The Ginza Ghost Read online

  And well, Mr. Student, that is why those two went out to B Town the following day.

  It’s a very small rural town, so asking around at the police box, town hall and other places quickly led to the conclusion that there was no shop handling funeral accessories around there that answered to Mr. Katayama’s description.

  The two dispirited subordinates returned to H Station, and reported their findings to the assistant-supervisor. To their surprise, he replied in a surprisingly pleasant manner: ‘I rather suspected it’d turn out like that. That’s perfect. While you were gone, I went to the depot and asked around to see where Osa-Sen of the Mourning Locomotive gets his wreaths, and I learnt that he always gets them from Jippōsha, a shop selling funeral accessories in the backstreet market area of H City, right behind this very depot. I also learnt that the shop not only sells display confectionery, but makes and sells its own incense. I’m going there right now. If we can go there ourselves and confirm that there is some sort of connection between Jippōsha and B Town that occurs once a week, that would mean the case would be well on its way to its logical conclusion.’

  And so the three of them left the office and went out round the back of the depot. It didn’t take long for them to find a shabby-looking two-storey funeral shop: Jippōsha.

  Mr. Katayama entered first and, in a seemingly experienced manner, ordered a small wreath. A man in his fifties with a ruddy face and a broad forehead—bald and pointy—was busy crushing some dried plants inside a mortar with an incredibly gloomy expression. As soon as Mr. Katayama placed his order, the man—probably the owner of the business—started to arrange white imitation flowers on a small, round wreath of straw which had been wrapped with green tape. Meanwhile, Mr. Katayama looked around the store.

  There was a big glass cabinet behind the counter with what appeared to be display confectionery. The sliding paper door next to the cabinet, which led to the back of the building, was slightly ajar. Through the gap they could see a young woman—probably the daughter of the owner. Her posture was a curious one, with only her face visible from a strange angle. The woman had been gingerly peeking through the sliding paper door—revealing only her face—ever since the men had entered the shop. Never before had Mr. Katayama seen such a charming face. Her hair was done in a simple manner, with a bun at the back of her head, but with her round, chubby face, her skin as fair as candle wax, her small nose and mouth and her round eyes that looked as gentle as if silk had been laid out there… it was almost frightening how alluring this woman looked. As she stared at the group, she forced a weird smile on her face and shrieked out a ‘Welcome’ to them.

  I was told about this visit over and over again after the incident was over. Anyway, the moment Mr. Katayama laid eyes on this girl, he felt he would never be able to forget her. He himself didn’t know how to describe the odd feeling, but it was as if her image had been burned right into his eyes. So there we had this strange daughter, and her fearsome looking father…. Yes, there was definitely some deep secret hidden within this household…. You know, just a feeling… Oh, I seem to have been talking quite a lot about the girl.

  Up to that point, Mr. Katayama had been looking around the shop in silence, but then a satisfied gleam appeared in his eyes. He turned to the father, who was busy working on the wreath and asked him as he pointed to the various beautiful plants kept in a pail:

  ‘Those are beautiful flowers. Do they grow even in this cold weather?’

  The man raised his head.

  ‘Of course, but only in the greenhouses of the agricultural school in B Town. You can buy them there on Saturday evenings. Here, it’s finished. That’ll be sixty sen[xii]. Thank you.’

  Mr. Katayama took the wreath, paid the price and exited the shop. Yoshioka followed closely behind, but as he looked back he could see the bewitching, gloomy woman still staring out of the door, showing only her face.

  Once outside, Yoshioka caught up with his boss and asked him in bewilderment:

  ‘Mr. Katayama, that man confessed he went to B Town every Saturday afternoon, so why didn’t we nab him right away?’

  ‘Because we’re not the authorities,’ answered the assistant-supervisor. ‘And there’s no need to rush things. Suppose we had detained him, what conclusive evidence do we have at this stage? Granted, I’m more than sure that the culprit you chased last night was indeed that man. However, wouldn’t it be best if we waited a few days and caught him right in the act on Saturday night, so he can’t deny the accusation? So, stay calm, at least until Saturday, and let’s devote our attention to the remaining mysteries we have.’

  And so the group obediently returned to the depot.

  The following day, Mr. Katayama started an investigation into the gloomy father and daughter of Jippōsha, by asking around in the neighbourhood.

  Over the next two days, they learnt one new fact after another. The father and daughter led a lonely life, with just the two of them to keep each other company. They were not well-off by any means, and had little contact with their neighbours. The daughter’s name was Toyo and she was a demanding woman. Curiously, she hadn’t gone out of the house at all during the last few years, but spent day after day peering out of the backroom through the half-open paper door at the people passing by on the street, as if waiting for someone. The father, on the other hand, was very fond of his daughter and would do anything for his Toyo. Whenever his daughter had a tantrum, he became so anxious to placate her—even breaking into tears—that it was embarrassing to behold. The daughter’s hysterical behaviour had worsened over the previous six months, but had become strangely calmer this last month, when she’d started singing old-fashioned popular songs like Katyusha or The Sunken Bell in a cheerful, childlike voice and talking loudly to her father in a happy manner. Then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, she’d become hysterical again in the last few days.

  I myself was extremely surprised by how thorough Mr. Katayama’s investigation had been. You see, I myself had often visited that shop for purchases. And each time I’d see the daughter’s face peeking from beyond the paper sliding door. She’d laugh in—how can I put it?—a seductive manner, and with her wide-open soft, silky round eyes aimed at me, her gentle but intense look would penetrate right into my mind…. After each visit, my only recollection was how seductive she looked. And her father was just as Mr. Katayama’s investigations had described. Even when he was busy working he would take the time to look back at his daughter with loving eyes, and say things like: ‘You’ll catch a cold if you leave that sliding door open,’ or ‘Why won’t you have a chat about the trains with this customer here?’ I was witness more than once to his loving care of his daughter, handling her as if she could break with just a touch.

  Anyway, once Mr. Katayama appeared satisfied with his investigations, he summoned his subordinates and a constable of H Police Station to the pine forest near the curve in the tracks the following Saturday night—early Sunday morning, to be exact—to catch the father. And so, on the eighteenth of March, at four-thirty in the morning, the four of them were to be found silently crouching in the darkness.

  It was shortly after that, however, that Mr. Katayama’s plans started to go wrong. Five minutes went by after the night train passed at forty-two minutes past four, but to their surprise, the pig thief did not make an appearance.

  Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The group kept holding their breath, but their target did not present himself. Had he become cautious because of what had happened last time? Eventually, the freight train pulled by D50-444 thundered past.

  ‘…Hmm. He must have noticed our stakeout. We’ll just have to go straight to Jippōsha then,’ said Mr. Katayama as he stood up in a foul mood.

  The group caught the next train back to H Station, and it was already morning when they crossed the station grounds towards the locomotive depot on their way to Jippōsha. But there they saw Osa-Sen of the Mourning Locomotive and his assistant Sugimoto plodding slowly towards them. And the soot ben
eath Sugimoto’s nose had been wiped clean!

  ‘It happened again.’

  ‘What happened?’ exclaimed Mr. Katayama.

  ‘I definitely felt it this time. It was beneath the bridge about one block away from the station. It was a woman’s hair that was clinging to the wheels of the locomotive. It wasn’t a pig….’

  The group left the task of arresting the owner of Jippōsha to the police officer, and turned back. It didn’t take long for them to arrive at the scene where the train had run over the victim, slightly west of H Station.

  It was already morning, so onlookers were already crawling all over the freezing bridge and around tracks wet from frost. When the group managed to push their way through the crowds, the very first sensation that reached them was the reeking smell of flesh and blood. The next thing was the gruesome sight of a woman’s head almost beneath their feet, the upper half of which was missing, her brains and both her eyeballs having flown off somewhere. Through her eye sockets and the hole in her head they could see the railway track covered in black bloodstains. As they stared at this horrific sight, it slowly dawned on them that it was the daughter of the funeral shop owner.

  Mr. Katayama led the trembling group further down the track. The sight of what was lying on the rails caused widespread vomiting.

  There appeared to be two woman’s legs, severed at the tops of the thighs, but about eight or nine sun in diameter, as thick as logs. The skin was ashen-grey, deprived of the colour of life. Mr. Katayama crouched down beside them with a pale face, but didn’t hesitate to poke the skin. A number of creases appeared at the spot, but the skin didn’t give. Mr. Katayama wore a troubled expression as he said gravely:

  ‘…These are not swellings caused by the cut. Have you ever heard of how the parasite filariasis, which closes the lymphatic system, can cause lymph accumulation, or how streptococcus can infect your body through just a small wound, causing swellings? Sometimes, those symptoms are followed by elephantiasis, which is what we have here. A friend of mine at university suffered from it, too. The disease affects mostly the legs, with the skin swelling up due to the inflammation, making the patient lose their mobility. I haven’t heard of any cases of elephantiasis leading to death, but apparently it’s quite hopeless to expect recovery….’

  He stood up.

  ‘Now we must draw a veil over the case. Who would have guessed that a few incidents of pigs getting run over would end up in a tragedy like this? I’ve been careless. The girl almost certainly committed suicide. Let’s discuss it further while we make our way to Jippōsha. If that man sees his beloved daughter dead like this, he’ll go mad….’

  And as the group walked on, Mr. Katayama briefly explained the last remaining mystery of this bizarre case: how his intuition had led him to the motive behind the thefts of the pigs by Jippōsha’s owner.

  Mr. Student, I don’t know whether I was happy that Mr. Katayama’s intuition was on the mark, but the fact he was correct was soon borne out by a farewell letter found by the medical examiner on the body of the girl, addressed to Osa-Sen of the Mourning Locomotive.

  The girl’s letter… look, I have it with me right now. Rather than repeating Mr. Katayama’s explanation, you’d better read through it yourself. To be honest, it is impossible for me to repeat that self-satisfied explanation of Mr. Katayama’s. It’s too heartbreaking.

  This tale… it’s a terribly painful memory to me. It hit me very hard so many years ago. Please read the letter yourself….

  Dear Osa-Sen,

  I am Toyo, the daughter of the owner of Jippōsha. By the time you read this letter, I will have left for a place where I won’t feel embarrassed again. That is why I am able to write everything down here. Please heed what I have to say.

  I have lived an unfortunate life ever since I was a child. My family does not have much money, so my father and mother were not able to give their daughter as much happiness as other children. So, four years ago, when I got a small wound on my right leg because of a little accident at the age of nineteen, I was not able to go to the doctor often enough. My wound got infected, and I caught a disease called St. Anthony’s Fire. I went to the doctor, who cured it, but about six months later I caught a similar disease and it took me a lot longer to recover. Finally, I caught a terrible disease called elephantiasis, and both my legs became too horrible to look at. According to the doctor, it is not a fatal disease, but I will never recover from it. And as spring and autumn passed by each year, my legs became worse.

  Oh, Dear Osa-Sen.

  What an unfortunate woman I am. I wanted to curse my father and mother for giving me this fate. But from that time on, my parents started to treat me differently.

  My father became desperate and started to treat me lovingly. My mother begged me to forgive her each day like a madwoman. And in the end, she did become crazy.

  And exactly three years ago, on an autumn night when a cold rain was falling, my mother went mad and ran out of our home in her bare feet, and was run over by a train beneath a bridge.

  Dear Osa-Sen.

  The operator driving that locomotive at that time was you. And you were so kind. You offered a wreath of flowers to the spirit of my mother. And you would come to my home to buy wreaths whenever you had run over a person. What a pure heart you must have.

  Oh, my dear, dear Osa-Sen.

  From the time I first saw you at our shop, I fell deeply in love with you. I could not stop thinking about you. My father eventually found out about my feelings. By that time, I was all he had on his mind, so whenever you’d come to buy wreaths, he’d always take as much time as possible to make them.

  But heed what I have to say, my beloved Osa-Sen.

  My body is too horrible to look at, so I could not get any closer to you. But as time went by, I felt more frustrated, and I became more hysterical and demanding with each passing day. How often did I not cry out to my father about how much I wanted to see you, even though you only came to us two or three times a year? My father couldn’t stand to watch my suffering any more, passing each and every day peeking from the backroom in the hopes you would come. So about one month ago, my father promised that each week, whenever he’d go to B Town to purchase flowers, he’d pray to a very effective god for me. And what do you think happened? That very effective god looked down at poor me, and made it so I could see you each Sunday. Oh, can you just believe how blessed I was? I’d sing each day, and have pleasant chats with my father….

  But that only lasted for a short time, and you did not come last Sunday. And my father said heaven would get angry, so he couldn’t pray any more, so that night he only planned to buy flowers. I wasn’t able to control myself any more, and had a big row with my father.

  Oh, my beloved Osa-Sen.

  I had hold of a drill used to make coffins at the time, and with it I accidently killed my own father.

  There is no reason for me to live any more. Embracing this letter, I will depart for the place where my mother is by your hand. I will leave a wreath of flowers at my home after I finish this letter. Please hang it in your locomotive for this wretched girl.

  The seventeenth of March (Evening).

  Toyo of Jippōsha

  …You’ve finished reading the letter? As written here, by the time the group led by Mr. Katayama arrived at Jippōsha, the father was already cold, leaning over a half-built coffin, with a large drill plunged through his stomach up towards of his heart.

  Mr. Student, I think you now understand why I quit my job at the railway, and why I return each eighteenth of March to visit the public cemetery in H City. What? Ah, yes, you’re right…. You probably already guessed some time ago, but I am Senzō Osada, also known as Osa-Sen of the Mourning Locomotive. Oh, I seem to have spoken for quite some time. It appears we’re near H Station now. Well then, I bid you farewell.

  First published in Profile, September Issue, Shōwa 9 (1934).

  THE MONSTER OF THE LIGHTHOUSE

  1

  　The mu
rky sky was covered by a veil of sea fog so typical of the North Pacific Ocean on that fateful night when, without any warning, the light of the Shiomaki Lighthouse suddenly disappeared. We were working in the marine laboratory on the other side of the bay.

  Fishery laboratories and lighthouses don’t fall under the same jurisdiction, but our work had the sea in common, so we were on friendly terms with our neighbours in the lighthouse, in this region faraway removed from human society. In fact, as we were always peering into our microscopes to stare at fish eggs and assess the quality of kompu kelp, the reassuring sight of Shiomaki Lighthouse, which projected a gently shining ray of light over the wild seas at night, always comforted us. We had fostered a sense of admiration for our neighbours within. So when the night guard got laboratory director Azumaya and me out of our beds to tell us about the strange disappearance of the light, we set out along the dark beach path towards Cape Shiomaki with a sinking feeling in our stomachs.

  Cape Shiomaki jutted out into the sea for about half a nautical mile, surrounded by many reefs. At a point several miles north of the cape, a cold current moving south from the Kuril Islands along the Sanriku coast comes into contact with a warm current moving in a northerly direction. At that location, those currents are transformed into a ferocious undercurrent flowing into the reef area of Cape Shiomaki. Blocked by countless projections on the sea floor, the undercurrent breaks up and suddenly rises to the surface. If you were to take a look at the sea surface, you’d see multiple streams silently racing against each other. That was why there were disproportionately many accidents here on densely foggy nights and sailors feared the place, calling it the Demon’s Cape.