"This was the fiftieth time he had fallen in love, starting in third grade in elementary school. The forty-nine broken hearts he had suffered were all a prelude to meeting Yukie.
The number fifty invoked a sense of destiny.
He had a feeling that, this time, things would go well.
Of course, he had also forgotten that the very same feeling had been wrong forty-nine times in a row."
This above-mentioned quote can apply to Inspector Kyōzō, the "protagonist" and his whole character because the abrupt swerves in his reasonings, his passion to jump to conclusions without thinking beyond 2 sentences, and his petulant-teenager vibes gave me whiplash. The whole thing reads like a dramatic Detective Conan script but much worse. I desperately hope that a lot was lost in the translation because it is otherwise quite disappointing. And it is even more underwhelming after reading the Introduction written by Sōji Shimada, because the section is chockfull of praises for this story, and how the plot and writing here sets the ultimate standard for honkaku fiction. Something that salvages this novel is that it marks the debut of Abiko as a writer, so he has time to really, really work on his dialogue-writing and story depths.
The obsession with the number 8 was an interesting plot device, and Shinji's train of thought was intriguing enough for me because he was almost manifesting a quote from *The Nine Mile Walk* [mentioned by Shinji only]: "A chain of inferences could be logical and still not be true."
Some of the more frustrating aspects [in no particular sequence]
- Why is Kyōzō the detective, but his siblings are the ones that solve the entire mystery? Why should the siblings not be the protagonists then, because the only thing the protagonist was doing is floundering around and imagining his entire love life with Yukie.
- How were civilians being so willing permitted to roam around the crime scene, look around, and interrogate witnesses? Regardless of them being siblings of a detective, it seemed rather reckless to have allowed that for security and sensible purposes.
- The characters generally lacked depth. Tamura despite the superior authority got to show his intelligence only once - the rest of time he, too, was lost. Kinoshita might have been good comic relief in a movie, but in the novel, he seemed more like an unnecessary prop. Kyōzō gives up on clues and tactics too easily - he tried two accusations on Yūsaku at the police station, and immediately gave u thinking that nothing could budge him. Not only that, he becomes completely convinced, even in his heart, that Yūsaku is not the murderer simply because he seemed to openly answer one question in a way that incriminated him [and of course, because Yukie wanted that to be the truth]. Okuda was the typical obtuse but stubborn-to-the-point-of-foolishness man, whose only personality trait seemed to be his scorn and snarky barbs.
- The only practical or intriguing content for me comes at the end when Shinji explains the whole concept of the locked-room mystery, though that is not even what the murderer employed here.
- Using mirrors to create a pseudo-locked room mystery may merit some praise of ingenuity, but it does not seem very realistic. How are they transported around with no one knowing?
- How in this loving cosmos was Kikuo made out to be this rambling senile man who kept forgetting everything that was happening, but "confidently" answered Shinji's question about his testimony?
- Even though I was kinda surprised that Yūsaku was the murderer, it seemed weird for him to lament in the prologue that there is no great detective in the whole world that could "admire and criticise" his art, and then utter statements like "I thought the trick was so simple that even a child could solve it" in the end.
Perhaps I am being unduly harsh on this book, and I dearly hope that the original Japanese version has more nuanced characters and tolerable dialogues. However, this was not an enjoyable read, and I personally would not recommend this to anyone.