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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Inspector Onitsura Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
Early one morning, a body is found lying next to the railway tracks just outside of Kuki Station in Saitama Prefecture, shot dead. It is identified as belonging to the owner of a local mill which is embroiled in a labour dispute. Suspicion initially falls on the workers' union, then on a new religious sect that has been gaining followers recently.Chief Inspector Onitsura and his assistant Tanna are called in to investigate, and soon set off in a journey across Japan, from Tokyo to Kyoto and Osaka, and finally to the island of Kyūshu, in a hunt for the killer.But as they investigate, the killer strikes again, and again. Will they be able to catch the murderer before even more people are slain?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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1
Contents
5
6
ONE
A Bad Day
1.
Atsuko and Fumie were strolling down an elegant, tree-lined avenue full of shops and boutiques, taking in all the window displays as they made their way towards Shimbashi. It was almost noon, and the late-spring sunlight set off the bright colours of their outfits—one Japanese, the other Western. Since mid-May, the duster coats that had been so popular had vanished entirely, and now, everywhere one looked in the Ginza, women were wearing early-summer dresses. Here, Atsuko’s lace blouse, which might have seemed a little racy in other parts of Tokyo, complemented her surroundings and showed off all the more eye-catchingly her chic, sporty style.
Before long, the two women stopped in front of a jeweller’s window and peered in at the display.
“What a lovely tiepin!”
On the little glass shelf where Fumie was pointing, there was a golden tiepin in the shape of a sabre. Atsuko took the remark as more of a comment than an invitation for her to share her opinion. Maybe it just slipped out as Fumie pictured the accessory on her beloved husband’s chest. About ten days ago, he had gone to England to attend a textile convention in Lancashire, and, on the return journey, he’d be stopping off to inspect textile mills in various countries, so wasn’t expected to land back at Haneda Airport until sometime in September.
8“It’s nice, isn’t it? It would really suit somebody slim and with a tan.”
As she said this, Atsuko in fact had no idea whether this slender, curving pin, which made her think of the body of a damselfly, would look better on a man with fair or dark skin: instead, she had merely described Fumie’s husband.
“You’ve such a good eye, Atsuko… Say, how about some lunch? My treat.”
As though having seen her friend’s empty stomach with X-ray vision, Fumie laughed giddily, and, as she did, a dimple appeared on her left cheek, while her lips parted to reveal a beautiful set of white teeth.
She glanced at her watch.
“Perfect timing! It’s almost noon. There’s an Italian restaurant just over there, around that corner.”
No sooner had the words passed Fumie’s lips than she took Atsuko by the arm and set off again down the avenue. Atsuko was a little envious of her companion’s decisiveness and her assertive nature, which seemed to manifest itself in even the most trivial of things, like this. And yet, this was only because she had no idea of the true purpose behind Fumie’s invitation to go with her to the Ginza that day. If she had known, Atsuko might have felt very differently indeed.
There was a Japanese curry restaurant on the third corner they came to, and, sure enough, next door to it was an Italian restaurant. Under a garish peach-and-green-striped awning there hung a signboard bearing the name: Posillipo. It was Atsuko’s first time there, but Fumie headed straight upstairs, with the air of a regular, and sat down next to a potted Chinese windmill palm. In contrast to the downstairs section, it was much quieter here, and the table that Fumie had chosen was in a spot far removed from 9the few other customers who were up there. In hindsight Atsuko realized that Fumie must have chosen it deliberately so that their conversation would not be overheard.
Remarkably enough for a restaurant in this upmarket part of town, there was no music playing in Posillipo, and the only accompaniment to the meal was the tinkling of the fountains in two tiled ponds that stood in the middle of the floor. After walking in the early-summer sun, the sound of water was refreshing to hear, just like wiping away perspiration with a cool towel and applying a dash of eau de cologne. And although Fumie had chosen the restaurant partly on account of the delicious food and the cool sensation imparted by these fountains, what she really needed was a quiet place where she could talk freely.
“I’ve never had Italian food before,” Atsuko said, after casting a brief glance at a plump Italian-looking couple seated on the other side of the room.
“They do all kinds of things here,” Fumie said, handing her a menu, which was, incomprehensibly, written entirely in Italian.
“Oh, they’ve got something called macaroni Caruso! I think I’ll try that.”
Atsuko had seen this dish in a magazine somewhere and knew that it had been named after the immortal singer Enrico Caruso. But that was the sum of her Italian knowledge.
“I had that the first time I came here, too.”
Wearing a dazzling smile, Fumie summoned the waiter, who, with his white uniform, jet-black hair and tanned skin, looked every bit the Mediterranean type.
As they ate, the conversation turned to the earrings, necklaces and rings set with artificial gems that they had just been admiring in the shop windows. Some women do, of course, like to talk about jewellery, even if the price tag is beyond their reach, but, in 10the case of these two, they were in the fortunate position of being able to get their hands on anything their heart desired. In fact, it may well have been this topic of conversation that made the food in Posillipo taste even better than Atsuko expected, compensating so well for a lack of seasoning.
When a rich Neapolitan coffee was served after their meal, Fumie pressed the napkin to her rounded lips and flashed a meaningful smile at her companion.
“Now I don’t mean to pry, but are you seeing anybody at the moment?”
The suddenness of the question caught Atsuko off guard. Trying not to give anything away, she stirred her coffee impassively.
“No,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s just that there’s a little matter I’d like to discuss with you…”
“Oh?”
Without her even having to ask the question, Atsuko knew Fumie was trying to broach the subject of a marriage proposal.
“The thing is,” said Fumie, lowering her voice, “I know somebody who’s interested in marrying you…”
The most distinctive feature of Fumie’s face was her big eyes. Not only were they large, but they were deep and limpid. Atsuko was no poet, so she didn’t see, reflected in those eyes, a cold lake found deep in the mountains, but when she peered into their fathomless pupils, searching for a response, she had the uncanny feeling of gazing into Fumie’s soul, which made her unaccountably nervous. Although she tried not to let it show, she could feel her face blushing redder and redder.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take you by surprise.”
“That’s all right,” Atsuko replied off-handedly. She hadn’t the least interest in the identity of this possible suitor, but if she were 11to say nothing, there was a risk that Fumie might suspect something. “Who might he be, this ‘somebody’?”
“Mr Haibara! Surely you know him? The director’s private secretary.”
Atsuko immediately pictured the man’s broad shoulders and stocky build. The name had come as a surprise to her, but, after the initial shock had passed, and the more she thought about it, it really wasn’t so peculiar that Haibara should want to marry her. They’d crossed paths several times—at the company’s garden party, at her dancing display, and so on—and, on each occasion, they had chatted to each other.
“Don’t you think you’d make the perfect couple? He’s kind, considerate… I’d have thought that any woman would consider herself lucky to marry a man like that.”
Fumie spoke with such enthusiasm, as though she were recommending her own flesh and blood.
In Atsuko’s eyes, however, Haibara did not seem quite so considerate. It was true that whenever they met, he was always pleasant and attentive, but she was sure that it was all an act, and that she could see through his motives for sidling up to her. After all, her father was the managing director of the same company. If Haibara were to marry the man’s daughter, his path to the top would certainly look much shorter. Surely, a man as shrewd as he could not have failed to recognize this. But Atsuko was no soft touch, nor was she foolish enough to let herself be made a stepping stone for an ambitious man.
Yet there was no way for Fumie to know what was going on in Atsuko’s mind, as she silently sipped her coffee.
“He’s awfully good at what he does, and the director loves him! He doesn’t really have any relatives to look after, and, as you know, he’s the reliable sort. There aren’t any rumours flying around about his love life, either. It’s hard work, you know, when they’ve got too 12many relatives; all that running around you’d have to do… You’d be worn out!”
Apparently believing this prospect of marriage to be truly a wonderful thing, Fumie kept trying to convince Atsuko. She was the wife of one of the company’s senior executive directors and, still childless in her early thirties, seemed to have channelled this loneliness into the love lives of others. Three or four times already, she’d taken it upon herself to play matchmaker, resulting in the marriages of several young people within the company. On this occasion, since the proposal concerned a friend from her university days, it was perhaps only natural that she was being more solicitous than usual.
Her good intentions were well known to Atsuko. She’d heard from her father that Haibara was already in the running for one of the top positions at the company, and he’d intimated how impressed he was with this “self-starter” of a man. Even her mother seemed to have a soft spot for him after everything that Atsuko’s father had said.
“I had thought about broaching it with your father, but then I decided it would be better to talk to you directly. There’s no need to make any decisions now, though. Talk it over with your parents and think about it. There’s no rush. After all, nothing can be done until the strike’s over.”
Fumie’s voice trailed off into what sounded like a sigh. They both of them had reasons enough to sigh. The trade union at the Towa Textiles Company was at loggerheads with the owners; a month ago, they’d published a four-point list of demands and called a strike. Since then, the situation had only worsened, with little sign of a breakthrough.
“I know,” said Fumie cheerily, trying brush off her black mood. “How would you like to go and see the roadshow release in Hibiya? If we leave now, we’ll make it just in time. I’ve been wanting to see that thriller for so long.”13
With those words, she grabbed her crocodile handbag and got up.
2.
After leaving Fumie, Atsuko took the subway to Shibuya. Since it wasn’t quite rush hour yet, the trains and stations were not too crowded. She’d just got off at Shibuya Station and was about to cross over to the Inokashira line, when suddenly a man stopped her.
At first, she assumed that he’d mistaken her for somebody else. She’d never seen this man before in her life. He had a pale, slender face and, at first glance, seemed a gentle sort. But his eyes were small and unblinking.
“It’s Atsuko, isn’t it? Atsuko Suma?”
Hearing her own name spoken, she realized that the man had not mistaken her. The impertinence in his voice and the brazen look in his eyes made her wonder whether he wasn’t some sort of low-ranking police officer. Only, she couldn’t recall having been approached by one like this before.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he said. “But if you wouldn’t mind coming with me for just a minute…”
“Whatever for?”
“Come and find out for yourself.”
“No, I don’t believe I will. If there’s something you want, you can tell me right here.”
“Not here,” the man said, quickly scanning his surroundings. For a police officer, he looked rather suspicious.
“Who on earth are you? If you don’t tell me this instant, I’ll cry for help,” she said, her voice already getting louder.14
If the crowds of people crossing between the Inokashira and Tamagawa lines were like a river, the two of them stood there like two stones right in the middle of the flow. If Atsuko needed help, all she had to do was shout, and the station staff and policemen, not to mention the people around her, would come running—so, she didn’t feel in the least bit frightened.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said in a low voice. Though he practically whispered, they had a startling menace about them. It struck Atsuko that this was the kind of threatening voice one imagined hearing in gangster novels and the like. “You’ll find that my patience has its limits…”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, lady. I’ve got your number, all right. Or are you actually trying to humiliate your old man?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Still playing dumb? You don’t want your future husband to be lumbered with the reputation of a traitor, do you?”
As he uttered the words, his tone was frightening. The pompous phrase “the reputation of a traitor” even sounded like a line that had been lifted straight from a badly translated novel, but Atsuko had already lost the presence of mind needed to notice this. It was clear from the man’s bold, self-possessed smirk that there was no getting out of this.
“Well? Are you coming? I’m not going to eat you, you know… Speaking of which, to put you at your ease, why don’t we go to a café. Choose one you like, why don’t you? As I say, I won’t take up much of your time.”
The man’s voice had regained its former quiet, even tone. There was even a hint of cultivation in his words, so unlike those of street gangs.
“No,” she said resolutely. “If you want to talk, we can do it here.”15
“I think not. Now, I’m a busy man myself. If it were something that could be discussed here, why would I go to the trouble of suggesting a coffee with you? We can go somewhere near the station.”
“…”
“Come on, stop stalling. If you don’t want to see your father’s and your future husband’s faces with mud on them, then get a move on.”
Without waiting for a reply, he walked off, leading the way. Though hesitant, Atsuko took the bait and followed him. As the man seemed to know full well, Atsuko had a secret. But she wouldn’t be rushed and first wanted to find out just how much the man really knew. At the same time, she was also somewhat reassured by his belated cultivated tone.
The two of them passed through the ticket barrier and exited in front of the station. Red-and-blue neon lights were beginning to light the busy streets. The famous statue of Hachiko, that most loyal of dogs, fixed Atsuko in his bronze canine gaze.
“Choose someplace quiet. An eatery, the upstairs floor of a soba joint maybe… We wouldn’t want to be overheard now, would we?”
“But I don’t like that kind of place!”
“Now, now… I don’t mind where we go, myself. But it’s you who’ll pay the price.”
The man looked at Atsuko and laughed.
As they walked side by side, Atsuko noticed that he was a little on the short side. You couldn’t say that he was either thin or fat, but his body, although not appearing especially sturdy, emanated a kind of lethal energy. He had an innately cunning air about him, like a man who has cheated death any number of times during adventures on the battlefield, or who has taken part in shoot-outs with fellow villains. All this put Atsuko on edge.
“That one’ll do,” she said.16
Having crossed the road without giving him time to respond, she paused in front of a café and hurried inside. She was trying to get back at him for the confidence he had shown earlier; it was also an attempt to show that she would not simply crumble when threatened. She looked around the room and sat down in a booth in an empty corner.
“I’m afraid I haven’t much of a sweet tooth,” he said brazenly as he stirred his coffee, before gulping it down and devouring a choux bun in only two bites. “A drink over some cold tofu would’ve been much more to my liking.”
Atsuko made no attempt to hide her revulsion and contempt for his unpleasant jokes and the disgusting manner in which he ate.
“What did you want to say to me?”
It would have been more appropriate to use baser language with a man like this, so it riled her that her surroundings wouldn’t allow it. The man wiped his mouth with a soiled handkerchief and, with deliberately slow movements, took out a cigarette and lit it.
“Let’s go over things from the very start, shall we? It’ll be simpler that way. Your old man is the director of Towa Textiles, the workforce of which is currently on strike. The vice-chairman of the trade union is a man called Narumi. He’s the kind and energetic sort, so I can see the allure he has for women. I suppose it’s only natural that you’re so keen on him.” Catching Atsuko with his eye, he smiled ironically. “Quite the little rebel, aren’t you? Playing the industrialist’s good little girl on the one hand, and sneaking off with the young union boss on the other. In terms of status, they’re worlds apart.”
He was just getting into his stride, and he glared at Atsuko.
“Now, if I were to inform the union that the vice-chairman, who is supposed to rank among its most loyal of members, was secretly meeting the daughter of an enemy executive, what do you suppose 17they’d do? Narumi would be dubbed a traitor and kicked out of the union. And then, of course, there’s you! Your old man would hardly take the news sitting down, now, would he? He’d be made a laughing stock.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that, obviously. Will you get to the point? You’re not the only one who’s got places to be.”
“Well, then, let’s get down to brass tacks… I want one million yen.”
The number didn’t hit Atsuko immediately. The man’s tone was so casual that he could have been asking for change for cigarettes.
“What are you looking so vacant for?” he said. “For a rich little girl like you, it can’t be all that much.”
She said nothing.
“Why don’t you take it out of your own savings? You can ask your old man to make up the rest. After all, fathers do dote on their daughters. I’m sure he’d give it to you.”
“Enough. There’s no way I can get my hands on that sort of money.”
“If you didn’t have the money, I wouldn’t be making these demands. I know perfectly well how much money your father has, because it’s my business to know.”
“Still, you’ll never get it.”
“Very well,” he said ominously, rising to his feet. “Just remember: your father will be made to stand down from the company because of a few pennies, while your lover will become a social outcast. You do understand this, don’t you?”
“Wait!” Atsuko called feebly.
It was true that she and Narumi were in love. Because of the circumstances, they’d chosen to keep their relationship a secret. While the word “tryst” has a lewd and vulgar nuance to it, which Atsuko loathed, there was probably no more fitting word 18to describe the way they would meet furtively, lest they be found out. She would grin and bear it as she awaited patiently the day when they could marry in the open. So: when and where had this man seen them?
He sat down again and smirked, as though having seen right through her act. The expression on his pale face was dull and inert; the only signs of emotion were the menace in his voice and the gleam in his eyes, which were cut like those of a Mongolian.
“Shall I tell you the time and place of your most recent tryst with Narumi? I have it all written down in my diary.”
“How do you know this?”
She couldn’t fathom why he’d been surveilling her.
“Because I’ve been following him.”
“Why?”
“So that he’d listen to me. So that he’d do as I say.”
“What do you want with him?”
“That’s none of your concern. Suffice it to say, I wanted something from him. But it was clear that he’d refuse me. So, what’s a man to do? The best thing was to find out a secret of his and then confront him with it.”
“And that’s why you’ve been following me?”
“Precisely. Everyone has secrets. And you can’t go giving up after only three or four days. It takes perseverance. I ended up following Narumi around for more than a week, ten days even! That’s when I found out about his little trysts with you. I never dreamt of finding out something as good as this.”
His expression remained unchanged, but a note of pride appeared in his voice.
“So, I thought to myself. My reason for wanting to find out Narumi’s secret was, as I’ve just told you, so that he’d do something for me. But then, there’s always more than one way to skin 19a cat, isn’t there? It occurred to me that I could put this story to far better use. Because, you see, now I’ve found the goose that lays the golden egg. And if you don’t care for the goose analogy, then let’s call you a swan or a peahen. Either way, you’re going to make me a lot of money.”
“Spare me the fairy tales. Stories like that are for children to enjoy, not for blackmailers to appropriate.”
“Are they now?”
“If you must use a bird analogy, you might as well just call me a sitting duck.”
The man’s eyes flickered and the corners of his mouth twitched. He must have found this amusing.
“You could be a mandarin duck for all the difference it makes to me. The question is whether you’re going to give me the 1,000,000 or not. If you sold off that car you’ve just bought, that would get you seven or eight hundred thousand right there.”
Taken aback by this, Atsuko peered into the man’s eyes. He knowledge of her seemed to know no bounds. Only in March she had bought a new sports car.
“It’s very cowardly, you know, to take advantage of a lady’s weak spot like this.”
“I’ll do anything so long as there’s money in it. Cowardice and conscience are not words in my vocabulary, you see.”
He snorted and smiled at her with contempt.
“But I’m telling you, it’s impossible.”
“I certainly hope not. Women are miserly by nature. The woman in her tenement house is every bit as miserly as the lady in the mansion. You may wear pretty clothes and have a pretty face, but I’m willing to bet you’ve got a lot saved up.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” she replied. “I understand that you mean to blackmail me for a million yen, but what kind of guarantee 20do I have? Forgive my saying so, but you aren’t very good at this. What I’m saying is that it’s impossible to trust a man like you. Paying you the money would be one thing, but I’ve no desire to be blackmailed again with the same material afterwards. Unless you can give me some guarantee, I simply can’t help you.”
The man was silent.
“Think it over,” she said. “Then we can talk about it.”
“Quite the operator, aren’t you?”
“I’ll even pay for your choux bun.”
Taking the chit, she stood up and went over to the till. She had wanted to say something rude but didn’t care to demean herself. Still, she was upset. Stubbornly, she refused to look back while the cashier returned her change. She could feel distinctly on her back the eyes of her blackmailer as he sat there, taken off guard and temporarily defeated, a dumbstruck look on his face.
Finally aboard the Inokashira Line train and having regained her composure more or less, Atsuko had time to reflect on the events of the day. Not only had she been cornered about a marriage proposal from a man she didn’t much like, but a perfect stranger had tried to blackmail her for a vast sum of money, too. It had been a bad day, she thought.
TWO
The Private Secretary
1.
Haibara watched on in a daze as the typist’s fingers with their lobster-pink nails worked nimbly to extract the letter from its envelope. There was no doubt about it: he was utterly exhausted.
“That’s the last of this morning’s post, Mr Haibara.”
“Give it here, will you?”
He took the letter and began to read it, but his expression quickly changed. Clearly, something was wrong.
“Another petition?” she asked.
“No, it’s a letter trying to blackmail us. They’re persistent, this lot.”
“It’s downright harassment!”
“I suppose so, yes. I’m certainly not taking it seriously though.”
When he had finished reading the letter, Haibara folded it neatly and replaced it inside the envelope. On his desk were about thirty letters divided into three piles. One of these was for private correspondence addressed personally to the company director. These were not to be opened. It was his job, however, to open all those that were official or whose senders were unknown.
To support the strike at the Towa Textiles Company, which had begun in mid-April, the wives of union members sent in letters complaining repeatedly about their living conditions. These complaints were all alike and often exaggerated the actual situation, claiming, for instance, that they couldn’t buy rice because 22their husband’s wages had been cut or that they hadn’t enough money for baby formula—all of which, however, had only made the executives laugh at their pathetic efforts.
As the union’s prospects had gradually begun to worsen, however, the content of these petitions had become more and more harassing, to the point whereby some of them had become out-and-out specimens of intimidation or blackmail. Such letters were to be reviewed by the company director.
“That makes three of them today, doesn’t it?”
“They’re panicking,” Haibara said. “More than that, they’re getting desperate. It’s because the union is patently losing.”
While the typist gathered up the letters, Haibara turned and looked out of the window. In the sky over Nihonbashi, there was an advertising balloon floating languidly in the air, bearing the words: spring clear-out: everything must go. Bathed in the early-summer sunlight, the translucent sphere looked like a jellyfish swimming in a great cobalt-blue sky.
“Spring clear-out…” he murmured softly, surprised once again by how quickly the days were passing.
Since the factory workers had gone on strike, Haibara had spent many days between board meetings and the negotiating table, enveloped in a tense and acrimonious atmosphere. There were even times when he’d worked throughout the night or had to sleep on the office sofa. The results of the collective bargaining round held at the end of May had shown conclusively that the unions were losing ground. Of their four demands, the company had agreed to accept two of them and settle the dispute on a fifty-fifty basis. On the surface, it looked like there was no clear winner, but since the two most important items had been rejected, the executives were in effect winning the battle. Now, at last, Haibara had found a moment to take in his surroundings and was astonished 23to see that it was already early summer, a fact that brought him to reflect upon the fifty days of bitter conflict that had just passed.
“I’ve lost weight,” he said to himself, as he touched his arm through his sleeve.
Haibara had always been a little on the heavy side, but even if it was difficult to see, he had lost around two stone. He extracted a cigarette from his briefcase and lit it. He’d had a light breakfast of only toast and was ravenous. As he inhaled the smoke, he began feeling mildly dizzy. Unlike the cigarettes he would have to calm his nerves at the negotiating table, this one he could truly enjoy.
“They’re all ready, Mr Haibara.”
Coming to his senses, he saw that he was being presented with three neatly organized bundles. He left the bundle of petitions on the desk and stepped out of the room, taking with him the letters personally addressed to the director as well as those that were trying to blackmail them.
The director’s office was situated two doors down. Gosuke Nishinohata was standing by the window, puffing on a Vegueros and looking down at the miniature-seeming cars crowding the road. Carried on the warm summer’s breeze, the powerful aroma of the cigar caressed the tip of Haibara’s nose. He had tried a cigar himself once—a Legitima—but he simply couldn’t get used to the phenomenal strength of it. Nishinohata’s was a prized cigar, given him by the director of an American textiles company who had come to visit the factory last winter, and so Haibara could tell that the director must have been in a very relaxed frame of mind in order to light it.
“Letters, is it?”
“Yes, sir. As usual, there are three of a threatening nature.”
“Very well. Leave them over there, will you? It’s risible that they think they can blackmail me into accepting their demands. I’m not one to be cowed by that sort of thing.”24
Whenever the director spoke, his big belly would roll like a wave. Besides being overweight, he was short, which made his belly seem to stick out even more. His employees said he looked like the folk hero Kintaro because of his short neck and red face. His hair, which he wore close-cropped, was still jet black, while his eyebrows were bushy and his lips full. You could tell from the very first glance that he was an energetic man.
“I’m heading out after lunch. Could you arrange the car for me?”
“Of course. Only, you do have an appointment with the director of Maruta Trading at half past one…”
“I’ve had to postpone it until this evening. I rang to inform them myself,” Gosuke Nishinohata said matter-of-factly.
“And where are you going, sir?”
“Nihonbashi. I’m going to see about a painting in a department store there. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll have them bring the car around. Only…”
“What is it, Haibara?”
“Might it not be better to keep a low profile for the moment?”
The private secretary glanced at the letters lying on the table.
“They’re a scare tactic,” said Nishinohata, sitting down. “A man in my position would never leave the house if he worried about letters like those.”
“True, but there are some violent men in the union. And with things the way things are, there’s no telling what they might do out of spite.”
“I’m well aware.”
Sitting back in his chair, twirling the long moustache that was his pride and joy, he looked up at his private secretary who was still standing there and said slowly and deliberately:
“Don’t worry, Haibara. I value my life. I’ve nothing to fear in broad daylight.”25
“I can accompany you if you’d like?”
“Thank you, but there’s really no need. You stay here and man the fort. I’ll go alone.”
Was it just Haibara’s imagination, or had there been a hint of irritation in the director’s words?
2.
After seeing off Gosuke Nishinohata, Haibara ordered some eel from a nearby restaurant and treated himself to a leisurely luncheon. Most of his colleagues had gone off to the Ginza, so the office was deserted. Taking advantage of this lull, he pulled out of his bag an economics magazine that he had just bought and opened it, red pencil at the ready. A swot in his schooldays, Haibara had changed little in the years since.
The man didn’t much fancy spending his life working for a company where success meant, at best, retiring after rising up to the head of a department. His aspirations lay a little higher than that. But to achieve them required constant application, and from what he could see, what robbed people of their diligence was entertainment and the opposite sex. This is why he hadn’t the faintest idea how to play go or chess. Nor had he ever been to the cinema or the theatre. After all, if a man finds purpose in striving towards his future goals, such an austere life won’t seem so dull or monotonous.
It was the same when it came to women. Deeming them to have nothing but a negative influence on men, he had never been in a relationship, and now, at the age of thirty-eight, he was still a bachelor. After all, he would think, isn’t the most intelligent woman still just a woman? Heedless of Haibara’s views, some women, 26with a certain gleam in their eye, would make overtures to him, but no matter how beautiful she might be, she would always be flatly refused. Of course, being a man in his prime, Haibara had his needs and was known, on occasion, to frequent tea houses. Yet he never thought of geisha as objects of his affection.
The first time Takeshi Haibara set eyes on Atsuko was when the company held a garden party for its shareholders the previous autumn. It was then, seeing Atsuko dressed in her long-sleeved kimono, watching her graceful movements as she performed the tea ceremony in the open air, brilliant sunshine raining down all around, that the fires of love were lit in this shameless careerist’s heart. His theory that women were an impediment to career progression did not apply to Atsuko, since marrying her would mean becoming the managing director’s son-in-law, thus securing his future at the company. From that day forth, he would often find himself getting carried away, daydreaming about what it would be like to have her as his wife.
This alone, however, would not have been enough to stir Haibara’s heart. Ever since that first meeting, a curious connection had developed between them. They had bumped into each other a further three times, riding in the same lift at a department store, at a dismal kouta party hosted for the executives of the company and at Atsuko’s dance display. There can be few things more depressing than seeing an executive put on the trappings of a connoisseur and hearing him croon a kouta song at the top of his lungs, but what had made the pain bearable for Haibara was Atsuko’s presence there. It had been a chilly day at the end of January, and Atsuko was wearing a kimono with a light silver design of peonies on a dark-red background. Her crêpe haori with its delicately crinkled pattern seemed a little plain, but it had suited Atsuko’s tidy demeanour very well. At the dancing display, 27she had danced The Heron Maiden. For this, Haibara had bought a ticket and gone to see it. On each occasion, the fire in his chest seemed to burn stronger and stronger, until at last his heart itself was set aflame.
This being Haibara’s first encounter with desire, he didn’t know how to assuage his infatuation with her. And while his days were spent dealing with the workers’ strike, when he would lie down at the end of the day, his only thoughts were for Atsuko. Ordinarily a man of great competence, when he was distracted by something it was all the more apparent. And so, it was in the taxi on the way back from Haneda Airport, where he had seen off the deputy director and the senior executive director as they left for Lancashire, that he was grilled by the latter’s wife, Fumie Hishinuma, who in the end succeeded in extracting a declaration of love from him.
“You are rather naïve, aren’t you?” she’d said. “But just leave it to me. I’ll let her know how you feel.”
Thereafter, he would repeat Fumie’s words back to himself several times a day, eagerly awaiting the good news.
He opened the magazine and began to read an article, but not a single line of it went in. Atsuko’s face appeared from behind the printed text. With her short stature and wide-set eyes, she didn’t correspond to the conventional image of a great beauty, but she had a certain freshness about her, and her features were intelligent. In the end, Haibara abandoned the article and, closing the magazine, gave himself over entirely to daydreaming about Atsuko. The office was still quiet.
But why had he not heard anything yet? As he counted on his fingers, he thought it all seemed to be taking far too long. His heart suddenly seemed to darken. And he had good reason to be concerned. It all had to do with the secret the company director was keeping.28
Perhaps “secret” was too strong a word, though. After all, it was something that anybody in Haibara’s position would have done. And yet, what may seem insignificant to some could be perceived as all too significant by others. Maybe this was the case with Atsuko.
Atsuko was a wholesome young woman. If the director were to tell her, or if she were to get wind of it somehow, it was obvious that whatever feelings she might have had for Haibara would instantly turn to loathing and contempt. And that is what he feared.
Simply waiting for the director to blurt it out was out of the question. But what could Haibara do to stop him talking? What could he do to shut him up?
“… Kill him?” he mumbled, still half-dazed.
The words returned Haibara to his senses with a jolt. It was an horrific thought, although it had never occurred to him before, not even in his wildest dreams.
But sure enough, having put those thoughts out of his mind, he found himself only a few minutes later picturing once again the murder of Nishinohata. Besides, he was in favour with the deputy director, Haruhiko Ryu; his position wouldn’t be affected by the director’s death.
“No, it would never work,” he thought to himself, sitting up and brushing off this ridiculous fantasy. “Better think about something else. Anything else.”
Just then, he received a telephone call, informing him that Hanpei Chita was at the reception desk, asking to see him.
“Send him away,” Haibara snapped. “I know what he’ll be after.”
Mr Chita, who was disagreeable at the best of times, wouldn’t be happy.
THREE
By the Tracks
1.
It was close to four o’clock on the morning of 2 June. Dawn was breaking, but countless stars could still be seen in the early-summer sky. Up ahead, the blinking red-and-green wing lights of an aeroplane seemed to skim the treetops of a pitch-black forest, but the roar of its engine could not be heard at this distance.
In his faded blue overalls, the strap of his cap tight around his chin, a driver was sitting on his hard seat, his right hand gripping a lever, his eyes fixed on the two parallel rails illuminated by the headlights in front of him. The fireman beside him opened the firebox door with a clatter and shovelled in some coal. The violent vibrations of the engine had taken their toll on the driver’s stomach, and all the colour had drained from his face. Every time the fire door was opened, however, the burning red light would be cast on his cheeks, and for a moment his complexion would improve so much that he was almost unrecognizable. Driving a steam engine was much harder than driving an electric locomotive. And yet the reward for it was scant at best.30
As the driver watched the fireman’s movements out of the corner of one eye, his other was fixed firmly on the track ahead. There was a reason that he felt a little more nervous that night than usual. Just after passing Shimojujo Station at around 11.10 p.m., the No. 783 Aomori-bound freight train had collided with a 31truck that had crashed straight through a crossing barrier about 400 yards down the track. It was clear that the owner of the vehicle had been at fault, but he had died instantly, and the train driver, who had been taken to hospital with steam burns on the entire right side of his body, had to be questioned by the police in his bed, his face contorted with pain.
The truck had been dragged for around a hundred yards after the train sped into it, not only destroying the front of the locomotive, but also damaging the upbound freight and passenger lines and suspending all traffic on the Tohoku mainline for several hours.
The downbound freight line was the first to be restored, at around 2 a.m., after which the off-duty driver, Ubajima, had been woken and told to go to work. The locomotive had been replaced, but the thought of his poor injured colleague, who had been pulling dozens of freight wagons, instilled in him a feeling of dread that naturally set him on edge. What troubled Ubajima most, however, was his colleague’s predicament; drivers involved in collisions, even those that were unavoidable, would normally have a black mark placed on their service record. In a worst-case scenario, they could even be sacked. And when a driver steps off a locomotive, he’s like a fish out of water; he can’t even provide for his family. Such a fate could befall any one of them, at any time.
Ubajima may have felt despondent, but he was wide awake. He used every trick in the book to calm, cajole and coax the roaring engine that rattled his body. His face was black with soot and smoke, even though he’d been gripping the lever for a mere hour, and only his eyes glittered.
As they approached Kuki Station, he gave a loud blast of the whistle. The reason being that, about half a mile from the station, there was an unmanned railway crossing situated on a big curve in 32the track. As soon as they reached the curve, however, the driver leant out of the cabin and cried out in a strangled voice.
“What’s the matter?” the fireman asked.
“I saw something strange out there. It looked like a body.”
Before his colleague could say anything more, the driver pulled on the brake. Since the train had already begun to slow down, it only took a hundred yards for it to come to a complete halt. The locomotive was belching out steam, apparently unhappy at having to stop.
“It looked like a jumper.”
The fireman nodded. He had been paying attention to the oncoming track, too, but hadn’t spotted anything like this. Having been on the job for only a year, he was impressed with his colleague’s vigilance. Article 15 of the service regulations stated that, in cases like this, the accident must be investigated and reported.
For all his apparent composure, the driver’s mind was racing. He had never had an accident before. Still, the cool night air helped to calm his nerves.
“I’ll go and check,” the fireman said, stepping down onto the embankment.
With a torch in one hand, he made his way back along the tracks. The round light danced as he ran, illuminating the boxcars and open wagons one by one, before disappearing behind them. The train was stopped on a bend, so there was no clear line of sight. At the very end of the long line of freight cars, a pale neck craned out of the window in the guard’s van.
“What’s happened?”
“I think there’s been a jumper.”
“A man or a woman?”
“I don’t know,” said the fireman, out of breath. “It was Ubajima who spotted the body.”33
The guard’s head vanished, and, while the light of the fireman’s torch continued the search, there was a crunch of gravel as he jumped down onto the ballast.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, seeming to intuit the fireman’s apprehension.
The guard took the lead.
It didn’t take long before they found the body. Two trouser-clad legs were sticking out of a ditch by the track on the inside of the curve. The right foot was wearing a black shoe, but the left one had only a sock on. The fireman, who’d imagined a corpse cruelly mangled under the wheels of the train, heaved a sigh of relief when the ditch was lit up. All the body’s limbs were intact.
“He’s only been hit. Let’s pull him out.”
If the man was still breathing, he’d require treatment. The two of them clambered down, took one end of the body each and finally managed to carry him up onto the embankment. The man was short but heavy, and so, even with two of them, it required every ounce of their strength. By the time they laid him down, they were both sweating.
When the fireman shone the torch on him, he saw that the man had his eyes closed, as though he were blinded by the light. He wore the ash-grey upturned moustache of an old army general and had a pale, bloodless face. The guard placed his ear to the man’s chest, but as he glanced back at the fireman, he was struck by the electric light shining right in his eye and looked away.
“Hey! Watch it, will you!”
“Sorry. Is he alive?”
“He’s dead. Such an impressive moustache, too… What a waste.”
“Isn’t it,” the fireman said, nodding in the dark. It was common knowledge that those who killed themselves on the railway tended to be poor, patients suffering a nervous breakdown, or else lovers who 34had decided on a double suicide. There was something decidedly odd about the death of this waxen-faced, energetic-looking man.
“Shall I call it in?” the fireman said, pointing his torch at the top of a nearby telephone pole.
“Kuki Station is just up the tracks. It’d be quicker to run and tell them in person.”
Making a snap decision, they left the body where it lay and returned to the train. Before long, there came a short blast of the whistle, rending the night air, and the No. 783 shuddered violently into motion.
2.
By now it was light all around. The stretcher with the body on it had been placed on the grass beside the tracks, ready to be carried off at any moment. The dewdrops covering it glinted beautifully in the morning sun.
The station attendant and the police officer who rushed to the scene had thought at first that the incident was a simple case of suicide. They supposed that the man had been hit by the oncoming train and fallen into the ditch. But when they examined the body, they found something unexpected.
The left breast of the brown jacket worn by the man was soaked in blood, and when the body was rolled over onto its front, they found a single hole right between his shoulder blades. On closer inspection, the area around it was charred black. Irrespective of whether this was a case of suicide or murder, it was clear that the train had not caused the death. The station attendant had then rushed back and, using a railway telephone, called the duty officer up the line at Omiya Station. Upon receiving their 35report, he in turn had immediately contacted the police station in Omiya.
As the officers arrived and continued their investigation, it became clear that the amount of blood loss was extremely small. Normally, the blood should have been spilt over a wider area, but there was hardly any at the scene. An examination of the wound revealed that the gun had been fired at point-blank range. Given the location, it was thought definitely not to have been self-inflicted. And yet, no murder weapon had been found in the vicinity of the crime scene. The officer in charge concluded on the basis of the available evidence that the man had not been killed by a passing train, but that he had been shot dead by an assailant who had then dumped the body at the scene. Not only was there no murder weapon, but there was a shoe missing as well—all of which pointed to the corpse having been moved.
The victim appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His immaculate grey moustache and fine figure suggested that he enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle. His clothes were cut from a superior summer wool and bore the name of a leading tailor. Only when they looked inside his business-card holder, however, was his identity established conclusively.
Neither Gosuke Nishinohata nor the Towa Textiles Company were exactly what you would call eminent, but, in spite of this, their names were familiar even to the station attendant, because the demands made by the striking workers and the fact that the company director had dug his heels in had drawn public criticism. The photographs of Nishinohata, which had appeared in all the daily newspapers and weekly magazines, had left an indelible impression on those who saw them precisely because of his distinctive moustache.
Upon receiving the report, officers from the police headquarters in Urawa and the district public prosecutor’s office immediately 36travelled to the area. After everything had been checked over thoroughly, the Nishinohata household in the Yoga neighbourhood of Tamagawa was informed of the incident by the metropolitan police. It had just gone eight o’clock on the morning of 2 June.
3.
Philosophers deny the existence of chance. Even if something appears to be accidental at first, it is only perceived as such because the cause has yet to be investigated fully. When the painter, Yoshihara, found a strange stain on the roof of a train, not only the people around him, but even the local newspaper described it as an accidental discovery. On closer examination, however, the reason would become apparent.
That morning, Yoshihara had dozed off right in the middle of painting—the result of a lack of sleep the previous night. The reason for him going to bed so late was that he had been so excited to see his girlfriend and lost track of time, and his reason for being so excited about their rendezvous was that she was kind and beautiful and loved him with all her heart.
Yoshihara and his colleagues had been tasked with painting the footbridge at Shiroishi Station, and, before they’d set to work, the duty assistant had told them to take special care to avoid accidents. If any of the men were to lose their footing and fall inadvertently onto the tracks, they would likely lose their lives in the event of an oncoming train. As a painter, Yoshihara was used to working at great heights, and the more he became accustomed to it, the more he began to relax up there.
Broadly speaking, the only colours used to paint stations are grey, black and yellow. The buildings and structures, moreover, are 37large and have vast surface areas, which means that the work tends to be quite monotonous. Thus, even if you start the work feeling alert, there’s no way that you’ll be able to keep it up.
Yoshihara had just begun to nod off when he suddenly opened his eyes, his brush having fallen out of his hand and landed with a bang on the roof of the stationary train that had just stopped right below him.
Damn it! he thought, contorting himself in a panic, his hand clutching the rope as he looked down. What drew his eye, however, wasn’t so much the brush that he’d dropped, but the dark-red marks covering around a fifth of the carriage roof next to where it lay. These marks appeared to be dry, but, perhaps as a result of the wind when they were still wet and the train was in motion, they had formed backwards-facing little tails that looked like exclamation marks. “Those look like drops of blood,” Yoshihara thought to himself. “There must have been an accident…”
Suddenly the train bell rang. Several passengers went tearing past him, dashing down the stairs and hopping aboard, using the nearest steps. The stationmaster, holding a pocket watch in his white-cotton-gloved hand, was counting down the seconds. Yoshihara glanced helplessly at the brush lying on the carriage roof. It was only a short stop, so there had been no time to go down and fetch it. He knew he would get a good scolding from his supervisor later; it had been a bad start to the day. But just what were those marks?
It wasn’t until a break with his co-workers that he thought about the marks on the carriage roof again. The station attendant, whom he knew vaguely, had come over and told them that a body had been discovered by the tracks near Kuki Station.
“I’ve just had a call from Tokyo,” he said. “Let me know if you spot a train with blood on the roof.” 38
“With blood on it? Why?” one of the men asked.
“They think the body must have fallen from the roof of a passenger train, so there ought to blood on one of the carriages.”
“What should we do if we find it?”
“I’m not really sure, but apparently the police are searching for it.”
Yoshihara was annoyed with himself for having dropped his brush; uncharacteristically taciturn, he just sat there, puffing away on a cigarette. But as he listened to the conversation, he recalled the train from earlier.
“That must have been what I saw!” he exclaimed. “It was one that pulled out around nine-twenty. There’d been an accident, so it came in twenty minutes behind schedule.”
He paused, trying to recall what the loudspeaker on the platform had said.
“That’s right!” he said. “I think the announcer said it was the second- and third-class stopping service bound for Aomori.”
“That would make it the No. 117, the 8.59 service.” The station assistant began to stand up, but he stopped halfway. “And you’re sure it was blood?”
“How should I know whether it was blood? All I saw was a dirty great mark on the carriage roof. It looked like the mess left after butchering a rabbit…”39
4.
Early that same morning, a young man was leisurely walking his dog along the road that ran parallel to the railway tracks connecting Ueno and Uguisudani Stations. Although he was recovering from a chest ailment, he had never yet missed a morning walk. 40Amid the polluted air of the crowded Shitamachi, he had felt as though his lungs, which had just begun to get better, were once again being filled with soot. Hence his need to take a refreshing stroll through Ueno Park that morning, breathing in the abundant fresh air and cleaning out his lungs. Ordinarily, his route would take him past the Science Museum and around the University of the Arts, and, by the time he returned home, his mother would have breakfast all laid out on the table for him.
Around three hundred yards past Ueno Station, the road divided: the path to the left led up a gentle slope before going down again to remerge with the original road. The young man was walking up this hill at a slow enough pace not to get out of breath. Every winter, the young people from the neighbourhood liked to gather there and go skiing down it. When he’d been healthy, the young man had enjoyed skiing a lot himself, but after this recent illness, he would never be able to take part in such energetic sports again. Whenever he climbed this hill, he would think about this, forgetting the joy of his recovery, and he would feel angry and remorseful that he had ever contracted that damned disease.
If you stood at the top the hill and looked to your left, you would see an overpass leading across the railway tracks to the park on the other side. Known as Ryodaishi Bridge, it was an imposing concrete structure with a carriageway in the middle and a footpath on either side. The young man crossed it almost daily.
The dog, which was waiting ahead of him, knew the routine. As his master began to cross the bridge as usual, it dashed over to the edge of the footpath and began to sniff around excitedly.
“Pesu! Pesu!” the man tried calling it.
But the dog didn’t come back. It just kept barking, rubbing the tip of its nose on the ground. There was something strange about its bark, as though the animal were pleading for something.41
“Pesu! What is it, boy?”
As the young man drew nearer, the dog, sensing his approach, started barking even more. There was a large smear on the black surface of the footpath. He couldn’t tell what it was, but, judging from the strange barking of the dog, which had a keen sense of smell, it wasn’t anything as mundane as motor oil.
Since the path was damp with dew from the previous night, the stain had not yet dried entirely. The young man wanted to test it, so he looked around for a handy stick to prod it with; as he did so, his eyes came to rest on the railing in front of him, and what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. The railing of the overpass was also made of concrete, but, in contrast to the blackened footpath, it was a paler shade of grey—and on it, the shock of blood stood out much more clearly.
Before, the young man would have trembled at the sight of this. He had an instinctive aversion to and fear of blood. But ever since his chest ailment, frequent haemorrhages in his lungs had sadly accustomed him to seeing the red liquid. And so now, unfazed by the sight of it, he carefully examined the stains on the railing.
Placing his hands on it and leaning over, he saw that there were also dark-red stains on the other side of the concrete. With a little imagination, he could picture somebody being injured on the footpath, climbing over the railing and falling onto the tracks below. Embellishing the scene still further, he was horrified to see in his mind’s eye the struggle that had taken place on the dark overpass.
