“There is one more thing I want to ask you,” continued Fukuzawa. “It’s about the man in the suit who was tied up and unconscious. Who is he? Why did you do that to him?”
“Oh, that guy? I heard he’s…another one of the plan’s objectives,” said Murakami with a shrug.
“You ‘heard’?”
“Yes. Originally, I came up with this plan with the playwright, Kurahashi, but he apparently had his own goals in mind. I don’t know all the details…but apparently that man in the suit rarely ever shows himself, so meeting him was one of Kurahashi’s goals or something. I wasn’t expecting him to catch the guy and tie him up, though.”
“What?” Fukuzawa knitted his brows, at which moment—
“The suspect! Bring me the suspect!”
—what sounded like pounding footsteps was immediately followed by the door to the dressing room being thrown open. A slightly older detective stood at the doorway, trying to catch his breath.
“What happened?” asked Fukuzawa.
“W-Watchdog! We’ve got big trouble! Has the suspect been here this entire time?!”
“He’s been under surveillance the whole time, as you can see.”
Fukuzawa glanced at the nervous-looking actor, whose eyes were darting back and forth between Fukuzawa and the detective. It seemed he had no idea what was going on.
“The playwright—he was found dead in his home! Somebody killed him!”
“What?!”
The detective spoke while trying to catch his breath, his eyes shaking with fear.
“The door to his room was locked, and something impaled him from behind—but there was no weapon or any signs of a struggle at the scene! It’s like an invisible person just came in and stabbed him!”
Ranpo Edogawa sat in the back of the police car alone, idly gazing at the nightscape as it went by. The sun had disappeared before anyone even noticed. As darkness with hints of blue hung over the city of Yokohama, only white and yellow lights drew his eye as they drifted across the car window’s glass like rain. Ranpo stared at the city while resting his elbow on the door. The city’s night was bright. The countryside he grew up in didn’t have artificial light, and everyone would be getting ready for bed at this hour.
The city is so much better.
Ranpo was absorbed in thought. Boisterous and puzzling still beat out quiet and dismal in his book. He hated the countryside. He hated the people, the school, and essentially everything else there. The only thing he liked was his parents.
“Hey, Officer.” Ranpo suddenly struck up conversation with the young cop driving. “How much longer until we get there?”
“We’re almost there,” the officer answered with a bright, amiable tone.
“Oh,” Ranpo vaguely replied before returning his gaze to the city.
After glancing at Ranpo through the rearview mirror, the officer cheerfully said:
“You really impressed me today! Seriously, that deduction made me emotional! You’re a real mini detective! You and Fukuzawa make a great team together. I can already see your name in tomorrow’s morning paper!”
“Eh, what can I say? But I don’t think that old guy’s gonna team up with me.”
“Huh? Really? I totally thought yo
u two were—”
“He’s afraid of others,” Ranpo bluntly stated.
A few seconds of silenced passed through the car.
“Uh… That bodyguard guy’s supposedly a master martial artist. Plus, he’s known to be extremely scary… I heard even the police and military’s top brass get nervous when they meet him.”
Many members of police organizations hold qualifications in kendo and jujutsu. At times, their respect for masters of the art, be in a senior disciple or instructor, surpasses professional rank and position. Therefore, a martial artist of Fukuzawa’s caliber had quite a bit of influence in these organizations. In a sense, Fukuzawa was feared by both villains and police alike.