The Decagon House Murders (2 page)

Tokyo, 2015

PROLOGUE

The sea at night. A time of quietude.

The dull sound of the waves welled up from the endless obscurity, only to disappear again.

He sat down on the cold concrete of the breakwater and faced the expansive darkness, his body veiled by the white vapour of his breath.

He had been suffering for months. He had been brooding for weeks. He had been thinking about just one thing for days. And now his mind was focusing on one single, clearly defined goal.

Everything had been planned.

Preparations were almost complete.

All he needed to do now was to wait for
them
to walk into the trap.

He knew his plan was far from perfect. It was best described as shoddy rather than meticulous. But he’d never intended to plan everything out in perfect detail in the first place.

No matter how hard he tries, man will always be mere man, and never a god.

It was easy to imagine oneself as such, but he knew that as long as humans were simply humans, even the most gifted amongst them could never become a god.

And how could anyone who was not a god predict the future, shaped as it was by human psychology, human behaviour and pure chance?

Even if the world was viewed as a chessboard, and every person on it a chess piece, there would still be a limit as to how far future moves could be predicted. The most meticulous plan, plotted to the last detail,  could still go wrong sometime, somewhere, somehow. Reality is brimming with too many coincidences and whimsical actions by humans for even the craftiest scheme to succeed exactly as planned.

The most desirable plan was not one that limited your own moves, but a flexible one that could adapt to circumstances: that was the conclusion he had come to.

He could not allow himself to be constrained.

It was not the plot that was vital, but the framework. A framework where it was always possible to make the best choice, depending on the circumstances at the time.

Whether he could pull it off depended on his own intellect, quick thinking and, most of all, luck.

I know
Man will never become a god
.

But, in a way, he was undoubtedly about to take on that role.

Judgment. Yes, judgment.

In the name of revenge, he was going to pronounce judgment on them—on all of them.

Judgment outside the court of law.

He was not a god and so could never be forgiven for what he was about to do—he was completely conscious of that fact. The act would be called “a crime” by his fellow men and, if found out, he himself would be judged according to the law.

Nevertheless, the common sense approach could no longer keep his emotions under control. Emotions? No, nothing as shallow as that. Absolutely not. This was not just some powerful feeling within him. It was the cry of his soul, his last tie to life, his reason for living.

The sea at night. A time of quietude.

No flickering of the stars, no light of the ships off-coast could disturb the darkness into which he gazed. He contemplated his plan once again.

Preparations were almost finished. Soon they, his sinful prey, would walk into his trap. A trap consisting of ten equal sides and interior angles.

They would arrive there suspecting nothing. Without any hesitation or fear they would walk into the decagonal trap, where they would be sentenced.

What awaits them there is, of course, death. It is the obvious punishment for all of them.

And no simple deaths. Blowing them all up in one go would be infinitely easier and more certain, but he should not choose that route.

He has to kill them in order, one by one. Precisely like that story written by the famous British female writer—slowly, one after the other. He shall make them know. The suffering, the sadness, the pain and terror of death.

Perhaps he had become mentally unstable. He himself would be the first to admit to that.

I know—no matter how I try to justify it, what I am planning to do is not sane
.

He slowly shook his head at the pitch-black roiling sea.

His hand, thrust into his coat pocket, touched something hard. He grabbed the object and took it out, holding it in front of his eyes.

It was a small transparent bottle of green glass.

It was sealed off securely with a stopper, and bottled inside was all he had managed to gather from inside his heart: what people like to call “conscience.” A few folded sheets of paper, sealed. On it he had printed in small letters the plan he was about to execute. It had no addressee. It was a letter of confession.

I know Man will never become a god
.

And precisely because he understood that, he did not want to leave the final judgment to a human to make. It didn’t matter where the bottle ended up. He just wanted to pose the question to the sea—the source of all life—whether, ultimately, he was right or not.

The wind blew harder.

A sharp coldness went down his spine and his whole body shivered.

He threw the bottle into the darkness.

CHAPTER ONE: THE FIRST DAY ON THE ISLAND

1

‘I’m afraid this will turn into the same stale discussion though,’ said Ellery.

He was a fair young man, tall and lean.

‘In my opinion, mystery fiction is, at its core, a kind of intellectual game. An exciting game of reasoning in the form of a novel. A game between the reader and the great detective, or the reader and the author. Nothing more or less than that.

‘So enough of the realism of the social school of mystery fiction once so favoured in Japan. A female office worker is murdered in a one bedroom apartment and, after wearing out the soles of his shoes through a painstaking investigation, the police detective finally arrests the victim’s boss, who turns out to be her illicit lover. No more of that! No more of the corruption and secret dealings of the political world, no more tragedies brought forth by the stress of modern society and suchlike. What mystery novels need are—some might call me old-fashioned—a great detective, a mansion, its shady residents, bloody murders, impossible crimes, and never-before-seen tricks played by the murderer. Call it my castle in the sky, but I’m happy as long as I can enjoy such a world. But always in an intellectual manner.’

They were on a fishing boat reeking of oil, surrounded by the peaceful waves of the sea. The engine was making worrisome sounds as if it were trying too hard.

‘That stinks.’

Carr, leaning against the boatrail, scowled, and stuck out his long, freshly-shaven chin.

‘I’m not so sure about that, Ellery. You and your “in an intellectual manner.” Fine if you consider mystery fiction a game, but I can’t stand you emphasising “intellectual” every single time.’

‘That’s surprising coming from you.’

‘It’s just elitism. Not every reader is oh-so-smart as you.’

‘That’s so true….’

Ellery kept a straight face as he looked at Carr.

‘…and it’s very regrettable. I realise it all too well simply by walking around the campus. Not even all the members of our club are what you might call intelligent. There are one or two of them who might even be intellectually challenged.’

‘Picking a fight?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

Ellery shrugged.

‘Nobody said you were one of them. What I mean by intelligent is their attitude towards the game. I’m not talking about smart or stupid. There’s no one on the face of the earth who doesn’t possess at least some degree of intelligence. Similarly, there’s no one on the face of the earth who doesn’t enjoy games. What I’m talking about is an ability to play while maintaining an intellectual approach.’

Carr snorted and turned his head away. A faintly mocking smile appeared on Ellery’s face as he turned towards the boy with the youthful face and round glasses standing next to him.

‘And furthermore, Leroux, detective fiction evolved based on its own set of rules, and if we consider it to be its own unique universe, in the form of an intellectual game, then I must admit that in these modern times, the foundation of that universe has weakened severely.’

‘Oh.’ Leroux looked doubtful.

Ellery continued:

‘It’s a discussion that’s been going on since time immemorial. Diligent police officers performing their job slowly but surely; solid, efficiently run organisations; the latest techniques in forensic investigation: the police can no longer be regarded as incompetent. They are almost
too
competent. Realistically, there’s no place any more for the exploits of the great detectives of yore, with their little grey cells as their only weapon. Mr. Holmes would be laughed at if he appeared in one of our modern cities.’

‘I think that might be an exaggeration. A modern Holmes, fit for our modern times, will surely appear.’

‘You’re right, of course. He’ll make his entrance as a master of the latest techniques in forensic pathology and science. And he’ll explain it all to poor dear Watson, using complex specialist jargon and formulas that no reader will ever even begin to comprehend. Elementary, my dear Watson, were you not even aware of that?’

With his hands inside the pockets of his beige raincoat, Ellery shrugged again.

‘I’m just taking the argument to the extreme, you understand. But it illustrates my point perfectly. I don’t feel at all like applauding the victory of the unromantic police techniques over the magnificent logic of the great detectives of the Golden Age. Any author who wishes to write a detective story these days is bound to face this dilemma.

‘And the simplest way round it—or rather let’s say the most effective—is the “chalet in the snowstorm” method of establishing a sealed environment.’

‘I see.’ Leroux nodded and tried to look serious. ‘So what you mean is that of all the methods used in classic detective fiction, the “chalet in the snowstorm” is the one best suited for modern times.’

Late March. It was almost spring, but the wind blowing across the sea was still cold.

On the S—Peninsula on the east coast of the Ōita Prefecture in Kyūshū lay J—Cape. The boat had left the rustic S—Town harbour
near J—Cape, and was moving away from the cape, leaving wakes behind it in the water and the sight of J—Cape disappearing into the sea. Its destination was a small island about five kilometres off the cape.

The weather was perfectly clear, but because of the dust storms so typical of spring in the region, the sky was more white than blue. The sunlight shining down turned the rippling waves to silver. Dressed in the dusty veil carried by the wind from the faraway mainland, all of the scenery became misty.

‘I don’t see any other boats here.’

The large man, who had been smoking silently while leaning on the boatrail opposite to Ellery and the others, suddenly spoke. He had long, unkempt hair and a rough beard covered the lower half of his face. It was Poe.

‘The tide on the other side of the island’s too dangerous, so everyone avoids it,’ replied the elderly but energetic fisherman. ‘The fishing spots ’round here are more to the south, ya see, so ya won’ see any boats goin’ in the direction of the island, even those that’ve just left the ’arbour. By the way, y’all really strange college students, aren’t ya?’

‘Do we really seem that strange?’

‘Well, for one thing, y’all have strange names. I just heard ya use odd names like Lulu and Elroy and such. You like them too?’

‘Yes, well, they’re sort of nicknames.’

‘Kids at universities all’ve these kinds of nicknames nowadays?’

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘So ya really are an odd bunch, eh?’

The two young women, in front of the fisherman and Poe, were sitting on a long wooden box set in the centre of the boat, which served as a makeshift bench. Including the fisherman’s son, who was steering the rudder in the back, the boat held eight passengers.

The six people besides the fisherman and his son were all students of K—University of O—City in the Ōita Prefecture and also members of the university’s Mystery Club. “Ellery,” “Carr” and “Leroux” were—as “Poe” had said—something like nicknames.

Needless to say, the names were derived from the American, British and French mystery writers they all respected so much: Ellery Queen, John Dickson Carr, Gaston Leroux and Edgar Allan Poe. The two women were called “Agatha” and “Orczy,” the full original names being, of course, Agatha Christie, the Queen of Crime, and Baroness Orczy, known for
The Old Man in the Corner
.

‘Look o’er there. Ya can see the building on Tsunojima now,’ the fisherman yelled out loudly. The six youngsters all turned to look at the island that was coming closer and closer.

It was small and flat.

A vertical wall rose from the sea, covered at the top by a dark fringe. It resembled a pile of gigantic
10
yen
coins. The three short capes, or “horns,” protruding into the sea were what had given it the name of Tsunojima, or “Horn Island.”

Because there were sheer cliffs on all sides of the island, the boat could only reach it via a small inlet, which was why the island was only occasionally visited by curious amateur fishermen. About twenty years ago, someone had moved there and constructed a strange building called the Blue Mansion, but now it was genuinely uninhabited.

‘What’s that on top of the cliff?’ asked Agatha, getting up from the bench. She squinted her eyes in delight as she held one hand on her long, wavy hair dancing in the wind.

‘That’s the half-burnt annex building. Heard the main mansion burnt down to the ground completely,’ the fisherman explained in a loud voice.

‘So that’s the “Decagon House,” eh, pops?’ Ellery asked the fisherman. ‘Have you ever been on the island?’

‘I’ve gone into the inlet a few times, to avoid the wind, but I’ve never set foot on the island itself. Haven’t even come anywhere close to it since the incident. Y’all better be careful, too.’

‘Careful about what?’ asked Agatha, turning round.

The fisherman lowered his voice.

‘They say
it
appears on the island.’

Agatha and Ellery gave each other a quick look, both puzzled by the answer.

‘A ghost. Ya know, the ghost of the man who got murdered. Nakamura something.’

The numerous wrinkles chiselled into the fisherman’s dark face turned into frowns and, as if to frighten them, he grinned at the students.

‘I heard ya can see a white figure on the cliff o’er there if ya pass by here on a rainy day. ’Tis the ghost of that Nakamura guy, trying to lure ya there by wavin’ his hands at ya. There’re other stories too, like people havin’ seen a light at the abandoned annex, or will-o’-the-wisps floatin’ near the burnt-down mansion, or even one ’bout a boat with fishermen being sunk by the ghost.’

‘It’s no good, pops.’ Ellery chuckled. ‘No use trying to scare us with those stories. We’ll just get even more excited.’

The only person among the six students who seemed to have been scared, even a little, was Orczy, who was still sitting on the wooden box. Agatha didn’t seem at all perturbed. On the contrary, she was even muttering: ‘That’s so awesome,’ in delight. She turned towards the back of the boat.

‘Hey, are those stories really true?’ she excitedly asked the fisherman’s son—still a boy—who was holding the rudder.

‘All lies.’

He shot a glance at Agatha’s face and, turning away as if he had been dazzled by something bright, said gruffly: ‘I heard the rumours, but I’ve never seen a ghost myself.’

‘Not even once?’ said Agatha, disappointedly. But then she smiled mischievously.

‘But it wouldn’t be all that strange if ghosts really did appear there,’ she said.

‘For it is the place where
that
happened.’

It was 11 o’clock in the morning of Wednesday, March 26th, 1986.

2

The inlet was located on the west coast of the island.

It was flanked on both sides by steep cliffs. To the right, facing the inlet, was a dangerous-looking bare rock surface and this cliff wall,