After taking in a deep breath, Ranpo continued, “It was applied to the murder itself as well.” He stuck out a finger and pointed at the front-row seats. “As you can see, there is an empty seat here.”
The audience turned their gaze toward the seat. It was where the gentleman suspect had been sitting before running away.
“The city police believe that man was the killer and are looking for him. Why? Because he disappeared right after the murder. I mean, it’s only normal to think that the true culprit ran away. But as I mentioned earlier, the narrative is in reverse. Our structures have been swapped along with the victim and killer as well. In other words—he isn’t the killer, but a victim.”
Thereupon, Ranpo quietly stared into the audience. Nobody said a word. They got lost in what Ranpo was saying, even forgetting to breathe.
“There is a place in this closed-off theater that not even the police have searched.” Ranpo then turned his back to the audience and started to walk. “Because it’s the worst place for someone who wants to hide. For you see, there would be countless witnesses. Plus, if it isn’t someone who works in the theater, they would stick out like a sore thumb… Just like I am right now. Yes… I am talking about here.”
Ranpo walked to the very back of the stage where there was a white screen to project the backgrounds onto. Then he tore down the cloth screen without a moment of hesitation.
“The victim was here all along.”
The gentleman from earlier was tied up and unconscious on the floor. He’d probably been injected with something. Sweat ran down his pale face, and his closed eyes showed no sign of opening anytime soon. Nevertheless, it appeared he was still alive.
“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?”