Inspector Imanishi Investigates Page 13
Imanishi lowered his teacup. “What is it?”
“Someone’s committed suicide in that apartment house.”
Imanishi wasn’t much interested in suicides. But Yoshiko continued, her eyes bright with excitement. “It’s the girl we saw once who works for the theater group, remember?”
“Eh?” Imanishi was surprised. “That girl?” Imanishi remembered the slim girl they had passed on the street. “That’s surprising.”
“Isn’t it? I was shocked when I heard. To think that she would commit suicide. You really can’t tell.”
“When did she die?”
“The apartment owner discovered her at seven this morning. Apparently she had taken two hundred sleeping pills. There’s a crowd of people gathered in front of the apartment house now.”
“Hm.” Imanishi recalled the face he had seen under the dim streetlight. “Why did she commit suicide?”
“I don’t really know; but since she was young, it may have been a love affair.”
“I wonder. It’s a shame; she had her whole life ahead of her.”
Imanishi took off his kimono and changed to his street clothes. As he was buttoning his shirt, something occurred to him.
“Hey,” he called to his wife. “Did you see that girl very often?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did she look like?”
“Well, she had a pretty, slender face with big eyes.”
“Did she look like Okada Mariko?”
“Let me think.” His wife stared off into space. “Now that you mention it, she did look a bit like Okada Mariko. Yes, that was the general impression she made.”
Imanishi suddenly frowned and hurriedly put on his jacket.
“I’m off.”
“Have a good day.” His wife saw him to the door.
Imanishi walked quickly to the apartment house. Some neighbors were standing outside, looking at the apartment. A patrol car from the local police station was parked at the entrance. Imanishi walked up the stairs. The suicide had occurred in Number 5 on the second floor. A policeman from the local station was standing outside the apartment. He recognized Imanishi and nodded a greeting.
“Thanks for your efforts,” Imanishi said and stepped into the room.
Policemen stood around as the medical examiner squatted to examine the body.
Imanishi recognized all of the men there. “Could I take a look at the body?”
Imanishi peered at the body from above. Her hair was nicely styled and she had on makeup. She had known that she would be seen by others after she died. She seemed to be wearing her best clothes. The room was tidy and clean.
Imanishi stared at the dead girl’s face. It was a pretty face. There was no doubt that she was the girl he had passed on the street. Her face was slender and her shapely lips were slightly open. Her eyes were closed, but judging from the shape of the sockets, they would have been large if opened. The medical examiner was dictating information to his assistant. Imanishi waited until he was finished.
“Was it sleeping pills?” Imanishi asked one of the policemen in a low voice.
“Yes. She was discovered this morning, and we estimate that the time of death was about eleven last night,” the policeman responded.
“Any suicide note?”
“Not really. But there’s a journal that could be taken as such.”
“What was her name?”
“Naruse Rieko, age twenty-five. She’s a staff member at the Avant-Garde Theater,” the policeman answered, consulting his notebook.
Imanishi looked around the room. Everything was put away carefully, as if she had been expecting guests. Imanishi’s gaze fell on a small wardrobe in the corner of the room.
“There’s something I’m concerned about,” Imanishi said to the policeman. “Is it all right if I open the wardrobe?”
“Please, go ahead.” The policeman agreed at once. Since this wasn’t a murder case but an obvious suicide, the regulations were not that strictly observed.
Imanishi stepped quietly to the wardrobe and opened the door. Several pieces of clothing hung on hangers. Imanishi focused on one of them. It was a black suit. He stared at the suit. Then without a word, he closed the door.
He scanned the room, and his eyes alighted on a blue canvas bag set between the desk and a small bookcase. It was the type of bag carried by stewardesses. Taking out his notebook, Imanishi jotted down a description of the bag.
About this time, the medical examination was finally finished. Imanishi knew the examiner from other cases.
“Thank you very much, Doctor,” Imanishi said, bowing.
“Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?” The doctor looked suspicious. This was not the kind of case to involve a homicide detective from headquarters.
“I live in the neighborhood. So I just stopped by to take a look. I’ve seen her several times, so I feel some sort of connection.”
“That’s kind of you. Please say a prayer for her.”
The doctor stepped aside. Imanishi knelt beside the body and pressed his hands together in prayer. The light from the window shone on Naruse Rieko’s face, giving it a bright and pure look.
“Doctor,” Imanishi said, turning toward the medical examiner, “you’re sure it was suicide?”
“There’s no mistake. She’d taken about two hundred sleeping pills. The empty bottle was by her pillow.”
“So there’s no need for an autopsy?”
“Absolutely none. It’s clearly a suicide.”
Imanishi stood up. Then he walked over to the policeman. “You said that there was no note, but there was a journal. Could I take a look at it?”
“Please, go ahead.” The policeman went over to the desk. The top of the desk was cleared off. He opened the drawer. “This is it.” It was a lecture notebook and had been left open. “She seems to have written her thoughts in it every now and then.”
Imanishi nodded in silence and read the words on the page. They were written in a cultured script.
Must love be a lonely thing?
Our love has lasted for three years. Yet nothing has been built from this love. It will probably continue on in vain. Forever, he says. The futility of this love tastes empty and feels like grains of sand slipping through my fingers. At night, despair haunts my dreams. And yet I must be strong. I must believe in him. I must protect this lonely love. I must persuade myself to be content with this loneliness, to find happiness within it. I must cling to this hopeless thing. This love always demands sacrifices of me. I must feel the joy of a martyr as I make sacrifices. Forever, he says. As long as I live, he will continue to demand that I make sacrifices.
Imanishi flipped through the notebook. All that was described were abstract feelings. It was written so that only the writer herself could understand it.
Again, with permission from the policeman, Imanishi picked up the bag that he had seen. He unzipped it. The contents had been cleaned out, and nothing remained in the bag. Imanishi searched in the corners, but he did not find any cloth fragments.
“So, she committed suicide because she was heartbroken,” the policeman from the local station said to Imanishi. “You can tell from what she wrote in the journal. Young women her age are so susceptible.”
Imanishi nodded. His thoughts were elsewhere. It did appear as if this young woman had been disappointed in love. Could it be that, in addition, she had a sense of guilt and that guilt had driven her to her death? Imanishi envisioned her scattering to the wind the small fragments of a man’s bloodstained shirt. He left the room and descended the stairs.
The woman who managed the apartment house was pale, still tense from the unexpected incident. Imanishi recognized her.
“You’ve got a terrible situation on your hands,” he said sympathetically.
“I never expected…” she responded, her voice faltering.
“I didn’t know her really, but it’s too bad. She seemed like a nice girl. Did she seem sad all the time?”
“I understand she worked as a staff member at a theater?”
“Yes.”
“Then did she have men friends or a lot of young people coming to visit her?”
“No,” the woman shook her head. “There was never anything like that. It’s been about two and a half months since she moved in, but no one came to visit her.”
“I see.” Imanishi thought a bit, and asked, “Even if she didn’t let him in her room, did you see her with a young man near the apartment house?”
“Let me see.” The woman cocked her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you ever see her talking to a young man wearing a beret?”
“No, I never saw anyone like that.”
Imanishi remembered the young man wearing a beret who was loitering one night outside the girl’s window. He’d been whistling some tune.
“Was there a man wandering about whistling? Whistling to signal or invite the girl out.”
Her answer was negative as to this as well, “I can’t remember anything like that.”
Then perhaps it had only been that one night. If it had been more frequent, this woman would have heard it and remembered it.
Imanishi went outside. Had the girl he had been searching for been living so close to him? Was the girl of the paper blizzard the theater staff member living in his neighborhood whom he had seen several times? It was hard for him to believe.
In his mind’s eye he saw the tall, young man in a beret who had been hanging around outside her window. He had let it go at the time. He regretted not having made more of an effort to find out who the young man was. Now it was too late.
The woman who managed the apartment said that Rieko was always alone and never had visitors, so the young man in the beret must have been trying to call her out by whistling to her.
All of a sudden, Imanishi remembered the young man who had wandered around acting strange at Kameda. It was just a thought. He decided to go to the Avant-Garde Theater and ask about Rieko.
Imanishi came out of the back street. The sushi shop was getting ready for business. A young man was hanging the shop curtain outside to let customers know that it was open. The man with the beret might have stopped in there to have some sushi. Imanishi walked across the street.
“Good morning.”
The young man turned around and bowed to Imanishi. They knew Imanishi at this shop. He sometimes called to have sushi delivered to his home. “We’re not open yet,” the young man said.
“No, no, I haven’t come to eat. I’d just like to ask a few questions. Is the master in?”
“Yes, he’s inside preparing the fish.”
Excusing himself, Imanishi went inside the shop.
The shop master put down his knife when he saw Imanishi. “Welcome.”
“Good morning.” Imanishi sat on a stool at the counter while the shop was still being cleaned. “Sorry to bother you when you’re so busy. I came in because I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes, sir, what is it?” The sushi master took off his headband.
“It was quite a while ago, so you may not remember. Did a tall man in a beret come here to eat some sushi toward the end of last month, late at night?”
“A beret, you say.” The sushi master thought a while.
“A tall young man.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know what his face looks like, but he may be an actor.”
“An actor?”
“Not a movie actor, a stage actor. In modern dramas.”
“Ah.” When he heard that, the sushi master nodded energetically, indicating that he understood. “Yes, yes, there was someone like that who came in. I definitely remember an actor who wore a beret. It must have been toward the end of July.”
“Hm. Did he eat some sushi?”
“Yes. It was around eleven. He dropped in alone. There were three other young customers already eating. One of them, a girl, went right up to the fellow with the beret and asked him for his autograph.”
“Did you get his name?”
“It was Miyata Kunio. He’s known as a young leading man in the Avant-Garde Theater.”
“He’s not a leading man,” the young worker put in from the side. “He’s a character actor, he plays any kind of part.”
“I see, Miyata Kunio.” Imanishi noted it down. “Does he come here often?”
“No, that was the only time.”
Imanishi got off the streetcar at Aoyama Yonchome. The Avant-Garde Theater was located less than two minutes from this stop. In front were posters announcing its current production. The front door was the main entrance to the theater. Imanishi asked for directions to the office at the ticket booth.
Inside, the office was cramped, barely room enough for the five desks. The floor was covered with boxes. Colorful posters from the theater’s productions plastered the walls. There were three staff members in the room, one young woman and two young men.
Imanishi went to the counter and said, “I’d like to inquire about something.”
Hearing this, the girl stood up.
“Is Miyata Kunio-san here?” Imanishi asked.
“Is Miyata-san here now?” The girl turned around and asked one of the men.
“Yeah, he showed up a little while ago. He should be in the rehearsal hall.”
“Could I give him your name?” she asked.
“Please tell him it’s Imanishi.”
“Wait a moment, please.”
The girl left the office by going through a glass door that separated the office from the rehearsal area. Imanishi took out a cigarette and began smoking. The two staff members worked on their abacuses and examined the ledgers, ignoring Imanishi. Imanishi waited, gazing at the words “People from the Underground” on one of the posters.
After a while the door at the back of the office opened. The girl reappeared, followed by a tall man.
Imanishi studied him closely as he came nearer. He was about twenty-seven or -eight. His hair was long, and he wore a short-sleeved print shirt and a pair of slacks.
“My name is Miyata,” the actor said and bowed. His attitude was that of someone used to dealing with people he did not know.
“Sorry to bother you when you’re so busy,” Imanishi said. “My name is Imanishi. I came because I want to ask you something. Could you step outside with me for a minute?”
Miyata Kunio looked displeased at first. But when Imanishi discreetly showed him his police identification, his expression turned to surprise.
“I just want to ask you a few questions, and this is probably not the right place,” Imanishi said, looking around the office. “So shall we go to a coffee shop?”
Miyata Kunio nodded submissively and followed Imanishi outside. They went to a nearby coffee shop together. As it was still morning, there were no other customers. An employee was washing the windows. The two men took seats at a table toward the back of the shop. Miyata Kunio’s face, lit by the sunlight streaming in from the window, was apprehensive.
In an attempt to make him relax, Imanishi started off by making small talk. “I know absolutely nothing about contemporary drama,” Imanishi began. “Do you play leading roles?”
“No, I’m only a beginner.”
“I see. It must be hard.”
Imanishi offered him a cigarette. The two drank their coffee.
“Miyata-san, I’m sorry to have disturbed you during your work. Were you in the middle of rehearsing?”
“I’m free right now.”
“Good. Excuse me for being so abrupt, but do you know a young woman named Naruse Rieko, a staff member at the theater?”
It seemed that Miyata’s face twitched when he heard the question. Imanishi had thought when he visited the theater office that the theater members, including Miyata, must not have heard yet about Naruse Rieko�
�s suicide. But Imanishi thought Miyata flinched for a different reason.
“Miyata-san, Naruse-san has committed suicide.”
“What?” Miyata’s eyes opened wide. After staring at the detective for a while, he stammered, his face changing color, “Is… is that the truth?”
“Yes, last night. I was there this morning. There’s no mistake. Hasn’t the theater been notified yet?”
“I didn’t know anything… Oh, yes, I did hear that the staff director went rushing out for some reason. I wonder if it was because of this?”
“It could be. Were you close to Naruse-san?”
A fly crawled up the window.
Miyata Kunio looked down and took a while to answer.
“Well, were you?” Imanishi repeated.
“I certainly knew her well.”
“I see. What I wanted to ask you, Miyata-san, is whether you might have any idea as to the reason behind Naruse-san‘s suicide.”
With a mournful expression, the actor put his fingers to his chin. Imanishi watched his expression intently.
“This isn’t a murder, so it may not be my place to inquire. Even though it may be impolite to the deceased, we would like to know any hidden reason for Naruse-san’s suicide. I say this because there is some connection with another case. I’m sorry I can’t go into details about that, but I can tell you that is why I’m asking you these questions.”
“But, I…” Miyata answered in a low voice, “I don’t know why Naruse-san would commit suicide.”
“We have found a journal that gives some explanation. I don’t know if you’d call it a suicide note. From what she had written, it seem that she was in despair over a love affair. She had written some tragic lines to that effect.”
“Is that so. Did she write the man’s name?” Miyata looked up at Imanishi.
“As a matter of fact, she gave no name. Probably Naruse-san didn’t want to cause any embarrassment after her death.”
“So that was it, after all.”
“What do you mean ‘after all’? Is there something else you know about?” Imanishi watched intently so as not to let any change in Miyata’s expression escape him.
Miyata Kunio did not answer. Looking down again, he bit his lip to keep it from trembling.