After throwing open the door, he found the assassin. The man was sitting, and he was of a smaller stature than Fukuzawa had imagined. The assassin’s hands and feet were bound, and the thick, dark sack over his head prevented Fukuzawa from being able to see his face. The man wouldn’t be able to escape like this, let alone even scratch his nose. Tied around his arms and legs was iron wire in addition to the rope. It would be nearly impossible to snap no matter how monstrously strong the person. Needless to say, a smaller hit man like this wouldn’t have a chance. The assassin wore an extremely ordinary navy shirt with work pants and leather shoes. There was no indication they ever saw combat. He didn’t appear to be any more than a run-of-the-mill bandit who was good at sneaking into buildings.
Any ordinary guard would think that…but Fukuzawa held a different impression. This was the reception room. The only items in the room were a simple bookshelf, a table to discuss business, and a painting. Fukuzawa walked around, purposely making sure his footsteps were heard. The moment he’d entered, the assassin’s head had twitched slightly. In other words, he wasn’t sleeping.
Fukuzawa made his way to the wall behind the hit man before immediately slamming his palm against it. BAM! An explosive roar echoed throughout the room, but the assassin didn’t even react. Neither did he flinch nor turn around. He was serenity itself. He wouldn’t be able to see Fukuzawa, either, due to the sack on his head. Fukuzawa could instantly tell this guy was no amateur. He knew more about assassins than the average person, since they were also his business competitors as a bodyguard. Unlike Fukuzawa, whose job was to protect, those who killed were ever changing. Their attacks and weapons were unpredictable. Therefore, he had to make sure his information—the MOs of well-known dangerous hit men—was up-to-date at all times so that he could quickly respond to a sudden attack, even during times of peace.
Fukuzawa observed the hit man. He wouldn’t be able to guess at his name or ability based on what he could observe in that moment. There was nothing especially peculiar about the man’s appearance that would hint that he was a skill user. However…
Fukuzawa turned his gaze to a small desk in the corner of the room. There lay what appeared to be the assassin’s tools of the trade.
There were two old pistols and holsters, which were worn but nicely taken care of. Along with the guns sat some change and a piece of wire to pick locks. That was it. Fukuzawa looked back at the diminutive assassin once more. As suspected, he was still as motionless as ever. Normally, people wouldn’t be able to sit still without fidgeting even a little, but this man was different. He was extremely relaxed, despite being tied up and unable to see.
Fukuzawa picked up the fountain pen that was on the desk. After removing the cap, he began lightly drawing lines on a notebook that was there. It still had ink. Fukuzawa lightly pressed the pen against his left hip. Then he grabbed the pen with the fingers of his right hand while holding the cap in his left hand against his hip. After that, he spread his left leg shoulder width apart and got into a stance as if he were wielding a sword. Both arms were tucked in while he took an oblique stance. From then on, there was only silence.
The once unmoving assassin stiffened up. After steadying his breath, Fukuzawa took a big step forward with his right foot, unsheathing the fountain pen with a fury.
A single step, a single beat.
Still tied to the chair, the assassin hopped to his side in an attempt to dodge Fukuzawa’s strike. The chair slammed against the ground with the hit man, making a dull echo. After witnessing the event, Fukuzawa brought his right foot back as if he were drawing an arc, then began sheathing the fountain pen while straightening his back.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a pen.”
Fukuzawa capped the pen and returned it to the table. Now it was clear. The hit man really couldn’t see what was happening around him. If he could see through the sack, he wouldn’t have jumped to the floor to dodge Fukuzawa’s pen strike. But he didn’t even flinch a moment ago when Fukuzawa slapped the wall right behind him.
What was the difference? Could he sense the bloodlust? Fukuzawa made sure to strike with an intent to kill, something the assassin must have felt on his skin before throwing his body to the ground to dodge. He wouldn’t be any ordinary assassin if that were the case. He must have survived countless bloodbaths to react like that. Surely only a select few could hire such a talented assassin, even in Yokohama, a city rife with unusual skills and schemes since the war’s end. Under no circumstances would he ever fail to kill his target, which was like breathing to him; thus, payment would have to be eye-poppingly high.
But if that were true, that would still leave one question unanswered. An assassin killed his target the moment he was discovered by pushing her out the window with his bare hands, and yet he was caught by the guards as he attempted to escape? Was such a thing even plausible?
“What happened? Is everything okay?” the secretary asked from the office next door.
“Everything’s fine,” answered Fukuzawa. “So… You asked me here because of this man?”
“I would like you to accompany me as we take him to the police,” replied the secretary. “As you can see, he is not being compliant. He has been keeping his silence the entire time. I want to bring him to the police station, but they are apparently short on manpower at the moment, so they said they could only send two officers over. What do you think? Would two officers be enough to escort him back to the station?”
“Probably not,” Fukuzawa replied without missing a beat.
The secretary’s concerns were valid. The assassin may not pose any threat since he was tied up, but the moment the police untied him to transport him, he could kill one or maybe both of them in the blink of an eye. Calling Fukuzawa for help was a wise move. Fukuzawa personally felt guilty for the president’s death. While far from an act of vengeance, he felt that bringing the criminal to justice was the least he could do.
“This man is waiting for his chance to escape. It’d be wise to transport him before he tries anything,” mentioned Fukuzawa. “Mind if I take him out of the room?”
“Of course,” the secretary said with a smile. “Just please make sure not to step on any documents.”
“…”
“…”
That wasn’t happening. Fukuzawa anguished over how he was going to convince the secretary until…
“Greetings!”
It was an energetic voice, reminiscent of a clucking chicken. Fukuzawa turned around to find a boy standing in the entrance to the office. He appeared to be around fourteen to fifteen years old with long eyelashes and almond-shaped eyes. He wore a rustic cape with a schoolboy cap, while an old-fashioned flat satchel hung around his waist. His short hair was scraggly and uneven; he must not have had a mirror handy when he cut it.
“Whew. Some crazy wind we’re having today, huh? I know some people say go where the wind blows, but don’t you think this company could’ve chosen a better place to build their office? It reeks of salt from the ocean, it’s all the way up on a hill, and it feels like you have to go through a maze just to get here! What was the president thinking?! This is exactly why Yokohama’s no place to live. Oh! Also, I ran into a seagull on the way here. Good thing they’re so nasty, huh? It grossed me out so much I ended up giving it one of my rice balls before I could stop myself.”
The mysterious boy said all of that in one breath.
With a big smile on his face.
Right in front of the president’s office.
“…Huh?” the secretary inanely spluttered.
There was perhaps no better way to sum up everyone’s feelings than that one single utterance.
“You’ve seriously never heard of a seagull before? Freaky-looking rats with wings, those things. They must’ve done something real horrible in a past life. I mean, have you ever actually taken a deep look at their eyes? You can literally see the madness! Anyway, not to change the subject, but I’m one rice ball down, so I’m getting prett
y hungry. Got anything I could eat?”
“Excuse me? Uh, um… Excuse me?” The secretary was absolutely baffled.
It stood to reason. The young boy was mirthfully rambling on until he suddenly saw something in the room and shut his mouth. His almond eyes surveyed his surroundings before creasing even further.
“Hmm… Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
Fukuzawa came back to his senses. Who was this boy? He seemed like nothing but trouble.
“Eh, not that it’s any of my business. Anyway, could you give me the paper? Oh, is it somewhere in the pile? You expect me to find it? Sounds like a real pain in the neck. Hey, Mr. Secretary, how about you find it for me while you’re busy killing time? Besides, I’m not interested in the fingerprints in this room.”
Each thing he said was more bewildering than the last, and some things didn’t make sense at all. “Killing time”? “Fingerprints”? The boy began to walk, heading toward the center of the room—toward the center of the ocean of documents. Right as the bottom of his foot was about to step on the first wave of papers—multiple documents with the company seal that looked like contracts with other companies…
“Ack! Wait, wait, wait! Stop right there! Do you have any idea how many years it took to close those contracts?!”
…the secretary grabbed the boy by the shoulder, barely stopping him in time. The boy stared at him, puzzled, then took a moment to deliberate.
“Nope,” the boy replied before beginning to walk once more.
“Ahhh! Stop that!” the secretary shrieked as he desperately snatched up the documents. The boy’s foot landed right where the documents once lay.
“See? You can do it if you really put your mind to it,” the boy said with a smirk.
“What is wrong with you?! Regardless of the tragedy that occurred here today, this is still the president’s office! Authorized personnel only!”
“I know,” the boy admitted nonchalantly. “But I’ve been authorized. I was told to come in for an interview today. Isn’t it obvious?”
An interview?
“O-oh… You’re the applicant. I do remember the president mentioning something about conducting an interview for an apprentice office clerk…”
An apprentice office clerk? This destructively disobedient kid?
The boy claimed it was obvious he came in for an interview, but Fukuzawa was taken by complete surprise. He simply figured it was some sort of gremlin or troll who had shown up to make some demands now that the president had passed. The kid stood out like a sore thumb.
Fukuzawa turned his gaze to the secretary, who was still arguing back and forth with the boy near the entrance. He wanted to help, but he was standing by the door to the adjacent room, far from the entrance. The sea of paper on the floor blocked his path, making his only option to observe the proceedings.
“Sheesh, just look at the mess you made here. I get that you didn’t want anyone to search the room, but…this? Adults puzzle me. What a puzzling world we live in!”
“P-please stop talking nonsense!” the secretary screamed in falsetto.
Fukuzawa’s curiosity was sparked, for he saw a hint of dismay in the secretary’s pale expression.
“I understand why you’re here,” the secretary continued, “but our company has no time for that right now! The president was assassinated. Therefore, your interview must be postponed. I have to find which documents are missing and report it to the authorities before the suspect is turned in to the police—before they hook ’em and book ’em! Now please just go. Run along, now.”
“For the last time already—I know,” the boy complained with a pout. “Do you enjoy stating the obvious? I came to get my certification. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“‘Certification’?” the secretary repeated. “Oh, that government-issued document for job searching, yes?”
So this young man was probably receiving government aid to find employment. Ever since the end of the war, unemployment and juvenile delinquency continued to be a pressing issue even in this major city. Therefore, the government had a system to fight back against unemployment through aiding minors who wanted to work. The boy must have been using the program. In other words, he needed a piece of paper issued from the company’s president to prove he’d come there for a job interview, and then he had to turn that in to the government so he could keep receiving financial aid and information.
“I’m sure it’s somewhere in here, but…” The boy glanced around the room. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Hey, Mr. Paper Pusher, can I just shove these useless documents out of the way already?”
“You may not,” the secretary firmly declared. “The very way in which the documents are lined up is part of a crucial methodology for determining the perpetrator’s motive, and I am the only one in this company who can—”
“Uh-huh.”
The boy wasn’t listening. Instead, he nodded as if in understanding and began rapidly picking up the documents around his feet. But before long, he got sick of it and decided to start randomly knocking the papers out of the way with his fingers to clear a path.
“Ahhh!” the secretary screamed in agony. “S-stop that this instant! I—I forbid you to touch even a single page more! It took me five hours to line up those documents!”
“Sure, but I still need to find my document.”
“Then be quiet, go downstairs, and wait! I’ll search for it later.”
“Yet another obvious lie,” declared the boy, albeit for reasons unknown. “It’s fine. I’ll find it myself. It won’t even take a second.”
Not even a second? Around a hundred documents were systematically lined up in the room. It would take more than a quick glance to check them all, so how was he planning on finding one specific sheet of paper so quickly?
“The president was pushed out this window, huh?”
Before anyone even realized it, the boy was standing by the large-framed window and inspecting it with a discerning eye. The secretary was frantically lining up the documents once more. Thanks to the kid’s rash behavior, around a tenth of all the documents in the room were now scattered about without a shred of sympathy for the one who had to clean them up. Reorganizing everything was undoubtedly going to be a painstaking task.
“Kid.” Fukuzawa couldn’t help but speak up. “How do you plan on finding a single sheet of paper in this mess?”
“Wow, old guy. Didn’t think you could talk.” He cheekily raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been so quiet the entire time I’ve been here; I thought you were a statue… Anyway, it’s a government certification, so it has a seal on it, and the special paper they use is thicker than your normal official document.”
“Old guy”…
Fukuzawa was about to counter with “I’m only thirty-two years old!” but he furrowed his brows, more curious about the last part of the boy’s sentence.
The paper’s thickness? So that was why it would be easy to pick out? But would someone even be able to spot it? It seemed as if it would still take a lot of hard work and patience to find a sheet of paper with such a small difference if it was still buried underneath all these documents. However…
That was when it hit Fukuzawa. The boy had a hand on the window—the wide casement window the president was pushed out of. Outside, the sky was blue. Weren’t there supposed to be strong winds today?
“Oh, look! A parade!” the young boy cheerfully yelled as he flung the sash all the way up.
All at once, the documents began to take flight as if they had come to life.
“Ahhhhhh?!”
A white bird spreading its wings; the cool, fresh air forming a vortex—it was like something out of a fairy tale.
…Unless you were the secretary.
“Wh-wh-wh-what do you think you’re doing?!”
“Aha, here it is!”
The boy grabbed a document lying on the desk. It was the only one barely fluttering in the whirlwind that came in through the
window. The paper being relatively thick, its weight kept it from really going anywhere. It was clear why he opened the window now. Fukuzawa was impressed by just how stubbornly he refused to do anything the situation demanded of him.
“What do you mean, ‘Here it is’?! Arghhh! I’m going to have to start all over again!”
The secretary tore at his hair, almost on the verge of losing his mind, but the boy showed no remorse. In fact, he was smiling.
“It’s not a big deal. All the documents are still here, after all.”
The air in the room instantly grew tense.
“…What?” The secretary looked back at the boy.
“None of the documents were stolen. The president wasn’t even killed by a hit man. I mean, you know that. After all, you’re the one who killed her, Mr. Secretary.”
“…What?”
The secretary tilted his head to the side, mouth agape.
“…What?”
The secretary tilted his head to the side, mouth agape.
“…What?”
The secretary tilted his head to the side, mouth agape. His head was almost completely perpendicular to the floor.
“Why did you just say the same thing three times in a row? I swear, adults make absolutely no sense sometimes. It’s painfully obvious that the one behind this was the secretary and that he framed the hit man, but the old guy over there won’t even do anything. A neglect of duty is what that is. If my mother were here, she’d already have the criminal tied up and tossed out the window!”
Fukuzawa was unable to keep up with the kaleidoscopic changes and too bewildered to even change his expression. The president wasn’t killed by the assassin? The secretary standing in front of them was the real culprit?
“That’s ridicu—”
Fukuzawa was barely even able to begin the retort before stopping himself. There was something bothering him—a feeling deep inside him. The assassin’s weapon was a pistol. He was a seasoned hit man who could sense bloodlust even without being able to see. Would someone this skilled use his bare hands to push the president out the window and leave fingerprints on her clothes? And how would he have been caught by one of the guards?
The Untold Origins of the Detective Agency Page 7
