Togakushi Legend Murders. Yasuo Uchida

      _{The bolt came loose with a noise so loud it frightened him. Apparently, though, it was lost in the wind, because he heard no sign of any movement in the house. Since sundown, the wind had been strong enough to sway the larger branches of the trees. The whole mountainside had come astir, and an occasional gust of wind roared like a howling beast past the eaves. It was a south wind, out of season for the end of November. The old people of the village said such a wind could bode no good. But for him, it came at just the right time.}

      Slowly, very slowly, he opened the heavy sliding door, then crept up the step into the hallway, his face so close to the ground that he might as well have been sniffing for scents. Lying on the floor, he closed the door. Making sure there was still no noise in the house, he finally stood up and headed for the room he wanted.

      He was a little lame in the right leg. During military training the year before last, the gun of a new recruit had gone off accidentally, sending a bullet through his right thigh. At the time, he could have killed the man, but when he realized that the injury had gotten him out of further military service, he could have thanked him. Actually, it didn't hurt much any more, and although he couldn't run, at least he didn't have much trouble walking. In the presence of others, however, he was very careful to exaggerate his limp, and at every change of season, he complained to everyone he met of the pain, and cursed his ill fortune. Whenever he met families of soldiers at the front, of course, he always told them that he couldn't wait to get into battle himself. If only his leg would heal, he would add, chewing his lip.

      Nearly all the young men of the village had been drafted. Even those with families, as long as they were young and healthy, were receiving their red slips one after another. The only ones yet left were those who were extremely lucky, or those like him, who were physically unsound. And no matter how lucky a man might be, the red slip was sure to come sooner or later. But he had made his own luck, and as long as he kept on acting, he would be safe.

      As the tide of war turned against the country, the sad notifications of those killed in battle were pouring in. Some families had already lost all their breadwinners. He had been going around visiting such families, consoling the widows, and helping out with any work requiring strength. Men's hands had become scarce in the village, and in spite of his disability, his services had become invaluable everywhere. He had always been a careful and diligent worker anyway, and his somewhat guilty conscience had pushed him to work even harder.

      Needless to say, no matter how good the intentions of a young man, it was not really desirable for him to enter the home of a young widow or a daughter come of age. In the present state of things, however, society could not afford the luxury of such gossip, so it was tacitly understood that everyone would look the other way. Actually, he couldn't say what his intentions had been. Maybe it was just what happened when a man and woman were thrown together like that. It had happened to him with not just one widow, but three. And he—not particularly attractive to women until then—had gone into such ecstasy as to believe that any village woman worthy of the name could be his for the asking. Why, then, had he been forever wearing himself out for others? More and more, he had felt a compulsion to take

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