Inspector Imanishi Investigates Page 15
“That’s good.”
The two of them walked in silence. The streetlights grew fewer.
“I’m so happy,” she said. “The only time I’m happy is when I’m with you. That’s the only time I feel fulfilled.”
Sekigawa was silent.
“I know you don’t feel the same. Are you seeing someone other than me?” Emiko asked.
“There’s no one else.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes I can’t help thinking that there is someone else.”
“You’re just being jealous.”
“Whenever I start thinking that, I try to stop my thoughts, but I can’t.”
“Is it that hard for you to trust me?”
“No, I trust you, of course. I don’t care if I’m not your only woman. It doesn’t matter to me even if you love someone else. Only, please don’t leave me.”
Emiko walked clinging to Sekigawa’s arm. The road was dark. Beyond the darkness they could hear the lonesome sound of the streetcar.
“The streetcars are still running,” Emiko said, leaning her cheek against Sekigawa’s shoulder.
“It must be the last run.” Sekigawa tossed his cigarette. The small red flame glowed on the ground.
Emiko looked up at the sky. It was full of stars.
“It’s gotten late. Orion is all the way over there,” Sekigawa said.
“Which is Orion?”
“See, it’s that one.” Sekigawa pointed his finger at the sky. “See the three stars lined up sideways as if they were on a ship’s mast? And around them are four stars that box them in.”
“Yes, those?”
“In the winter, that constellation shines brightly in the sky. When I see Orion, I realize that autumn has already come.”
“You know so much about stars, too.”
“Not really. I knew someone when I was a boy who taught me all kinds of things. He’s dead now. He taught me about the stars, too. The place I come from is surrounded by mountains so you can’t see much of the sky,” Sekigawa said. “He would take me up to the top of a nearby peak at night and teach me about the stars. When we reached the mountaintop, the sky would open up.”
“What area do you come from?”
“You wouldn’t know even if I told you.”
“Oh, yes, I remember reading somewhere that it was in Akita Prefecture.”
“Yes, that’s what they say.”
“What do you mean, that’s what they say?”
“It doesn’t really matter.” Sekigawa changed the subject. “Tomorrow night I have to review a concert.”
“You’re so busy. Which concert?”
“Waga’s. A newspaper asked me to review it, so I accepted.”
“Waga-san’s music is very new, isn’t it? What do they call it, avant-garde music?”
“He calls it ‘musique concrete.’ Others pioneered this form, Waga picked it up and started doing it himself. He’s not capable of going much further. He has no originality. He just steals from what others have done.”
A scarlet curtain was the backdrop. The only stage decoration was a weirdly shaped sculpture placed in the center. The sculpture was as white as fallen snow. The contrast between the white and the scarlet was stark. A sculptor from the Nouveau group had decorated the recital stage for his comrade Waga Eiryo.
This concert differed greatly from the usual musical performance. Speakers had been placed at different locations to create a three-dimensional effect. Sound came from beyond the curtain hung behind the sculpture, from above the audience and from beneath it. The hall was full and most of the audience was young. The last work was entitled “Nirvana,” based on the myth of Buddha’s death, when all the animals lamented and heaven and earth wailed in mourning. The piece at times moaned, then quavered, howled, and vibrated. Metallic sounds and voices like loud laughter were combined to create tension, relaxation, pause, and climax. It could not be said that the audience was enraptured. They were trying to make sense of this new music.
The music stopped. A loud round of applause welled up. There was some confusion as to whom the audience was applauding as there was no orchestra on the stage. Eventually, the recipient of the applause, Waga Eiryo, dressed in a black suit, walked on stage from the right wing.
Sekigawa went backstage to Waga’s dressing room, which was jammed with people. In the center of the room were three tables pushed together loaded with beer and plates of hors d’oeuvres. Cigarette smoke and voices filled the room.
“Hey, Sekigawa.” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Yodogawa Ryuta, the architect. “You’re late.”
Sekigawa nodded, squeezing sideways between people.
Waga stood smiling in the center of the throng. Beside him stood Tadokoro Sachiko in a pure white satin cocktail dress. Encircling her slender white neck was a necklace of three strands of pearls. She looked gorgeous enough to take the stage herself.
Pushing his way through the crowd, Sekigawa went up to Waga. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Waga responded.
“Sachiko-san, congratulations.”
“Thank you very much. Sekigawa-san, how did you like the concert?” Sachiko looked up at Sekigawa with smiling eyes.
“You’d better not ask the opinion of the critic tonight,” Waga interjected. “At least he congratulated me.”
“Sekigawa-sensei, it’s because the music is so fascinating that there was such a large audience.” The singer Murakami Junko spoke up from directly behind Sekigawa. As usual, she wore a red suit. She had strong features, the kind that showed to advantage when she was on stage. Secure in her looks, she smiled boldly.
“I suppose you could say that,” Sekigawa agreed, with a laugh.
“Sensei, please let me pour you a glass.”
Sekigawa allowed the singer to pour him some beer. With an exaggerated gesture, he raised his glass and looked from Waga to Sachiko. “Congratulations on your success.”
Many well-wishers circled around Waga. The door was left open to accommodate the crowd.
“It’s an incredible number of people,” Yodogawa whispered to Sekigawa. “I’m envious of musicians. No matter how many houses I design, no one throws such a party for me.”
The architect’s envy was understandable. Not only music lovers, but also those who had nothing to do with the arts, surrounded Waga. And many of them were older men.
Yodogawa spoke in an undertone. “They’re all Sachiko’s father’s connections.”
“Don’t be so envious.” Sekigawa turned his back on Waga and moved away. “It’s probably annoying to him as well.”
“No, look at Waga’s face. He doesn’t look annoyed at all,” Yodogawa continued.
“No, that expression means he’s pleased that his art has been recognized.”
“How many people in tonight’s audience understood Waga’s ‘musique concrete’? I couldn’t understand it very well myself.”
“You, an avant-garde architect?”
“I don’t have to cover up my ignorance in front of you.”
“The masses,” Sekigawa said, “are always dumbfounded by the unintelligibility of pioneering efforts. But after a while, they get used to it. This accommodation leads them into understanding.”
“Are you saying this describes Waga’s case?”
“Let’s not get into individual cases,” Sekigawa answered. “Here it is necessary to act politely. If you want to know what I have to say, take a look at the newspaper tomorrow.”
“To get your honest opinion?”
“Right. We say all kinds of things about each other, but Waga is impressive. He’s doing just what he wants to do the way he wants to do it.”
“Isn’t it just that he’s lucky? He’s made such quick progress. Even if he didn’t create anything, the media would pay attention to him because he’s the future son-in-law of former Cabinet Minister Tadokoro.”
Imanishi managed to read one-third of the newspaper review of Waga Eiryo’s recital. He did not
have the patience to read the rest. To him, the piece was totally incomprehensible. The reason he had read that far at breakfast was because he recognized the photo of Sekigawa Shigeo, the critic who had written the piece.
Imanishi got off the streetcar at Kichijoji-machi. The apartment building where Miyata had lived was quite old. The wife of the building owner answered the door. When he said he was from police headquarters, she looked worried.
“I’d like to ask you a bit about Miyata-san,” Imanishi said.
“I appreciate your concern. Was there something Miyata-san had done?”
Imanishi had refused to go inside so they stood talking in the doorway. “No, it’s not that Miyata-san did anything,” Imanishi said, putting the woman at ease. “I was a fan of his. I’m disappointed that he died so young. How long did he live here?”
“Let me see. It’s been about three years.”
“Actors tend to have a life-style different from what we imagine when they’re off the stage. What was he like?”
“He was a very nice person. He was quiet and neat.”
“Did he ever bring over friends and have rowdy parties?”
“No. Apparently he had a weak heart, so he didn’t drink much, and he was very careful about his health. For an actor, he seemed to be a very quiet person.”
“By the way, did Miyata-san go on a trip to the Tohoku region about mid-May?”
“Yes, he did,” the housewife answered immediately.
Imanishi’s eyes lit up. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure I’m not mistaken. He brought me back some presents from Akita, some sweets and a wooden kokeshi doll.”
Imanishi concealed the joy he felt.
“About how long was Miyata-san’s trip to the Tohoku region?”
“Let me see. I think it was about four days.”
“Did Miyata-san say anything to you at that time?”
“He said he had a break from the theater’s performances, so he thought he’d go on a little trip. I only found out after he returned that he had gone to Akita.”
Leaving the apartment house, Imanishi went to a telephone booth and called detective Yoshimura. The two men met at Shibuya Station. It was just noon, so they went into a noodle shop.
“You look as if you’ve come up with a big find,” Yoshimura said, looking at Imanishi’s face.
“Is it that obvious?” Imanishi grinned. “Actually, I finally figured out the reason for our trip to the Tohoku region.”
“Really?” Yoshimura opened his eyes wide. “Did you find out who that man was?”
“I did.”
“I’m amazed. Give me all the details.”
The cold noodles they had ordered were served.
“A few days ago an actor died of a heart attack.”
“Yes, I read about it in the newspaper. It was Miyata Kunio, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. Did you know him?”
“I knew his name. I don’t go to see many contemporary dramas. But I remember reading the article about his death. It said that he was a new actor for whom they had had high hopes in the future.”
“He was that guy.”
“What?” Yoshimura nearly dropped his chopsticks.
“Miyata was the strange man in Kameda.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I’ll tell you, give me time.”
For a while, there was only the sound of the two men slurping soba noodles.
“As a matter of fact,” Imanishi said, after taking a sip of tea, “in this morning’s paper there was a piece by one of those people we saw at Kameda station. That Nou…”
“The Nouveau group, you mean?”
“That’s it. One of them was in the paper. One’s train of thought is a strange thing. I had been keeping my eye on this fellow Miyata. I’ll tell you the reason later. Anyway, I was checking on him when he died. There’s no reason to be suspicious about his death because it was a heart attack. But I remembered that he was an actor when I read the piece in the paper this morning. And you know how much I’ve been thinking about the Kamata case. I realized that Miyata would be used to disguises, especially since he acts in contemporary dramas. I had a flash that maybe he was the one who had gone to Kameda.”
Yoshimura looked intently at Imanishi. “And was that what had happened?”
“I went over to his apartment building and talked to his landlord’s wife. Miyata went to Akita for four days from about May 18. It was at the end of May that we went to Akita, right? So the dates match up pretty well. The dead can’t talk, so we can’t ask Miyata himself, but I’m sure there’s no mistake.”
Imanishi ate the rest of his noodles.
“I’m impressed.”
“That’s what I mean about train of thought. I remembered when I read that complicated article by the guy in the Nouveau group. And the reason I read that piece was because I remembered seeing him at Kameda Station. Then suddenly the two strands fit together: Miyata, whom I’d been checking on for a while, and Kameda.”
“So your hunch was right on target.”
“That’s fine so far. But the question is, why did Miyata go to Kameda?”
“That’s true.”
“He wandered aimlessly in that town dressed like a laborer. Those weren’t his normal clothes. And all the people there said that he kept his head down and didn’t look directly at anyone, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they did.”
“And yet, in such a small country town he was sure to be noticed. One of the hotel maids described him quite accurately as being ‘dark-skinned but handsome.’ ”
Imanishi and Yoshimura stared intently at each other.
“I can’t figure it out. What brought him to Kameda in disguise?”
“I don’t know. At any rate, he didn’t do anything. All he did was walk around. He hung around near some houses and lay around at the riverside. And that’s all.”
“Wait a minute,” Yoshimura put his hand up to his forehead. “What if that was why he went?”
“That’s it!” Imanishi nodded. “He behaved in such a way as to leave an impression on the local people.”
“Why did he do that?”
Imanishi did not reply directly to Yoshimura’s question. “The rumor about the strange man found its way to the local police. And we found out because we requested information about the Kamata killing. We were taken in.”
NINE Groping
Yoshimura had asked Imanishi to guide him to the spot where Miyata had died.
“This is the place,” Imanishi said.
“I see.” Yoshimura looked where Imanishi pointed. “The bus stop is right over there, isn’t it?” Yoshimura asked. In fact, passengers were getting off a bus that had stopped not three feet from where they stood. “The theory that Miyata was waiting for the bus is a possibility.”
“That’s true. Oh, yes, Yoshimura,” Imanishi said, thinking of something, “would you ask the conductor the exact times buses stop here around eight o’clock at night?”
Yoshimura ran for the bus and asked the conductor. He came back as the bus pulled away.
“There’s a bus to Seijo at seven-forty,” Yoshimura said. “At eight o’clock the bus for Kichijoji goes by, and ten minutes later another bus for Seijo. Then nothing for about twenty minutes until the bus from Chitose Karasuyama passes through on the way to Seijo. After that buses in both directions come by at twenty-minute intervals. So a bus comes by here every ten minutes or so.”
Imanishi listened to this and muttered, “They come quite often, don’t they?” He continued, “Miyata died at about eight o’clock. If we assume that he was waiting near the bus stop, his heart attack must have occurred during the ten-minute span between buses. It’s not certain that the buses in both directions pass by at exactly those intervals, so there is some leeway. But in any case, he couldn’t have been waiting long. If Miyata had his heart attack during the ten-minute wait, he was really unlucky.” Imanishi was thinking out loud.
Yoshimura could not hear him. He was walking across the field near the road.
“Imanishi-san,” Yoshimura called out, bending over. “Look at this.” Yoshimura pointed to the ground. In the grass there was a piece of paper some four inches square, torn, with ragged edges.
“What could it be?” Imanishi picked it up.
“It looks like a list of figures,” Yoshimura said, peering over Imanishi’s shoulder.
The sheet of paper listed the following:
Total Amounts of Unemployment Insurance Disbursed
1949 --
1950 --
1951 --
1952 --
1953 25,404
– -
– -
1954 35,522
– -
– -
– -
1955 30,834
– -
– -
1956 24,362
– -
– -
1957 27,435
1958 28,431
– -
– -
1959 28,438
– -
It appeared that this sheet of paper was one section of a larger report that had been torn apart.
“I wonder if there’s someone in this area interested in these figures?”
“Maybe someone from the Labor Ministry lives around here,” Imanishi responded.
The statistics were of little interest to the two men, but the piece of paper had been dropped about ten yards from where Miyata had collapsed.
“I wonder how long this paper has been here?” Yoshimura said.
“It’s not very dirty, Yoshimura. When did it rain last?”
“I’m quite sure it rained four or five days ago.”
“Then this paper was dropped after that. It hasn’t been rained on.”
“Miyata died three days ago. Could it be from about that time?”
“I wonder,” Imanishi thought. “I can’t imagine why Miyata would be carrying around something like this.”
“Should we ask at the Avant-Garde Theater just to be sure? It might be a prop for a play or a part of a script.”
In response to Yoshimura’s suggestion, Imanishi said, “It could also be a piece of paper blown here by the wind.”
“Yes, sir. I think we should take that possibility into account.”