“This is the reverse. The killer became the victim. Now…curiosity begs us to ask who was this man, and why was he kidnapped? Of course, all we would have to do is ask the killer that. Isn’t that right, killer?” Ranpo yelled out into empty space, but nobody answered. “The audience is waiting for an answer. A murder story cannot be complete without a killer, and there’s nothing worse than an incomplete story!”
Ranpo roared. It was as if he were a performer himself. A good one, at that. Did he learn how to do this from watching today’s performance? Or…was there a reason why he had to do this?
“This story reversed the tide of narrative. The killer became the victim. So then…what will the victim become? It’s time to bring this story to its climax. Nothing else matters at this point. This story won’t be following your script anymore!” Ranpo stomped the floor with the sole of his shoe, and the thud echoed throughout the theater. “This child of God demands you to show yourself, fallen angel! You may be able to fool them, but you cannot fool me! This is the climax! There will be no other ending to your story! Let the truth be revealed to the angel, the son of God, and the blameless people seated here!”
The echoes of his voice gradually died down until the room was overcome with perfect silence. But only for a moment, until another voice soon broke that silence.
“What a marvelous ending!”
The owner of the voice suddenly appeared onstage. Astonishment fell over the entire theater. His voice echoed with full-bodied resonance. Every part of his body was brimming with life as he moved. It was, without a doubt, the tragic hero.
“I never expected an actual skill user, the stuff of fairy tales, to show up and solve the mystery. After all that, you left me with no choice but to show myself. But how did you know? The police, that bodyguard—not even my fellow performers figured it out.”
Murakami appeared onstage as if he had come back from the dead to play a character. He smiled. Ranpo pushed up his glasses and replied, “That’s my skill. The blood was real, the weapon was real, and the surprised reactions of the bodyguard and performers were real. But nothing gets past my skill. There was never a murder to begin with.”
“How long did you know?” questioned Murakami sonorously.
“From the very beginning.” But there was no emotion attached to Ranpo’s blunt tone. “When I first met you in the dressing room, you were really pale, and extremely thirsty. That was because you had your blood drawn a little earlier. When blood leaves the body, it almost immediately begins to degrade. Plus, you would be surrounded by a bodyguard and the police, who’ve seen their fair share of blood, when you ‘died.’ That’s why you couldn’t use theatrical blood to fake anyone out. You needed to use your own, fresh blood. And the reason why you wore loose-fitting layered clothing was that it was the perfect place for hiding the blade and bags of blood.”
“I see.”
Ranpo and Murakami faced each other with the center-stage spotlight dividing them. Each stared at the other in silence.
“It would probably have been harder to fake your death without preparing the blood in advance, but you are a professional, after all. All you had to do was put on some makeup to hide your pale complexion, then let your acting do the talking. Also, this is how you faked your pulse. I found it hidden in the trash can near the service entrance.”
Ranpo pulled out a skin-colored rubber-made sheet of film from his pocket.
“It’s a piece of silicone rubber that actors use to change the shape of their body or face for a costume. I found five times this many torn up in the trash. A quick glance was all it took to see there were enough pieces to cover your wrists and around your chest and neck to make it hard to check your pulse.”
Fukuzawa thought back to the incident.
Had the actor’s skin felt odd when Fukuzawa checked his pulse? Even looking back, it was hard to tell. At the very least, he was more concerned about Murakami’s fate. Fukuzawa had paid no attention to how the actor’s skin felt after briefly touching it.
Most convincing was Murakami’s expression. Even Fukuzawa, who had witnessed many deaths before, and the actress who rushed over were fooled. One glance alone was enough to see that it was “too late.” Murakami’s acting carried complete conviction. Perhaps Fukuzawa would have figured things out as well if it weren’t for that.
Ranpo continued his sonorous speech.
“The only thing I had left to do was call the hospital you were transported to. There was an emergency patient named Tokio Murakami who died of his wounds, but when I asked what he looked like, they told me he was an old man in his sixties. You probably switched out IDs with someone who just happened to be similarly injured like you. The police would’ve figured it out soon enough.”
“I had an accomplice.” Murakami smiled.
“Figured.” Ranpo nodded as if it were obvious. “The playwright?”
“Precisely,” answered Murakami. “We planned this together. Probably at home relaxing as we speak.”
A few officers rushed out of the theater. They probably left to give orders to apprehend Murakami’s accomplice.
“The silicone padding, the hospital, the blood—there was so much evidence that you didn’t even have to go looking for it. All that’s left is a confession. That’s why”—Ranpo suddenly paused before his lips mischievously curled—“I prepared a place better suited for you than a dismal, boring interrogation room with the police. Enjoy.”
With that, Ranpo pointed into the air, and the lights went out. The theater was devoured by darkness. Without even a second to react, a thin pillar of light rained down over Murakami’s head, and Ranpo vanished into the abyss, as if Murakami were the only one left onstage. Everyone’s eyes silently focused on him.
“I…,” muttered Murakami in almost a whisper. He raised his voice and continued, “I am an actor! I become someone I am not and live a life that doesn’t exist! My job is to expose what it means to be human! It doesn’t matter if I play the lead part or a minor part. It doesn’t matter if I am a villain or hero. I become them with every part of my body! There is no other job for me! This is the only way I can live!”
The audience was captivated. Murakami, who had played and spoken as countless characters onstage, was now speaking genuinely from the heart. His sincerity was so great that the pain accompanying it was palpable. The audience couldn’t look away.
“But there is one thing that cannot be avoided while acting on the stage of life, and that is death! Death is not the opposite of life; it is life’s symbol and banner. However, it also provides a great paradox! Nobody alive has every experienced it! That’s why to me, the greatest job of all would be performing the death of a person. Not death as a device or a mere convention, but real death that I could convey to the audience. That was the pinnacle of theatrical performance to me. And this is the outcome of my toil.”
Murakami took a step toward the crowd, then yelled:
“Could you see it? Death is always hanging over our heads! Without a voice, it quietly waits for us! Theater and movies desperately try to express the idea with their structure, editing, music, and thoughtful dialogue. However, they can never express death itself! I am the first to ever perform death! And that is something I wanted everyone who came here today to behold!”
The audience was speechless. Fukuzawa probably felt the same way.
So that was his motive… He sent out a fake death threat and got innocent people involved. He played the victim and fooled the police. He drew his own blood and created two scripts to deceive his colleagues. All this trouble he put himself through…
That was just how important this was to him?
Or were performers simply born this way?
“I have no regrets,” stated Murakami. “This is the way I live. Performers do not need a stage. I will live on from the fruitful outcome of today, performing in others’ hearts until eternal rest is granted unto me.”
Silence reigned. Nobody said a word. Eventually, the p
olice slowly climbed to the stage and handcuffed Murakami. He didn’t resist. He even seemed cheerful. It wasn’t any surprise, though. He had accomplished his goal.
“I thought you were amazing,” Ranpo suddenly said from behind as Murakami was being taken away. “I didn’t quite understand all of it myself, but I don’t think it’s something that just anyone could do. By the way, take a look at the audience. Look at their faces.”
The light from the stage dimly illuminated the crowd. It probably looked like rows of countless faces to Murakami. And everyone’s expression…was the same.
“There are people here from all ages and genders, but they have two things in common. One is that they love your troupe’s acting, which is why they came. The other is they all witnessed the moment someone was killed right before their eyes.”
Murakami stopped breathing. His eyes were glued on the audience.
“You said your job was entertainment, right? But could you really call it that…when you look at their expressions?”
For the first time, Murakami’s eyes showed a sign of weakness.
“…I see.”
A small voice, unlike what one would expect from a stage actor with a powerful voice, fell from the stage.
“I was…only performing for myself.”
Broken in spirit, Murakami retired from the theater. The lights on the stage disappeared, and only silence followed. There was no drawing of the curtain or curtain call. There was no applause from the audience and no finale to end the play. Only silence.
When Fukuzawa returned to the lobby, Ranpo was proudly waiting for him with his hands on his hips.
“How did it feel?” Fukuzawa quietly asked Ranpo while walking over.
“I feel…”
Ranpo paused with a bold smile, then raised his voice so that the entire lobby could hear him declare:
“I feel sooo much better now!”
Figured…
The lobby was jam-packed with patrons who had since been allowed to leave their seats. Some people were calling their family, some were fervently discussing the incident among themselves, others still were idly thinking back about what just happened. On top of that, the city police and the theater staff were busily running in and out of the room, dealing with the aftermath. Some people were angry, some were sad, and some were bewildered. Among the crowd, Fukuzawa thought, Thank goodness.
His mind was at ease. Nobody died, and Ranpo solved the case. The rest was trivial. There was a group of three women in the lobby crying. They must have been Murakami’s fans. While passing by, Fukuzawa overheard them saying, “I’m just glad he’s alive!” Fukuzawa basically felt no different.
Looking back, no one could have asked for a more logical approach from Ranpo’s peculiar stage detective work. Even if he just unveiled the truth and the criminal, the criminal would have run away, and the audience would have been traumatized after witnessing a murder. It would have ended only with some light shed on the circumstantial evidence, thus leaving a deep scar on those who worked with Murakami. Just uncovering the truth wasn’t enough. Dragging Murakami out in front of everyone and having him confess was an absolute requirement. But to do that, Ranpo needed Murakami, a born actor, to believe there was no use in hiding any longer. Nothing could have been better than using the audience to draw him out. Ranpo’s entire monologue was for that moment.
“Revealing the truth onstage was a brilliant idea,” complimented Fukuzawa.
“Right?” Ranpo proudly smirked. “I’d always wanted to scream out whatever I wanted, just once. Did you see the blank looks on their faces? Seems like everyone knows just how amazing I am now! Whew. As a master detective, nothing beats unraveling a mystery in front of a large group of people! Just a universal truth.”
Something wasn’t sitting well with Fukuzawa.
“Wait. You unveiled the mystery onstage because—”
“I wanted the attention,” answered Ranpo with a straight face. It was as if he wanted to say, “Of course. Why else would I have done that?”
“…………………………………………………………Oh, okay.”
“Anyway, these glasses are amazing! The moment I put them on, my mind gets sharper, and all deductions reveal themselves to me! Those Kyoto elites sure have some amazing treasures! I feel so alive. I finally understand who I am! With these glasses and my skill, nobody can beat me!”
Ranpo was gleefully scrutinizing the black-framed spectacles. Of course, it was all in his head. There was nothing special about them. Everything Ranpo did, he did himself. He figured out what really happened just from the little information he got in Murakami’s dressing room. It was an extraordinary achievement born from the hastily made fib that his ability was the reason why he knew the truth.
Fukuzawa suddenly remembered a question he had that still had no answer.
“I saw something vaguely square-shaped and metallic behind the lights, close to the ceiling. What was that?”
“Oh, that? Here.”
Ranpo picked up something he had leaning against the wall.
“…Aluminum foil?”
“Yep. Just an ordinary square board. It’s a piece of reflector used for photography. Although it was used to temporarily mess with the investigation this time. I found it just lying on the ground in the shadow of a large prop on the stage wing.”
Fukuzawa groaned. It was light, so it could be easily pulled down with some string and taken home. The main reason Fukuzawa had thought there was an external device that had killed Murakami was because he’d seen the reflection. While it was only supposed to be a temporary decoy, it was created with very fine detail and thought.
“One more thing. How did you convince Ms. Egawa to help?”
Her transformation was significant enough to puzzle even Fukuzawa. She’d handled the lights with a smile and given the thumbs-up. How was Ranpo able to get on her good side like that?
“I didn’t really have to convince her to do anything. The moment I saw her, I knew she wanted to do stage production—lights, sound, that sort of thing. So I just told her I thought she seemed like she’d be good at it and asked if she could help. That’s all. She said she finally made up her mind and was going to start following her dream starting tomorrow.”
No wonder she was in such a good mood. Having one’s talents complimented by someone as gifted as Ranpo would probably change anyone.
“Good work, you two!” A city police officer briskly approached them and bowed. “That was beautiful; got me right here! When Watchdog here was checking the scene of the crime, I knew he was going to be able to solve this complicated case…but wow! I had no idea he was armed with a secret weapon! Mighty fine work, Detective!”
It was the young uniformed officer whom Fukuzawa was talking to earlier. Ranpo’s smug grin widened every time he was called Detective by the officer, while Fukuzawa’s expression was best described as dubious.
“Leave the rest to us. There’s still some paperwork that needs to get done, and we’ll need you to come to the station to outline the events for us, but—”
“An outline of the events?” asked Ranpo.
“Yep. Just a basic rundown of what you saw and heard that led you to solving the case.”
“Huh…? I mean, that’s fine, but my written statement’s just gonna say ‘Because I’m a skill user.’”
“A—a ‘skill user’? You mean like from the play?”
“Uh-huh,” Ranpo said with a nod.
Oh, great. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Officer, wait. Allow me to handle the interview at the station. As you can see, Ranpo is still a boy. He’s new to this and exhausted from the investigation. He gave me his version of the incident, so I should be able to—”
“The heck? I’m totally fine. If anything, I feel better now than when we got here.”
Ranpo curiously tilted his head. He was telling the truth. His skin had seemed to be glowing ever since he stole the show.
“Wai
t… This amazing young detective is a skill user?” The officer’s eyes opened wide.
“That’s right! The skill user capable of knowing the truth behind every case, the master detective Ranpo Edogawa!”
“Wait… Wait.” Fukuzawa stopped him in a fluster. “Ranpo, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but you’re not a skill user. You were able to uncover the truth through observation and reasoning alone. That’s why—”
“Huh?” Ranpo seemed bewildered. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible. Besides, you were the one who told me it was a skill in the first place.”
“Yes, but—”
“The reason I’m special is because I’m a skill user. Do you really think it would be possible for me to see things that others don’t, otherwise?”
“I sure don’t. I am just a dumb cop, though.”
“Listen, you—”
“Oh, hey! Is that a police car?! Whoa! Are we gonna get in that and go to the station?”
“If that’s what you want, I can make it happen.”
“Hold on. Listen to me.”
“Ha-ha-ha! You cops better start buttering me up while you can! I’m sure it’s obvious, but I could steal all your jobs! A skill that can solve cases is a godsend! On second thought, it’s better than that! It’s God itself! I am God!”
“Oh, I’m not worthy! Thank the heavens for bestowing you upon us!”
“H-hold on, you two…”
Fukuzawa was at a loss. The lie he told to save Ranpo was slowly growing. At this rate, the white lie was only going to get bigger until the damage was irreversible.
However…
“I feel so alive. I finally understand who I am!”
When Fukuzawa first met Ranpo, the boy was a cynic who had turned his back to the world, but now he was carefree, smiling, and so full of life.
Forget it.
Just because it was his extraordinary mind and not a skill didn’t make Ranpo any less exceptional. If anything, his talents would make even a skill user goggle. So one could argue that he was being humble whenever he called himself a skill user. Besides, Ranpo wasn’t always going to be able to solve mysteries with such ease, and when that happened…was he going to find out the truth for himself? Or would Fukuzawa be there to break it to him?
The Untold Origins of the Detective Agency Page 15
