[From the journal of Captain Arthur Hastings]
I must confess that the singular focus the investigation had placed upon the young Yagami boy had left me with a most profound sense of unease. It was a theory built upon ghosts and digital whispers, a thing of the new world that felt alien to a man of my sensibilities. My good friend, Hercule Poirot, it seemed, shared my disquiet. He was a man who trusted in the tangible, in the messy, predictable patterns of human nature, and our encounter with the Yagami household had offered him none of the substance upon which his little grey cells thrived.
"It is not right, Hastings," he declared to me one afternoon, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced the length of our hotel suite. "We pull at a single thread, this boy, while the rest of the tapestry remains unexamined. Non. It will not do. We are neglecting the fundamentals of the case. We are neglecting the psychology. We shall return to the Deputy Director Kido."
And so it was that we found ourselves once more standing before the severe, modern apartment building that housed the ambitious and enigmatic Kido Kiyomi. This time, however, our arrival was met with the news that the Deputy Director was not at home. The housekeeper, a stern but proper woman who now recognised us from our previous visit, was about to turn us away.
"Un moment," Poirot said, his tone one of gentle but firm authority. "Our business is of some delicacy. It concerns the security matter we discussed previously. We would not wish to cause a fuss by waiting in a public corridor. Perhaps we might be permitted to wait inside for just a few moments, in case Mademoiselle Kido is to return shortly?"
His manner was so reassuring, his presence so immaculate, that the housekeeper, after a moment's hesitation, relented. We were shown into that same cold, minimalist living room, a place so devoid of personality it felt more like a museum exhibit than a home.
We sat in a stiff, uncomfortable silence for a time. I could see the cogs turning in Poirot's head. His eyes, bright and sharp as a bird's, darted about the room, re-examining every surface as if he expected to find some new clue had magically materialised. Then, he stood.
"I am going to inspect Mademoiselle Kido's private rooms," he announced, his voice a low whisper.
I was aghast. "Poirot! You cannot! It is a terrible breach of etiquette. We are here under false pretences as it is. To go through a lady's personal effects… it is simply not done!"
A strange, haunted look came over my friend's face. He turned to me, his expression grave. "Do you remember, mon ami, at End House? The little Mademoiselle Nick Buckley, and the state of her room? The chaos? I learned more from her private chamber than from a week of her conversation."
The memory came rushing back. I recalled with perfect clarity Poirot's meticulous, almost forensic, examination of that young woman's bedroom, his quiet inspection of her very garments. My face must have flushed, for he gave a small, sad smile. "Events, Hastings, have a way of repeating themselves. I must know what kind of a soul resides in this cold, empty house."
Before I could protest further, he had slipped silently down the hallway. I was left alone with my conscience, feeling for all the world like a common housebreaker. An eternity seemed to pass. Then, Poirot's voice called out to me, not in his usual triumphant tone, but with a strange, strained quality that I had never(is never truly the right word?) heard before. It was the voice of a man who was afraid.
"Hastings! Come here. Quickly."
I hurried down the hall to find him standing in the doorway of Kido Kiyomi's bedroom. It was as stark and joyless as the rest of the apartment. He was holding a small, leather-bound book. A diary.
"Look," he said, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he pointed to the most recent entry. The handwriting was sharp and precise. The entry was for today's date. It contained only three, chilling words.
T.K. - Final Accounts.
"T.K.?" I asked, confused. "Takada Kyosuke?" I was flustered, my mind struggling to grasp the implication. But it was not the entry that held my attention. It was my friend's face. For the first time since I have known him, I saw a flicker of what I can only describe as genuine fear in Hercule Poirot's eyes.
"What is it, Poirot?" I whispered. "What is wrong?"
He looked at me, and it was as if he were seeing something dreadful over my shoulder. "I am an old dog, Hastings," he said, his voice barely audible. "And my nose, it is very good. All this time, I have been sniffing the air of this case, and there has been the scent of madness, of genius, of ego. But now…" He took a shaky breath. "Now, for the first time, I am starting to pick up the unmistakable smell of murder."
My blood ran cold. "Murder? You mean… she is going to…?"
"Going to? Non, my friend!" he cried, his voice regaining its strength, now laced with a terrible urgency. "She is doing it now! This 'Final Account'! She is a woman of ferocious pride, and Takada is a man disgraced, a stain upon the organization she has given her life to. She is not Kira, Hastings. She is merely a woman who has decided to take out the trash!"
He grabbed my arm. "We must hurry! There is not a moment to lose!"
We rushed from the apartment, leaving a bewildered housekeeper in our wake. Poirot directed our driver to a quiet, secluded park on the outskirts of the city, a location he had found mentioned earlier in the diary as a place for "discreet conversations." The journey was a blur of traffic and blaring horns, my heart hammering against my ribs with every passing second.
We arrived too late.
In a quiet glade, sheltered by a grove of weeping willows, the scene was one of tranquil horror. Takada Kyosuke lay on the manicured grass, a single, dark stain spreading across the front of his expensive shirt. Standing over him, her expression not one of panic or remorse, but of cold, serene finality, was Kido Kiyomi. A small, pearl-handled pistol was held loosely in her hand.
She turned as we approached, her movements calm and deliberate. She shot us a glance, a look not of a cornered criminal, but of a professional who has just completed an unpleasant but necessary task.
"He was a fraud," she said, her voice as cool and crisp as an autumn morning. "A traitor who sold the secrets of our nation for profit. He was a flaw in the system." She looked down at the body, her expression one of utter contempt. "He deserved to die."