The Decagon House Murders

by Yukito Ayatsuji

  Of course it was normal to be intrigued by those curious letters. And, considering Shimada’s love of detective fiction, it was also natural he would dig into that case that happened last year.

  Still, Morisu regretted suggesting a visit to Yoshikawa Sei’ichi’s wife. He had made the suggestion without thinking it through. What must Yoshikawa Masako have thought when she was suddenly visited by strangers asking her this and that about her missing husband—whom they also suspected of murder?

  Morisu had proposed the theory that Nakamura Seiji might be alive, but realistically speaking it was impossible. It was just a hypothesis he had posed to put an end to a silly detective game being played by a couple of mystery addicts. But then Shimada had turned his attention to the motive behind the Tsunojima incident. He’d focused on the relationship between Kazue and Kōjirō and even suggested that Chiori might have been Kōjirō’s daughter. What’s more, he was planning to confront Kōjirō himself with that theory.

  The smoke in his throat almost hurt. With a gloomy feeling, Morisu took another sip of his bitter coffee.

  Thirty minutes had gone by when, just as Morisu was about to leave, a car stopped in front of Kawaminami’s building. It was a red Familia. Recognizing the silhouette of the person who got out, Morisu stood up.

  “Kawaminami.”

  He stepped out of the shop and yelled, and Kawaminami waved to him.

  “So it was you. I thought the bike looked familiar. There’s nobody in my building with anything off-road like that.” Kawaminami was looking at the dirty, mud-covered motorbike—a Yamaha XT250—parked by the side of the road. “You came all the way to visit me?”

  “No, I was just passing by anyway,” Morisu answered, tapping the knapsack hanging from his shoulder and pointing with his chin at the canvas holder set on the bike’s rear carrier rack. “I went to Kunisaki again today. On my way home now.”

  “How’s the painting going?”

  “I think tomorrow will be the last day. Come and see it when it’s finished.”

  “Hello, Morisu.”

  Shimada had emerged from the driver’s seat and was looking at Morisu with a friendly smile. Morisu’s tone suddenly became solemn.

  “Good evening. Where did you go today?”

  “Just a visit to Kō… No, a little drive to Beppu. You know, I’m getting along so well with Conan. We were planning to have some drinks in his room now.”

  Morisu and Shimada followed Kawaminami up to his room. He quickly put away the futon which was still lying on the floor, took out his folding table and prepared drinks.

  “Morisu, you too?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m on my bike, remember?”

  Shimada had headed straight for the bookcase and was looking at the spines of the tightly arranged books.

  Watching Kawaminami preparing ice in his glass, Morisu asked:

  “And how’s the case going?”

  “Hmm,” Kawaminami answered with a long face. “We went to S— Town yesterday, but we were only able to see Tsunojima from the beach, and to hear a couple of ghost stories.”

  “Ghost stories?”

  “The usual rumours, the ghost of Seiji roaming the island, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh. And today? You didn’t just go up there for a drive, I assume?”

  A troubled look appeared on Kawaminami’s face and he grimaced.

  “Well actually…”

  “So you did go to see Kōjirō?”

  “Yes. Sorry for ignoring your warning.”

  Kawaminami stopped mixing the whisky and water and looked down at his friend apologetically. Morisu sighed briefly and leant forward.

  “And the result?”

  “We know most of what happened last year. Kōjirō told us. Mr Shimada, your drink is ready.”

  “You mean you know the truth behind the case?” Morisu asked in surprise.

  Kawaminami nodded and gulped down his whisky and water.

  “And the truth is?”

  “It was a murder–suicide planned by Seiji.”

  And Kawaminami started to talk.

  3

  “I planted that the year Chiori was born,” said Kōjirō, and he shivered slightly.

  “The wisteria?”

  Shimada cocked his head, puzzled.

  “But why?” he started, but then he mumbled “I see” to himself. He turned to Kawaminami, who hadn’t understood any of the exchange.

  “It’s a reference to The Tale of Genji, Conan.”

  “The Tale of Genji?”

  “Yes—I’m correct, I think?” Shimada asked Kōjirō, who was standing on the veranda. Kōjirō nodded, and Shimada went on.

  “Hikaru Genji, who had been deeply in love with his father’s wife, Lady Fujitsubo, for many years, finally slept with her for one single night. But she became pregnant, and the two of them had to keep on betraying and deceiving their father and husband after that.”

  Kōjirō had considered his brother’s wife, Kazue, his Lady Fujitsubo.

  Chiori, the child born of sin. The birth had brought the two of them closer, but had also torn them apart. His heart, still longing for Kazue, had made him plant that wisteria, because Fujitsubo meant “wisteria pavilion”. Lady Fujitsubo never forgot about the sin she had committed with Hikaru Genji, nor did she ever forgive herself. And neither would Kōjirō’s lover…

  “You always did like that story.”

  Shimada stood up from the sofa and walked up behind Kōjirō.

  “Seiji found out about you, didn’t he?”

  “No, I think my brother only had suspicions. I think half of him knew something had happened and the other half was trying to deny it,” answered Kōjirō, his eyes still fixed on the garden. “My brother had incredible talents, but as a human being, he was lacking something. He loved my sister-in-law passionately, but it was—how to put it—a twisted love, which had been overcome by a longing, a mad desire to keep her all for himself. That’s how I looked at it.

  “I think my brother knew that himself. He knew that he wasn’t a good husband to her. That’s why he was always afraid, always suspecting her. I think he felt something close to fear for Chiori. But part of him still tried to believe, wanted to believe Chiori was his own daughter. That part of him that still believed in his bond with his wife was what kept his mind balanced those twenty years.

  “But then Chiori died. With the sudden death of his daughter—whom he had always tried to believe in, despite his fears—he lost the one bond that tied him to his wife. My brother was thrown back into a sea of suspicion. He suspected his wife didn’t love him, that her heart was elsewhere, that it lay with his own brother. And he brooded, suffered and finally broke… My brother killed her with his own hands.”

  Kōjirō, his eyes fixed on the new leaves that had grown on the wisteria pavilion, didn’t move a muscle.

  “What happened on Tsunojima—that was a forced suicide planned by my brother.”

  “A forced suicide?”

  “Yes. That day, on the afternoon of 19th September, I did indeed receive a package from my brother, just as you said. Inside was a bloody left hand, sealed inside a plastic bag. I recognized the ring on the ring finger. I instantly realized what had happened.

  “I telephoned the Blue Mansion. My brother answered, as if he had been waiting for me. He said, with neither laughter nor sorrow in his voice: ‘The Kitamuras and Yoshikawa died for me too. As a farewell gift for the two of us…’

  “He’d gone completely mad. That was all I understood. He didn’t listen to anything I said and was talking about how the two of them were heading for a new stage, something about the blessings of the grand darkness, that I needed to take good care of the present he’d sent me. And after going through all that, he hung up the phone.
>
  “There’s no way my brother is still alive. Even if the physical evidence says there is a possibility, I say the psychology doesn’t allow for it. He didn’t die because he had killed my sister-in-law. He couldn’t bear to live any more and decided to take her with him.”

  “But Kō—”

  “Listen, Shimada, and you too, Kawaminami. Nakamura Seiji is dead. He set himself on fire. The couple of days between him murdering his wife and his own death weren’t just to give him time to send her hand to me, for revenge and to have me suffer. They were so he could hold in his arms the body of the wife who had always been too far away to reach in life.”

  Kōjirō didn’t speak again. Looking at his back, it appeared he had become smaller and older.

  This figure staring motionlessly at the garden—what, Kawaminami asked himself, was he projecting upon the wis­teria pavilion? The image of the murdered woman he had loved? The face of her murderer, his own brother? Or the image of his daughter, who had died in a tragic accident?

  It was just as Shimada had said: Kōjirō had been the father of the deceased Chiori. So the person who had reason to hate the students who drove her to her death was…

  “Kō, I want to ask you one more thing.”

  Shimada broke the heavy silence.

  “What did you do with Kazue’s hand? Where is it now?”

  Kōjirō didn’t say a word.

  “Kō, I—”

  “I know, you just want to know what really happened. You’ll say that you won’t tell the police, right? I know, Shimada.”

  And Kōjirō pointed to the wisteria pavilion once again.

  “There. Her hand is buried beneath that tree.”

  “It was just as you said, Morisu.”

  Kawaminami put away another whisky and water.

  “It may sound rude to Mr Shimada, but we asked things we should never have asked about, I think. It doesn’t feel right.”

  Morisu kept smoking silently.

  “Kōjirō said that Nakamura Seiji is dead. I think that’s the truth. Now the only problem left is the letters.”

  “What are your thoughts about the whereabouts of Yoshikawa Sei’ichi?” asked Morisu, also including Shimada in the question.

  “Mr Shimada seems to be interested in his disappearance too, but as the body hasn’t been found, I think he just fell into the sea and was washed away,” replied Kawaminami, and he looked at Shimada, who was sitting with his back leaning on the wall. He was reading a book he had taken from the bookcase, his glass in one hand. Had he, or had he not, been listening to their discussion?

  “Anyway”—cheeks red from the alcohol, Kawaminami clapped his two hands softly together—“this is the end of playing detect­ive. Maybe we’ll find out who wrote those strange letters when the gang returns from the island next Tuesday.”

  NINE

  The Fifth Day

  1

  He felt as though he had seen one nightmare after another last night. He couldn’t remember what the dreams were about, but he knew he’d cried out in his sleep.

  He’d kicked away his blanket, which lay next to his bed now. His shirt had become wrinkled from his restless sleep: he hadn’t undressed before getting into bed last night. His body was covered in perspiration, but his throat was completely dry. His lips were cracked and painful.

  Leroux sat upright and, arms clutched around his torso, rocked his head slowly from side to side.

  His headache had calmed somewhat. But in return, his mind appeared to have stopped working. A light mist seemed to be covering his whole consciousness. The distance between his body and the faculties which commanded it felt further than usual. No sense of reality.

  The light that leaked through the gap between the shutters told him that the night was over.

  Leroux’s heavy arms lifted the blanket up and put it on his lap.

  A square screen came down in his foggy head. The four corners were black, the centre white, like an exposed film. On the screen were close-ups of all of the friends with whom he had arrived on the island four days ago.

  Ellery, Poe, Carr, Van, Agatha and Orczy. All seven of them, including himself, had been enjoying the prospect of this little adventure, each in their own way. At least, that’s how Leroux had felt. Freedom on an uninhabited island. A cold case to pick over. A bit of a thrill. Even if they did have some trouble on the island, it would just add to the fun and make the week pass more quickly, he’d thought. Things had turned out differently though.

  Short, thin hair. Big, shifty eyes beneath thin but wide eyebrows. Red cheeks with freckles. Her face suddenly became bloated and purple, it trembled, it twisted and finally her features went slack. The thin cord wrapped around her neck changed into a poisonous, slithering black snake.

  Oh, Orczy, Orczy, Orczy…

  Leroux clenched his fists and hit himself on the head. I don’t want to remember anything any more.

  But as if someone else were in control, the projector started rolling again. The screen wouldn’t go black.

  A sardonic laugh, the corners of a mouth twitched into a smile. A badly shaven chin. Big, hollow eyes. Carr was next. His big-boned body twisted in pain. The shaking table. A chair kicked over. The violent convulsions, the vomit and, finally, it was all over.

  “Why?”

  He whispered.

  “Why all of this?”

  Ellery falling into the darkness of the underground room. Poe’s grim voice. Van’s pale face. Agatha’s hysterics.

  And still there was a murderer among the surviving friends. Or could someone else be hiding on the island?

  Ellery had suggested that Nakamura Seiji might still be alive. Why would a man they’d never met, a man whose face they’d never seen, start killing them?

  A black shadow appeared on the screen in his mind. The figure’s outline was vague, rippling as if under water.

  Nakamura Seiji—the man who had built the Decagon House. The man thought to have been burnt in the Blue Mansion in September of last year. If he were still alive, he would be the one behind the murders now.

  Nakamura Seiji… Nakamura… Nakamura.

  “Ah.”

  A gasp escaped from his mouth.

  “Nakamura?”

  Slowly, the black shadow started to take form. He searched for a thread tied to his memories within the maze of his blurry, half-sleeping mind and the shadow finally changed into a small, fair-skinned woman.

  No, it can’t be.

  Was he still dreaming? Could it really be possible that Nakamura Chiori was the daughter of Nakamura Seiji?

  Leroux hit himself with his fists again.

  The city at night. The hustle and bustle. The cold wind. The bar of the after-party. The light reflecting from their glasses. The sound of ice. The smell of alcohol. Cheers. Intoxication. Cacophony. Insanity. And then… A sudden lurch from comedy to drama. Confusion. The sound of sirens. The revolving red lights.

  “It just can’t be,” he said more loudly.

  He wanted to drown out the threatening hum that grew louder and louder in his ears.

  But the hum didn’t lessen, only increased in volume until it was a furious buzz. His restless anxiety and impatience made his whole body perspire. The red lights flashed and the sirens wailed, hammering nails into his nerves.

  Leroux held his head in his hands. He couldn’t handle it any more, he wanted to scream.

  Suddenly a different scene was projected on the screen. The noise and light disappeared.

  What’s this? thought Leroux, regarding the scene from afar.

  What’s this? Where is this? It’s the sea. He could hear the sound. Close by. The smell of the tide. The rippling surface. The waves climbing the black rocks and receding again, leaving behind a white line. This is,
this is…

  …This happened yesterday.

  Leroux pushed his blanket away. His fear had gone, as if the heavy curtains that covered that part of his mind had been lifted.

  I saw this yesterday. They were all standing on the cliffs near to the Blue Mansion, looking out for boats. It was the rocky area he had seen then, beneath the cliffs. He had climbed down there with Ellery two days ago, too. If he remembered correctly, at that time he also…

  He felt like something had taken possession of him.

  He knew he was not completely conscious yet. It’s dangerous to go alone, he thought for a second, but that thought was quickly engulfed by the fog in his mind.

  Leroux slowly got out of bed.

  Agatha carefully opened the door and peeked into the hall.

  Nobody there. It didn’t seem as though anyone was up yet.

  She’d had a good night’s rest, thanks to Poe’s sleeping tablets, sleeping like the dead until she’d woken up moments ago. She didn’t remember having any dreams. It had been a satisfying sleep, almost bafflingly so, considering the dangerous situation they were in.

  Her body felt rested. Her nerves had also calmed down.

  I should thank Poe.

  Agatha slowly tiptoed into the hall.

  Hugging the wall, she quietly made her way to the bathroom. Her eyes scanned the space carefully, her ears alert for any noise.

  Even in the morning light, the hall of the Decagon House appeared distorted. Her eyes were drawn to the strange shadows covering the white walls, preventing her from taking a good look around.

  It really seemed as though no one was up yet. She could hear nothing but the relentless noise of the waves.

  She entered the bathroom and left the door half open, not forgetting to check the toilet and the bath unit in the back for any surprises.