The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories (13 page)

Sawaki went outside the house without making a sound.

The wind was still raging. Embarrassed at the childishness of what he was doing, he tried listening to the wind. But try as he might, all he could hear was a bleak howl. His hands numb with cold, he made a little snowman. But the snowman was nothing more than a lump of snow and did not talk to him or even smile at him.

There's no reason why I should be able to hear nature's voice
.

Sawaki shrugged. His ears were attuned to the noise of the city, so why would he be able to hear nature's voice? Even if nature did talk to him, he had lost the ability to understand it.

Shinkichi Yoshizawa had spent three years in Tokyo, hadn't he?

The thought suddenly occurred to him. He gazed out over the icebound Sea of Okhotsk as if seeking answers there.

The fact that Shinkichi had not received any replies to the three letters he sent, hoping to alleviate the unbearable loneliness of the city was probably not the only reason he had had committed suicide. Gazing out to sea in Hokuriku, perhaps he realized that he could no longer hear nature's voice. Such a realization must have exacerbated his despair, and perhaps he had lost even the courage to return home. Or maybe it was just Sawaki's imagination working overtime. Perhaps he was getting overly sentimental.

Sawaki went back inside the house to find Toku still burning books and magazines. As he took a seat by the hearth, he asked, “Will you burn this diary too?”

Toku replied that that was her intention. After slowly lighting up a cigarette, Sawaki told her, “You should put it in his grave with him. He needs some company, after all.”

Toku looked at him in silence, then smiled and assented, “Okay, let's do that.”

Sawaki felt relieved. That poem at least should be buried together with him. He knew he was being terribly sentimental. That was a word he detested, but right now he thought that once in a while it was even good to get sentimental without beating yourself up about it. It was a bit like reminiscing on childhood. While he had been outside making the snowman, Sawaki had recalled being a child. Had nature talked to him when he was little? It clearly no longer did now. For Sawaki, nature had lost its definition even in his reminiscences. Just as nature did not feature in his daily reality, it had gone from his memory too. That was probably why he had never been forced to contemplate suicide, or even felt as sad as Shinkichi Yoshizawa had.

Sawaki decided to take up Toku's offer to stay the night. As he snuggled into the bedding she laid out for him, he asked her, “Is there anything of your son's that I might have as a keepsake?”

Toku promised to look something out for him.

It did not occur to Sawaki to ask for the diary. The desk editor might want it, but Sawaki felt that it should be buried together with the young man's spirit. It belonged to someone who had been able to hear nature's voice. For anyone who had lost that ability, it was nothing more than meaningless words.

The wind blowing in off the sea continued to rattle the roof and the shutters throughout the night.

The next morning, Toku accompanied Sawaki as far as Shari station. The wind was as strong as ever, but it had stopped snowing and the sun had come out. Toku said nothing about the memento as they rode the horse-drawn sled, and Sawaki assumed she had probably been unable to find anything suitable.

Shari station was buried in snow. Just as the day before, nobody was in sight. As he stood on the icy platform with Toku waiting for the train to arrive, Sawaki recalled the toy monkey. He would probably never understand its significance, he thought.

“What happened to that toy monkey?” he asked Toku.

She smiled. “That boy was clutching it right until the end, so I decided to put it in his grave along with the diary.”

“Good idea,” nodded Sawaki, although secretly he would have liked to have had it as a memento. It would not be of any use for his article, though, since he still did not know why the youth had treasured it.

The train arrived. Just as Sawaki was boarding it, Toku rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a small square package.

“Please take this,” she urged Sawaki, passing the cloth-wrapped bundle to him through the window. “When he was little, he used to treasure this. I don't know whether it's a good memento or not, though.”

“What is it?”

Toku's reply was drowned out by the train's whistle and Sawaki could not catch it.

After her small body had disappeared from sight, Sawaki closed the window and opened up the package on his knees. It contained a weathered old cardboard box, along with a note written in clumsy handwriting.

My husband, who died young, made this for our boy. He was an only child, and it served as a playmate for him when he was little. It's not much, but please take it.

Sawaki opened up the lid of the box. Inside was a wooden toy monkey. It was clumsily made, clearly fashioned by a novice, but there was a curious charm in its expression.

Sawaki noticed a long string in its back. When he pulled it, the monkey clapped its hands together with a clattering sound, just as that cheap toy had done.

House of Cards

T
he
main street was beginning to stir to the morning, but the dregs of night still hung in the air of the side alley lined with cheap bars and dubious eateries specializing in offal.

For some time now, bright flashes from the forensics photographer's camera had ripped through the darkness, illuminating the prone body of a young woman. She was wearing a trashy sequined dress, and her bare feet were shod with plastic slip-on sandals, one of which lay in the gutter beside her—a hostess from one of the bars, by the looks of her.

Taguchi turned her over. “Bring the light closer, will you?” he called out to his junior, Detective Suzuki.

The circle from the flashlight revealed a flat, featureless face twisted in a grimace of pain. Her thick makeup was grotesque, as if she had applied it to look good when she died.

She had been strangled. Taguchi loosened the thin black ribbon wound tightly around her slim neck, and saw that it was a plain black necktie.

She must be around twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, he thought. Or perhaps the bare face under all that makeup might reveal itself to be a little younger than that. In any case, she had been too young to die.

“Boss!” Suzuki held up a sandal showing Taguchi the sole. “There's a brand name on it,” he said excitedly.

In the flashlight Taguchi made out the words “Turkish Sun.” He had thought she was a bar hostess, but perhaps she worked at a bathhouse. Not that it made much difference, he thought. Either way she had been at work in the entertainment district, and as such it was not hard to imagine why she had been killed—it must have been either for money or for a man.

“I'll go check it out,” said Suzuki, taking off out of the alley like a bloodhound on the scent. It was the twenty-seven-year-old's first murder case since his transfer to Shibuya police station and he was overcompensating for nervousness. So young, thought Taguchi, amused. He had also been like that once—and not all that long ago, either, although now his subordinates called him the Old Fox. Even the Old Fox had once been a bloodhound.

Smiling wryly to himself, he took out a cigarette and lit it. The morning light was finally beginning to filter into the alley, and the woman's cadaver appeared thin and forlorn in the pale light. The murderer would not have needed much strength to kill her, he thought. Averting his eyes, he decided to pay a visit to the nearby police box and hear what the patrolman who discovered the body had to say. As he left the alley, the rear view of his rotund, bandy-legged figure did somehow resemble that of an old fox.

In the afternoon, a fine, dreary drizzle started falling. It was typical rainy season weather, hot and humid. Taguchi hated this time of year. Being overweight did not help—even just standing still, he quickly broke out in a sweat.

“Well?” He wiped the moisture from the back of his neck before looking up at Detective Suzuki. “How did you get on at Turkish Sun?”

“They knew her—they even had a copy of her CV. Here,” Suzuki handed him a standard format résumé form folded in half. Taguchi sank back in his swivel chair and opened out it out.

Name	Kazuko Watanabe
Date of Birth	May 7, 1949
Permanent residence	A_____Village, A_____ County, Tochigi Prefecture
Education	A____ Village Junior High School
Employment	S____ Pharmaceuticals, Shinagawa Factory Chat Noir Tearoom Shochiku Cabaret

That was it—in barely legible handwriting. It was a pretty familiar scenario, thought Taguchi. A girl from a rural area gets a respectable job in Tokyo through the mass recruitment program. Before long she moves to a tearoom, then to a cabaret, and finally to a bathhousecum-brothel. It was a classic descent into degradation, although she probably thought she was moving up in the world.

“The victim appears to have been on the night shift last night,” Suzuki said, consulting his notebook.

Taguchi raised his eyes to his subordinate's face. “They have night shifts at a bathhouse?”

“The girls apparently take turns in staying overnight. The manager claims it's a precaution against fire, but—”

“So you reckon the murderer knew she was on the night shift, and called her out to the alley in order to kill her?”

“It narrows the field,” Suzuki's eyes glittered. “The victim had gone to the trouble of making herself up before going out, so it's reasonable to assume that she was meeting someone she was pretty close to.”

“Were there any men in her life?”

“She was getting married in the fall.”

“Ah,” Taguchi's eyes widened. This piece of news was unexpected, although not inconceivable for a girl working in a bathhouse. After all, she turned out to be only twenty-one. “Who's the lucky man?”

“The boss of a small workshop. Forty years of age. Widowed. He's a regular at Turkish Sun, and got to know the victim there.”

“Were they really planning to get married? It's not just gossip?”

“It seems so. There's a reservation in their names at a nearby wedding hall. And the victim was happily showing off a marriage brochure to the other girls.”

“So she was engaged to be married, huh?” Taguchi turned his gaze out of the window. The Tokyo Culture Center and bus terminal looked blurred and hazy through the glass misted with raindrops. When he found out the victim worked in a bathhouse, the dark image of a fallen woman had immediately come to mind. However, what Suzuki came back with was a story of an ordinary twenty-one-year-old girl, her heart aflutter with plans for marriage.

Not only that, but
…

With a troubled expression, Taguchi recalled the body lying in the alley. Suzuki had said the girl must have been going to meet a man she was on close terms with, since she had made herself up. That certainly made sense—but if it had indeed been the case, why had she slipped her feet into those scruffy sandals? They were printed with the name of the bathhouse and were provided for the use of customers. If she had gone to the trouble of making herself up for a man, why hadn't she worn some nice smart shoes to go out and meet him?

Perhaps there was more to this case than met the eye?

Taguchi looked pensive for a moment, but quickly recovered his usual smile. The murderer's identity would become clear as the investigation progressed, he thought. Things that looked strange at first glance often turned out to have a perfectly rational explanation when the case was solved. Twenty years' experience as a detective had instilled him with confidence.

He heaved himself out of the chair. “It's about time we paid the workshop boss a visit, don't you think?”

“Yoshimuta Packaging” was inscribed in gold lettering on the glass door. It was not so much a workshop as the front room of an ordinary town house. A small truck was parked outside, the name Yoshimuta Packaging emblazoned on its side. From inside the house, the regular
thwump
of a cutter could be heard.

When Suzuki pressed the doorbell, the sound of the machine stopped, the glass door opened, and a middle-aged man with a growth of stubble on his chin peered out. Dressed in a sleeveless undershirt and long johns, he was broad-chested and sweating profusely. Drying himself with the hand towel slung around his neck, he stared at the two detectives, “What can I do for you?”

Taguchi showed him his police badge. “I guess you haven't heard yet, then?”

“Heard what?” Yoshimuta looked questioningly at the two men as he showed them inside.

Taguchi did not answer at once; instead he glanced around the wooden-floored workspace. It was thirteen or fourteen square meters in size, and equipped with a large cutting machine. Ready-trimmed posters were piled almost as high as the ceiling, but there was no sign of any employees. It appeared that he worked alone. This really was what you would call a cottage industry, thought Taguchi. The window was open, but not a breath of air came in. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the back of his neck.

“About the murder of Kazuko Watanabe of Turkish Sun,” Taguchi looked directly into Yoshimuta's eyes, ready to catch any reaction in his expression. “I heard you were due to marry her, is that right?”

“Kazuko? I don't believe it!” Yoshimuta's face crumpled. His hand, still clutching the towel, stopped in mid-air and his shoulders slumped as he groaned, “Who on earth…?”

“That's what we intend to find out,” said Taguchi slowly. “Were there any problems with you two getting married?”

“What do you mean? Everyone was really happy for us! We'd sometimes talk about what it was going to be like once we were married. It might sound a bit odd for someone my age, but I was serious about her, you know. And now—”

Taguchi was taken aback to see tears glistening in Yoshimuta's eyes. This big bear of a man was all choked up. Taguchi was surprised, but unmoved. In fact, he was instantly on his guard. It was unfortunate, but so many years working as a detective had made him naturally wary. He had seen any number of criminals feigning tears after having coolly murdered a lover.

He deliberately wiped the back of his neck once more. “Didn't you go to Turkish Sun last night?”

“I wanted to, but I've had a rush job in these past few days.” Yoshimuta pointed to the pile of posters still waiting to be trimmed, saying that he would have to work through the night again tonight to meet the deadline. But now he didn't feel like working, he added with a sigh.

“Do you know of any men who were close to Kazuko, other than you?”

After rubbing his eyes with his thick fingers, Yoshimuta answered, “There is one, but he's not the one you're after.”

“Who is he?”

“He's called Sakakibara. A young guy who writes poetry.”

“Poetry?” echoed Taguchi, puzzled. It was not unthinkable for a bathhouse girl to get together with a local small workshop owner. It even seemed like a pretty good match. But a
poet
? That just didn't add up. “What sort of relationship did she have with this poet?”

“Kazuko had been through a lot, and Sakakibara liked to hear her talk about it. She could tell him all her troubles and he would listen to her. She would say that just talking to him made her feel better about things. Poets are known for their sensitivity, aren't they? Of course, once we decided to get married, she was really happy and didn't have so much to grumble about any more.”

“Wasn't this Sakakibara scrounging off her? Sweet-talking her into giving him money, or something like that?”

“If you meet him you'll know he's not that sort. He's clever, but he doesn't brag about it. He's a great guy.”

“So where can I meet this great guy?”

“I don't know where he lives, but he often goes to Julie's—that small bar behind the station. That's where I got to know him. Other than that, he sometimes sells his poetry books outside Shibuya station, by Hachiko. They go for fifty yen. I bought one once, but I can't say I understood much of it.”

So it was that guy who sold poetry. Taguchi recalled having seen him several times by the Hachiko statue. He was tall and thin, and vaguely hippyish, although Taguchi's memory of him was hazy, having seen him only in passing. In any case, he would just have to meet him to get an idea of the sort of man he was.

Taguchi asked Yoshimuta one last question, “Did you work all night last night too?”

Yoshimuta answered slowly, “Pretty much—although I did get two or three hours shut-eye in that chair over there.”

Taguchi sent Detective Suzuki back to Turkish Sun before setting off alone for Julie's, the bar that Yoshimuta had told him about.

It was on the corner of the very alley where the body had been found; small, with a sign on the door reading “No Under-18s by Law.” Taguchi could not help a wry smile as he went in.

There were just two customers in the small, dimly lit interior. One was at the counter, an older man with a neat little mustache who was intent on teasing the landlady. Glancing over at the other, much younger man, Taguchi had the feeling he had seen him before somewhere. He had long hair and a beard, and was seated at a table in the corner toying with his glass, now half empty. On the table before him lay a red leather-bound book. Taguchi went up to him and, having noted the title
Selected Poems of Baudelaire
on the spine, took a seat in front of him.

“You must be Sakakibara.”

The young man looked up, his face unhealthily pale in the semi-darkness. There was a trace of amusement in his eyes as he nodded.

“I'm from the Shibuya Police Sta—”

“I could tell you were a detective from a mile off,” interrupted Sakakibara. “Police all have a distinctive smell.”

“Is that so? I hadn't noticed personally.”