Points And Lines Read online

  Torigai wiped his face with a towel. That the phone call was important was obvious from the fact that Sayama waited at the inn, never leaving his room. The message from the woman came at around 8:00 on the night of the twentieth. It must have been from Otoki because she asked tor Sugawara instead of Sayama. Clearly, they had arranged to use the false name. As soon as he received the call Sayama left the inn, probably to act upon it. That night he and Otoki committed suicide on Kashii beach. They seem to have rushed into death. Wouldn't you think they would want to spend a little time together after those days apart?

  Getting out of the tub, Torigai sat naked on the bathroom floor, still absorbed in his thoughts. He let his body cool off. Were the circumstances so pressing, he asked himself that they could not enjoy to the full their last moments together? If so, what were those circumstances? They left no messages. Of course, that was not significant. Generally, only the very young left farewell notes. Often, when the situation was urgent, suicides left behind nothing at all. In the case of Sayama, he was probably in no position to write. The woman followed his example and didn't write either. It was that sort of a love suicide. Yes, no mistake about it; it was a love suicide. And yet… Torigai became aware that he was cold and stepped back into the tub.

  "I can't help wondering about that dining car receipt made out for one person only. Then again, maybe I'm attaching to much importance to it," he mused to himself.

  "Not out of the bath yet?" his wife called to him from the next room.

  Jūtarō Torigai sat at the table, his face still aglow from the hot bath. He was especially enjoying his two little bottles of sake as he lingered over dinner. Side dishes of sea urchin, squid and dried codfish were set out on the table. He was tired from so much walking and the sake tasted good.

  His wife was now sewing on a kimono. It had a bright red pattern and was intended for their daughter who was to be married soon. She was engrossed in her work.

  "Rice!" he called to her, having finished the sake. She stopped sewing long enough to bring him the rice and then returned to her needlework. She continued to sew while waiting to serve him.

  "Why don't you join me in a cup of tea?" suggested.

  "Thank you, no." She was too busy even to look up.

  Torigai looked at his wife intently over his bowl of rice. My wife is growing old, he decided. When a woman gets to be her age, she doesn't even want to take a cup of tea with her husband while he is having a late dinner. He nibbled on some pickles and sipped his tea.

  His daughter's return interrupted his thoughts. Her face was radiant from the date with her fiance. "Where's Nitta?" her mother asked.

  "He saw me to the door and left," the girl replied gaily. She took off her coat and sat down.

  Torigai put aside the evening paper and looked at his daughter. "Sumiko, did you stop to have a cup of tea with Nitta after the movie?"

  His daughter burst out laughing. "What a question, father! Of course we had tea."

  "I see. Now, in that case…" He started to ask his daughter the question that was on his mind. "For instance, suppose Nitta was hungry and felt like eating, but you were not hungry and couldn't eat a thing?"

  "That's a funny example."

  "Now listen. Suppose Nitta said to you, 'All right, then, if you're not hungry spend the time window shopping while I get something to eat.' Would you do as you were told?"

  "Well…" the girl hesitated, as if in thought. "I think I'd go to the restaurant with him. It wouldn't be fun to wait around alone."

  "Just as I thought. You'd go with him even if you felt you couldn't take so much as a cup of tea?"

  "Of course. I'd want to be with him. If I didn't feel like eating

  I suppose I'd order coffee or something, just to keep him company."

  Her father nodded in agreement. "Just as I thought," he repeated. He sounded so serious that his wife began to laugh. "What in the world are you asking that for?" she inquired.

  "You keep quiet!" He raised his voice, still annoyed that she would not take tea with him while he was having his dinner.

  "I suppose you feel you should stay with Nitta," he pursued, turning to his daughter.

  "Well, I think it's a question of love rather than of appetite," she answered.

  "Ah, I see." Very smart, he said to himself. His daughter had put into a single sentence his own rather vague thoughts. A question of love rather than of appetite: that was it exactly.

  He was still pondering the term "one person" on the dining car receipt but had come to no conclusion. A man and a woman set out together on a long trip to Kyushu to commit suicide. Their love must be deeper than the ordinary love of two people for each other. They are on a train. Even if the woman is not hungry, it would be natural for her to accompany her lover to the dining car and take at least a cup of coffee with him. They had reserved seats, so even if they left together for another car, they need have no fear of losing their seats. Perhaps they were worried about their baggage and the woman had stayed behind to guard it? No, it could not be that. Torigai could not help but feel that there was something odd in the relationship between Sayama and Otoki.

  Their behavior at Hakata was certainly strange. The woman left Sayama alone at the inn for five days and went off on her own. On the fifth night she telephoned him, and immediately after meeting they committed suicide. Nothing in Otoki's behavior had suggested suicide. There must be something more to the story, Torigai concluded. Yet, from whichever angle he looked at the case, the two bodies, laying side by side on the beach at Kashii, clearly pointed to suicide. His own eyes had confirmed it; there was no possible mistake. Well, perhaps I'm worrying about nothing at all, Torigai muttered to himself. But he still looked confused as he lit a cigarette.

  The next morning three people arrived from Tokyo to claim the bodies. These were in the hospital morgue where the autopsies had been performed. Kenichi Sayama's claimant was his brother, a rather stout, dignified man with a mustache, in his early forties. To one of the policemen he presented his card which showed him to be the branch manager of a certain bank. For Otoki, an old woman of sixty odd years appeared and said she was her mother. She was accompanied by a smartly dressed young woman of about twenty-seven or -eight years of age. The younger woman gave her name as Tomiko, a waitress at a restaurant in Akasaka called Koyuki where Otoki had been employed. Thereupon, a disagreeable situation arose. The claimants for the two bodies ignored each other. They appeared together in the investigation room of the police station and at the waiting room of the hospital, but deliberately avoided each other. Actually, it was Sayama's brother, the branch bank manager, who was responsible for the strained atmosphere. He looked at the two women with obvious distaste and was cold and aloof throughout the formalities. It was as if he found the women disgusting, unclean. He kept them at a distance. They seemed afraid of him and acted nervous in his presence This was most apparent when the three were interrogated by the chief.

  When asked, "Do you know what led them to commit suicide?" the banker answered rather coldly:

  "I am most embarrassed by my brother's disgraceful action. The reasons for his death have been stated in the papers. I know nothing about the scandal at the ministry. Naturally, I would not know, either, whether he was trying to protect his superiors by taking his own life. The last time I saw him, which was about three weeks ago, he looked depressed. He was the reticent sort and never confided in me. He lost his wife three years ago and there has been talk of a second marriage. However, my brother did not seem too eager to enter into it and matters were not going smoothly. I learned for the first time from this incident that he had a mistress. He was a serious-minded young man and I was told by a close friend of his, just before I left Tokyo, that he was worried about his relations with this woman. What a fool he was! I wish he had talked to me about his problems. What I regret above all is that the woman was a waitress at a restaurant in Akasaka. I could understand it had she been a woman of a better class, but his choice is unpar
donable. My brother had few affairs with women and I suppose was led astray by this one and was finally driven to suicide. Damn that woman! My brother had such a bright future and she ruined him." He seemed to want to transfer his bitterness to Otoki's relatives. He not only refused to speak to them but seemed ready to call them names and even to strike them. He might well have done something of the sort if there had been no one around and he could forget appearances.

  Otoki's mother was next to be questioned.

  "Otoki's real name is Hideko Kuwayama. We are from Akita and have been farmers for generations. She was married once but was not fortunate in her choice, and after she and her husband separated she began working in Tokyo. Before being employed at the Koyuki she worked at two or three other restaurants, but since she wrote home very seldom, I really know little about the life she led. I was concerned about her, but I have five children at home and therefore no time to worry much about any one of them. I hurried here as soon as I received the wire from the Koyuki Restaurant. I am heartbroken for the poor child." This was not said all in one breath; she spoke brokenly, holding back her tears. Her face was deeply lined for one of her age and the rims of her eyelids were red, as if inflamed.

  She was followed by Tomiko, the waitress from the Koyuki.

  "Otoki and I were close friends so the proprietress asked me to come. Otoki came to the Koyuki three years ago. She was clever at serving the guests and was liked by everyone. As far as I know she had no friends outside the restaurant. She had an independent character and was not the kind to talk about herself. I was her best friend yet even I know very little about her private life. However, there was never any gossip about her. So I was really shocked by this suicide. The proprietress and the rest of us are astonished because we don't know how or when she acquired a lover. As for Mr. Sayama, I know nothing about him. His picture is in the papers but none of us recognized him; he doesn't seem to have been one of our guests. However, Yaeko and I did see him with Otoki at Tokyo station. Yaeko also works at the Koyuki. She's my friend."

  "You saw them together? What do you mean?" asked the chief.

  "It was the evening of the fourteenth. There is a Mr. Yasuda, a good customer of the restaurant. Yaeko and I went to Tokyo Station that evening to see him off on the train to Kamakura. In the station, quite by chance, we saw Otoki and a gentleman board the super-express together. We were on platform 13 at the time and we could see their train at platform 15 because the tracks in between were clear. Mr. Yasuda said, 'Say, isn't that Otoki?' and we looked over. Sure enough, we saw Otoki and the gentleman walk along the platform and get on the express for Kyushu. We were very surprised. It was strange that she should be going on a train trip with a man. Having discovered her secret, we wanted to see more. After saying goodbye to Mr. Yasuda, we ran over to platform 15 and had a good look through the car window. There was Otoki sitting next to the gentleman and talking gaily. We were astonished!"

  "Did you speak to Otoki?" asked the chief.

  "We didn't want to intrude; they seemed so happy together. We went away. We are quite sure the gentleman we saw was Mr. Sayama whose picture has been in the papers. Now that I think of it, that must have been the beginning of the events that led to the love suicide. I never imagined it would end this way. The proprietress told me that Otoki had asked for leave the day before so she must have been prepared for it. She was such a nice girl; I feel dreadfully sorry for her. I can't think of any reason why she would want to die. Of course, as I said before, she was not the sort who talks about herself, so I don't know the circumstances, but according to the papers Mr. Sayama was involved in some scandal or other and was desperate. Maybe Otoki felt sorry for him."

  These were the statements made by the three people who came to claim the bodies. Detective Torigai was present at the interrogations.

  The bodies were turned over to the claimants. They were cremated and the ashes taken back to Tokyo. Thereafter, the case of the double suicide at Kashii Beach was handled in a routine manner, having briefly left its mark on the events of the day.

  Torigai had no right to interfere. Yet there were two things that bothered him. One was the dining car receipt "for one person." It posed the problem of love versus appetite. The other was the fact that the girl had not joined Sayama at the inn, which raised the question of her whereabouts during his five lonely days. These doubts, however, were not strong enough to offer as objections. The chief would probably refuse to consider them. Actually, when looked at objectively, he himself had to admit they seemed to lack weight. Therefore, although far from satisfied, Torigai kept them to himself and let the case take its normal course. But to say nothing and to retain his peace of mind were two very different matters. From the moment he decided to keep silent, frustration grew within him. He felt he could not rest until he found the answers to the two questions that troubled him.

  It's a simple case of love suicide; why worry any further about it, he would say to himself. No crime was committed; why not leave it alone? There was other work that needed his attention. But until these doubts were resolved, he knew he would never be content. "I think I'll look into it further; I'll do it on my own," he finally decided. "No need to tell anyone." Having come to this decision, he felt a great weight lift from his mind.

  The story of the love suicide appeared in the papers for the next few days in connection with the scandal at the ministry, then was dropped. The press seemed to have concluded that it was a commonplace tale, not worth repeating. Reading the accounts, Torigai felt cheated. It was as if the usual leads and clues that help to reach a conclusion were being disregarded. He decided to go to Kashii Beach and look it over once more.

  He got off the streetcar at Hakozaki and changed to the Nishitetsu, a private line going to Wajiro. This was more convenient than using the national railway. Moreover, the private line passed closer to the beach.

  It is a ten-minute walk to the beach from Nishitetsu Kashii Station. A few houses stand on both sides of the road for a short distance from the station but they soon give way to a pine forest and, a little further along, there is the beach, strewn with rocks. The wind was still sharp but the sea already had the blue glints of spring. The cold, drab colors of winter had disappeared. Shika Island was enveloped in mist.

  Jūtarō Torigai stood at the scene of the double suicide. It struck him as being strangely desolate. The rough black rocks covered the beach almost to the water's edge. Had there been a struggle, it was the sort of place where no trace would ever be found.

  He wondered why Kenichi Sayama and Otoki had chosen such a place in which to die. There must be more suitable spots, he thought. Couples planning suicide usually chose the site with elaborate care-a hot spring resort, say, or a place of renown. True, the view from here was beautiful but surely they could have selected some place where there was grass instead of only these hard rocks. Of course, it had happened at night. They had left the inn around eight and by ten o'clock they were dead. They had come directly here, as if they had planned it so from the start. The night was dark, he remembered, yet they behaved as if they knew the place well.

  It occurred to him that perhaps one of them, Sayama or Otoki, had been here before. Their movements indicated that they were familiar with the area. Torigai turned and retraced his steps, walking fast. He went past Nishitetsu Kashii Station and headed toward the Kashii national railway station. Some five hundred meters separated the two. Houses and shops presently began to appear. At the station he took a worn notebook from his pocket, checked some addresses and sent two telegrams. They were addressed to Sayama's brother and Otoki's mother, asking the same question of each. He worked, tongue in cheek, to phrase the query so that it would not exceed the minimum charge for twenty words.

  When this was done, he entered the station and studied the timetable. He found that there would be a train for Hakata in twenty minutes. While waiting for it he stood at the entrance to the station, his hands in his pockets, looking out at the street.

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bsp; It was a dreary and uninteresting scene that he faced. There was a restaurant of sorts. There was a shop selling sundries. There was a fruit store. In the small square immediately in front of the station a truck was parked and two or three children were playing nearby. The sun was shining.

  As Torigai stood absentmindedly observing the scene, a small doubt suddenly crept into his mind. Hitherto, he had taken for granted that Sayama and Otoki had arrived at Kashii on the private line. Could they have arrived by train at the national railway station? Turning to the timetable once again he saw that there was one from Hakata that arrived at 9:24 P.M.

  Jūtarō Torigai closed his eyes. After a moment of thought he decided against returning immediately to Hakata. Instead, he walked over to the shop across the square. He had a question to ask. His heart beat a little faster as he tried to anticipate the answer.

  4 A Man from Tokyo

  Jūtarō Torigai stood in front of the fruit store across the square from the railway station. "May I ask you a question?" The middle-aged storekeeper put down the apple he was polishing and turned to greet him. Shopkeepers are generally surly if addressed in this manner but when Torigai said he was from the police the man became attentive.

  "How late do you keep the store open at night?" Torigai asked.

  "I stay open until about 11."

  "From here would you be able to see the passengers coming out of the station, say at 9:30 at night?"