhere crowded. She might not be truly introverted, but she was still a bit shy. Considering she was pregnant, he didn’t want to burden her with meeting too many new people.
However, Utayama had been reassured after a telephone call to Ino, at his home in Tokyo where he usually stayed these days. Eight guests had been invited, including the Utayamas, and most of them Keiko had already met.
“How much longer is it?” she asked after a short yawn. She had grown bored with the view.
“Less than an hour. We’re almost at Kyōgamisaki, the northern tip of the Tango Peninsula.” 35
“Mr Miyagaki really moved to the sticks, didn’t he? I can’t believe he’s gone this far away from Tokyo, even at his age. I could never do it.”
“I believe his father came from this area.”
Keiko cocked her head. “Still, it must be very lonely here.”
“He’s always said he loves being alone.”
“And he’s stayed single all this time, right? And he doesn’t like children either… He’s a bit of a strange guy, isn’t he?”
“You could say that. But, he’s not a bad person.”
“Yes, that I know. He’s always seemed happy to chat with me whenever we visited him in Seijō.”
“I think he likes you.”
“Really?”
A shy smile appeared on Keiko’s face. She mumbled to herself once more about how lonely it must be around here.
“But I heard he used to be rather the ladies’ man?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Utayama had heard more than a few rumours about Miyagaki’s relations with women. Apparently, Miyagaki had been a very attractive young man. Even in middle age, he wouldn’t have had any trouble finding a partner if he wanted one. But naturally, over recent years the romantic rumours had dried up.
“Has there never been someone in his life he wanted to marry?”
“Hmmm…”
Utayama gave a long sigh as he remembered Miyagaki’s face when they had met three months before. A lonely old man. Those words perfectly described how Miyagaki appeared to him then. Miyagaki had never looked like that when they met in Tokyo.
“I bet he must feel a bit lonely now though, having retired and moved away. I mean, he’s having a party and has invited us. And all the guests are people he likes, are they?” 36
“Yeah.”
Utayama looked at his wife. He then recalled the names Ino had told him over the phone:
“Suzaki Shōsuke. Kiyomura Junichi. Hayashi Hiroya. Funaoka Madoka. And Samejima Tomoo. You’ve met them all before, haven’t you?”
“Yes. They’re all writers, I think?”
“Samejima’s a critic.”
“Close enough. Hmm… What were their pen-names again?…”
Keiko closed her eyes, and put her index finger to her fair forehead. She tried to recall the noms de plume of the four writers and the critic.
Utayama had just said their real names. All five had won the Newcomer Award handed out by Miyagaki’s magazine Reverie, and all of them published their work under pen-names.
However, Miyagaki Yōtarō, who was in a way their mentor, did not like pseudonyms. He could barely accept them on paper, but the idea of calling each other by pen-names in real life, he thought to be completely tasteless.
Utayama on the other hand liked them. He was of the opinion that people whose profession involved coming up with fantastical dreams (or nightmares) removed from reality, needed to wear a mask appropriate for that task. It was perhaps only a matter of opinion, but that was why Utayama found it odd Miyagaki was so against pen-names. Miyagaki had held on to the name his parents had given him throughout his career, so perhaps that was why he would have liked these five to do the same.
Because of his disapproval, Miyagaki’s “disciples” never used their professional pseudonyms when they were in his presence. Everyone close to Miyagaki, from the disciples to his editor, was aware of this unwritten rule. 37
“One, two, three…” Keiko was counting on her fingers, when she turned to her husband at the driving wheel. “I thought you said there’d be eight guests, including us. Who’s the last one?”
Utayama searched for a cigarette in his shirt pocket.
“Oh, I don’t really know actually. He’s not a writer or critic. A priest from some temple, I believe?”
“A priest?” Keiko now looked at her husband in surprise.
“I think Mr Miyagaki mentioned something like that when I visited him over New Year. Said I’d find him interesting once I’d met him myself.”
“Huh.”
“You can handle one new face, can’t you?”
“I guess so… Hey, what are you doing?”
Utayama’s hand, holding a cigarette lighter, stopped in mid-air. “Oh, I’m sorry, force of habit…”
Naturally, Utayama wasn’t allowed to smoke in the car with Keiko while she was carrying their child.
“Let’s stop for a break if you’re desperate, then. Oh, is that Kyōgamisaki?”
In front of them, to their right, a headland protruded into the sea. At the end of it they could occasionally make out a lighthouse. Utayama nodded, and parked the car on the shoulder.
2
The road was bordered by a white guard rail on the coast side. The sound of the waves relentlessly breaking against the rocks below was pleasant. The wind was still a bit chilly, but the peacefully shining sun warmed Utayama. 38
The weather made him realize once again that it was truly spring. How long had it been since he last visited this part of the country during this season?
As he replenished the nicotine levels in his blood, Utayama looked out at the sea and yawned loudly. He was beginning to feel at one with the serene scenery, and to understand why the elderly writer had wanted to escape the hustle and bustle of the capital and take refuge here.
Footsteps approached him from behind. At first he thought Keiko had got out of the car too.
“Err, excuse me,” a low voice said.
Utayama turned around, surprised.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m having a bit of car trouble…”
The stranger appeared to be slightly younger than Utayama, probably around thirty-six or -seven. He was wearing a loose black sweater and black jeans. He had a swarthy, bony face and a rather large nose. Two drooping, deep-set eyes squinted beneath his thick eyebrows.
“Sorry to have startled you.”
The man suddenly bowed. He was too lean and tall, so as he bowed, his eyes came down to the level of those of the shorter Utayama.
“What’s the matter?” Utayama asked politely, while carefully observing the man for any suspicious signs. The stranger softly ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m having some trouble with my car,” he said again, and with an embarrassed look, pointed up the road.
It curved to the left up ahead. A jutting cliff blocked most of the view to that side, but further up the road, Utayama could indeed make out the back of a red car.
“A flat tyre?” 39
“No, I think it’s something to do with the regulator,” the man explained.
“Oh, that is quite a predicament.”
“I wanted to call a mechanic, but I can’t find a telephone box around here. So I am really at my wit’s end. I don’t suppose you could give me a lift to the nearest telephone?”
“Aha,” Utayama mumbled as he took another good look at the man. While his appearance was a bit suspicious, his manner was quite normal. In fact, Utayama found him quite friendly.
“Of course. My car is over there.”
Utayama led the way, glancing at his wristwatch. It was ten to three. There was still time before the party.
“What’s the matter?” Keiko asked with a puzzled look. She had got out of the car.
“This gentleman’s car broke down.”
“Hello. I’m terribly sorry for bothering you.”
The man, now at Utayama’s side, raised his right hand to Keiko, and then looked at his wristwatch.
“Hmm, I guess I won’t make it,” he mumbled.
“Is there somewhere you need to be?” Utayama asked.
“Yes. At four o’clock.”
“At four?” Utayama repeated. That was the same time as they were to be at the party.
“Where exactly are you headed?”
“Somewhere just outside T—Hamlet, up ahead…”
Surprised, Utayama took another good look at him.
“Are you perhaps… going to visit the mystery writer Miyagaki Yōtarō?”
“Huh?” The man looked back at Utayama, baffled.
“Oh, sorry, my misunderstanding,” Utayama quickly said, but the other smiled back at him. 40
“No, you are completely right. Aha, I guess you are a fellow guest.”
“It seems so.” Now Utayama bowed to the man. “My name is Utayama. I am an editor at the publisher Kitansha. This is my wife Keiko.”
“What a coincidence. I am—”
Among the guests invited to the Miyagaki home, there was only one person Utayama hadn’t ever met, so he could guess this man’s identity.
“Don’t tell me. You must be the priest. You don’t look like one though,” he said in a jovial manner.
The man showed his white teeth as he smiled.
“I suppose Mr Miyagaki told you about me then? My name is Shimada Kiyoshi. Very nice to meet you.”
*
Utayama knew that further down the National Highway there was a small rest area. After some discussion, they decided they’d tow the disabled car there and leave it for now. Shimada would then get a lift with the Utayamas, so they could all make it in time for the party at the Labyrinth House.
By the time Shimada had arranged things with the person in charge of the rest area and got in the back seat of Utayama’s car, it was half-past three. Utayama drove off, estimating they’d arrive just around four.
“You really saved me there. What would Mr Miyagaki have thought of me if I’d arrived hours late after his kind invitation?” Shimada said, clearly relieved. “You said you were an editor at Kitansha, didn’t you? Have you been Mr Miyagaki’s editor for long?”
“Yes, I think I’ve worked with him close to twenty years now.”
“Oh, so did you also work on MagDown?” 41
“MagDown?” Utayama cocked his head upon hearing the unfamiliar word.
Shimada gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Excuse me, I meant Mr Miyagaki’s magnum opus. ForaMagnificentDownfall.”
Keiko giggled. “Aha, I get it. MagDown, right? Do people call the book that?”
“General readers probably don’t, but it seems students with a love for the genre do. I have a friend who’s in his university’s mystery club, you see.”
“I guess you must be quite the mystery buff yourself too, then?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare call myself that. But of course, I do find mystery stories more interesting than chanting Buddhist sutras whenever I have to help out at my home temple…”
While one wouldn’t have guessed from his appearance, it seemed Shimada Kiyoshi was indeed a temple priest.
“How did you and Mr Miyagaki become acquainted?” Keiko asked.
“I’m just one of his readers, a simple fan,” Shimada mumbled. “I have read all of his work, including his short stories and essays. Oh, now I think about it, I recall having seen your name mentioned in his acknowledgements a few times, Mr Utayama.”
“I am honoured.”
Utayama stole a glance at Shimada in the rear-view mirror. He looked like he was having a good time, and quite innocent.
“I was told Mr Miyagaki met you late last year by chance. Mind if I ask how?”
Shimada seemed at a loss for words for a moment.
“Oh, how should I explain this? I truly was already a fan of his work, but the reason I met him a few months ago was… Hmm, I guess I could say it was the building that brought us together.”
“The building? You mean Labyrinth House?” 42
“Yes.”
In the mirror, Utayama could see the grave expression that came across Shimada’s face.
“Have you ever heard the name Nakamura Seiji?” Shimada asked.
“Nakamura…” Utayama knew he had heard it before, but couldn’t remember right away where. Shimada watched him silently in the mirror.
“I know the name,” Keiko said, as she unfolded the hands resting on her stomach. “I think I saw it in some magazine. Yeah, he was some kind of strange architect.”
