Inspector Imanishi Investigates Page 4

  “It sure is. They’ve finished their tour and are going on to see Lake Towada before they go home. The local press was all over them because they’re mass media stars-opinion leaders. The spotlight of the new generation is on them.”

  Imanishi was indifferent to them. The generation gap distanced him from this group. He yawned and said, “Have you found us a train?”

  “Yes. There’s a limited express at seven forty-four p.m.”

  “What time does it reach Ueno?”

  “At six-forty tomorrow morning.”

  “That early? Well, I guess it’s all right. We can go home and sleep a bit before reporting to headquarters,” Imanishi said, and then added, “There’s no need to hurry; we’re not going back with a breakthrough.”

  “True. Imanishi-san, since we’ve come all this way, how about taking a look at the Japan Sea? We still have plenty of time.”

  “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

  Imanishi and Yoshimura walked toward the coast. The town gradually dwindled into a fishing village. Suddenly the air smelled of the sea. The beach stretched far along the shore. Not one island could be seen on the vast horizon. The setting sun created a sash of light across the sea.

  “It’s really boundless, isn’t it?” Yoshimura gazed at the sea as he walked along the sand. “The color of the Japan Sea is so dark,” Yoshimura exclaimed. “The Pacific Ocean is much lighter. To me it looks like the color of this sea is more intense.”

  “You’re right. This color matches the scenery of the Tohoku region.”

  The two men gazed out at the sea for some time.

  “Imanishi-san, have you come up with anything?”

  “You mean a poem?”

  “You’ve probably come up with about thirty already.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Imanishi smiled ruefully.

  A boy from the fishing village walked past them, carrying a large fish basket.

  “Coming to a place like this makes you realize how hectic Tokyo is,” Yoshimura said.

  “This is relaxing.”

  “I suppose you’d feel washed clean if you spent several days in a place like this. I feel like our hearts are full of grime.”

  “You’re quite poetic yourself,” Imanishi said, looking at Yoshimura.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I can see why you know about that group of young men. You’ve been reading those kinds of books.”

  “It’s not that I like them particularly. It’s just part of common knowledge.”

  “What did you call them? Nouveau?”

  “The Nouveau group. They are all very smart. They expect to be the leaders of the next generation.”

  “I remember hearing about another such group from my uncle when I was a kid.”

  “You mean the White Birch group.” Yoshimura seemed to know about that movement, too. “This group is more strongly individualistic. Mushanokoji and Arishima of the White Birch group turned out to be leaders, but most of them were pretty tame. Besides, the White Birch group limited itself to literature and art. These young intellectuals have political opinions as well.”

  “That’s the difference between the generations.” Imanishi had little interest, but thought he got the general idea.

  “Shall we go back?” Yoshimura was starting to get bored. “Since I can’t sleep well on the train like you, I’d better get some rest now.”

  The trains were not crowded. When they changed to a limited express in Honjo, the two detectives were able to sit together comfortably in the middle section of the third-class car.

  As soon as they boarded, Yoshimura put his bags down and rushed off to buy their box lunches. Through the windows, passengers exchanged farewells with those who had come to see them off. Imanishi absentmindedly listened to their conversations in the local dialect which he couldn’t quite follow.

  Presently, Yoshimura returned with box lunches and tea.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Imanishi said as he accepted one of the little pots of tea.

  “I’m starving. Shall we eat right away?”

  “Let’s wait until the train leaves. It’ll be less frantic then.”

  The lights on the platform were already lit. The station sign “Ugo Honjo” blurred along with the platform as the train pulled out, picking up speed. Then the lights of the town flashed past them. People stood at the crossings, waiting for the train to pass. Imanishi felt sad, wondering if he would ever visit this town again. The lights of Honjo ended, all they passed now were black mountains.

  “Shall we eat?” Yoshimura opened his box lunch.

  “You know, Yoshimura,” Imanishi said as he opened his box, “each time I eat one of these box lunches I’m reminded that it was my childhood dream to have one. It was almost impossible to get my mother to buy me one. They must have cost about thirty sen in those days.”

  “Were they that cheap?” Yoshimura said, glancing at Imanishi.

  He felt that he understood Imanishi better now. For a man of Imanishi’s origins, the young men they had seen at the station must have seemed very well-off, sons of wealthy families who had all been to college. Looking over at Imanishi, Yoshimura couldn’t help but compare those young men to his senior colleague, who had had a much harder life.

  By the time Imanishi had finished eating, his spirits had improved. He poured some tea from the miniature teapot and drank it contentedly. He put the lid back on the box and carefully tied the string. Then he took out a cigarette he had cut in half and smoked as he relaxed. The pallor of fatigue could be seen under the stubble of his beard. When he had finished the cigarette, Imanishi rustled around in his coat pocket and took out his notebook. He looked at it, frowning in concentration. Yoshimura thought he must be studying the notes he had taken on the trip.

  “Yoshimura, read this, would you?” Imanishi passed him the notebook with a sheepish chuckle.

  Drying noodles-

  flow among the young leaves-

  and glisten

  Trip to the north-

  the sea a dark blue-

  summer still young

  “So, you reaped quite a harvest.” Yoshimura smiled and read the next haiku.

  The grass springs back-

  after a nap-

  at Koromo River

  “Ah, this is about that strange fellow,” Yoshimura said.

  “You’re right.” Imanishi laughed self-consciously and turned toward the window.

  Darkness flowed past the train, only an occasional light from a farmhouse drifting by in the lonely distance.

  “Say, Imanishi-san,” Yoshimura said, “wouldn’t it be great if we could link the stranger to the suspect?”

  “If we could do that, then our trip won’t have been a waste,” Imanishi agreed.

  “It’ll be hard not to have a guilty conscience if we find out that there’s no connection to the case after we’ve come all this way, and spent all this time and money.”

  “We can’t help that. If there’s no connection, then we’ll just have to ask the others to understand.”

  “I suppose so, but it bothers me. While we’re relaxing on this train, the rest of the team is running around investigating as hard as they can. That makes me feel bad.”

  “Yoshimura, this is also part of the work. You don’t have to feel bad about it.” Though he reassured the younger Yoshimura, Imanishi’s feelings of responsibility for this trip weighed heavily on him, too. Looking out the window dejectedly, Imanishi muttered to himself, “I wonder if they’ve found the shirt?”

  Yoshimura overheard him and asked, “Shirt?”

  “Yes, the shirt the murderer was wearing. It had to have gotten bloody. He couldn’t have continued wearing it, so he must have hidden it somewhere.”

  “Suspects often hide such things in their houses, don’t they?”

  “Most of the time that’s true. In this case, though, it seems that it might be different. What I mean, Yoshimura,” Imanishi continued, “is that if there were a lot of b
lood on the shirt, he couldn’t have worn it all the way home. He would have been afraid that people would notice.”

  “But it was dark.”

  “Yes, it was. But if the murderer’s house was far away he couldn’t have gotten on a train looking like that. Even if he took a taxi, the driver would have been suspicious.”

  “He might have had his own car.”

  “Yes, his own car. That could have been it. But I think there must have been some place where he changed his shirt.”

  Outside the window, the darkness continued to pass by. Some of the passengers were already getting ready to go to sleep.

  Yoshimura said, “Such a place would have to be the suspect’s hideout?”

  “Probably,” Imanishi muttered. Looking into the darkness, he seemed to be thinking of something else. He pulled out another half cigarette and started smoking.

  “Could this hideout be his lover’s place?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “But if he went there to change his clothes, someone must have been living there. And it would still be impossible unless the suspect had a special relationship with that person.”

  “That’s true.”

  “If it’s not a lover, then it would have to be someone like a close friend or a brother.”

  “Probably.” Imanishi didn’t have much to say. Being a veteran detective, he preferred to think things over on his own.

  Yoshimura was assigned to the precinct where the murder had taken place and did not work with Imanishi on a daily basis. They had worked together once before when they were teamed up to investigate a murder. That time Imanishi had been sent out from the central division. Since then Yoshimura had held Imanishi in high regard. Whenever he came across a difficult case, he would ask Imanishi for advice. He had gotten to know Imanishi’s character and interests. He had even met his family.

  It was not Detective Imanishi’s style to tell even his colleagues when he came across a good lead. He usually reported things directly to the head of the Homicide Division.

  Section One of the Homicide Division was in charge of all murder cases. This section was divided into eight subsections, each with approximately eight detectives assigned to it. When an investigation headquarters was set up, one of these subsections was dispatched. Each of the eight detectives had his own role on the team. They worked under the direction of the chief inspector, but if one came across a good lead, he would follow it up on his own because each of them wanted to get ahead. Detectives did not always reveal everything they had up their sleeves at the investigation meetings.

  Imanishi had come this far by being discreet. At a certain point in an investigation, he would become as silent as stone.

  “Let’s go to sleep,” Imanishi said, stubbing out his cigarette.

  Imanishi awoke. Pale light filtered into the train from around the edges of the window shade. Imanishi opened the shade a little.

  Outside, mountains passed by in the milky whiteness, but these mountains looked different. He looked at his watch, it was four-thirty. Yoshimura was still asleep.

  Imanishi wondered where they were. After a while, he saw a station go by. He read the name Shibukawa. He was smoking a cigarette when Yoshimura woke up.

  The train descended from the mountains and ran along the plain. It became lighter outside. Imanishi opened the shade all the way. Here and there they could see an early rising farmer already out in the fields. The houses outside the window became clustered together as they approached Omiya.

  “Yoshimura, could you please go get a newspaper?” Imanishi asked.

  Yoshimura stood up and ran down the aisle to the platform. He returned to his seat just as the train was pulling out. Yoshimura had brought back three morning papers.

  “Thank you.”

  Imanishi immediately opened one of the papers to the city news section. New developments might have occurred in the case while they were gone, but there was nothing about the murder. He opened the other two newspapers and found nothing in either of them, to his relief. Imanishi turned back to the front page and started reading slowly. In thirty minutes they would reach Ueno Station. Most of the other passengers on the train were awake now, some already starting to get their bags together.

  “Yoshimura, he’s one, isn’t he?” Imanishi prodded Yoshimura with his elbow and showed him a photograph in the cultural section of the paper.

  Yoshimura leaned over and saw the title “Art in the New Age” and the author’s name, Sekigawa Shigeo.

  “Yes, he’s one of the four men we saw at Iwaki Station,” Yoshimura said.

  Imanishi stared at the picture. “He must be quite something to be writing for a paper like this. I can’t really understand what he’s trying to say in this piece, but I suppose he’s brilliant.”

  “He must be.” Yoshimura was carefully reading the column in the paper that Imanishi had passed to him.

  “Hey, we’re here.”

  The train stopped at Ueno Station. Yoshimura glanced out the window and folded the paper.

  “Yoshimura, just in case, let’s get off separately.”

  THREE The Nouveau Group

  Club Bonheur was located in the back streets of the Ginza on the second floor of a multistory building. Although not very large, it was a popular spot where Tokyo’s business and cultural elite gathered. There were already some customers even though it was early in the evening. After nine o’clock, it was usually so crowded that latecomers had to wait at the door.

  An assistant professor of philosophy and a professor of history sat drinking in a corner booth. Two groups of executives were at other booths. It was still rather quiet. Most of the hostesses were sitting with one of these three groups. The executives told risqué stories while the professors complained about university life.

  Five young men came into the bar. The hostesses turned toward them. “Welcome,” they all said, and many of them drifted over to the newcomers.

  A tall woman, the madam of the bar, left the side of one of the executives and greeted the new customers. “Well, it’s been a while since you’ve been in. Why don’t you sit over here?” She gestured to a large, empty booth. As there weren’t enough seats, extra chairs were pulled up. The customers sat facing each other in the booth, and several hostesses sat down next to them.

  “You’re all together this evening,” the madam said, full of smiles. “What’s the occasion?”

  “We were at an uninteresting gathering. We decided to come by to wash away the bad aftertaste,” Sasamura Ichiro said.

  Besides Sasamura, a stage director, the group included Takebe Toyoichiro, Sekigawa Shigeo, Waga Eiryo, and Yodogawa Ryuta, an architect. Katazawa Mutsuo, who had been at the earlier gathering, had gone elsewhere.

  “What will you have to drink?” the madam asked, giving them each a charming smile. The five young men ordered.

  “Waga-sensei,” the madam said, looking at the composer, “it was wonderful to see you the other evening. How have things been going?”

  “Fine, as you can see,” Waga said.

  “No, I don’t mean for you. I mean with her.”

  “Waga,” Sasamura said, tapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve been caught. Where did the madam spot you?”

  “A nice place, wasn’t it?” The madam smiled and winked.

  “It was at a nightclub, wasn’t it?” Waga said, looking at the madam.

  “I can’t believe it. He’s admitting it,” Sasamura said.

  “Yes, that’s where I saw her. She is very lovely,” the madam smiled. “I had seen her photograph in magazines, but she was much prettier in person. You are really lucky, Waga-sensei.”

  “Am I?” Waga cocked his head and took a sip from his drink.

  “To Waga’s fiancée.” The stage director proposed a toast. Their raised glasses touched and clinked.

  “What do you mean, ‘Am I’?” the madam said, frowning at Waga. “Your work is brilliant. You’re a leader of the younger generation. And
you’re about to marry a wonderful person. I’m so envious.”

  “I’d like to have such good luck,” the bargirls said.

  “I wonder,” Waga muttered, looking down.

  “You still say that? You’re just embarrassed.”

  “I’m not embarrassed. I’m just skeptical -about everything. I look at myself objectively.”

  “After all, you’re an artist,” the madam said without hesitation. “We would be drowning in our own happiness. That’s the difference. We aren’t able to analyze things the way Waga-sensei does.”

  “That’s why we make mistakes,” one of the hostesses said.

  “But there’s no denying that you’re happy, is there, Sekigawa-sensei?” The madam turned toward the critic sitting beside her.

  “I think it’s best that people immerse themselves completely in the feeling when they’re happy. I don’t think excessive analysis is good,” Sekigawa said.

  Waga looked at him, but said nothing.

  “So, when is the wedding?”

  “Oh, I read about it in a magazine. It’s this fall. Their pictures were in the magazine,” a different hostess said. She was slim and pretty and wore a black silk dress.

  “That’s all made up. It’s ridiculous,” Waga said. “I can’t take responsibility for the rumors they print.”

  “But if you’re taking her out to nightclubs, it must be quite a close relationship,” Yodogawa put in.

  “I can vouch for that,” the madam concurred. “I was watching them dance, and they seemed to be a perfect match.”

  “Who are those young men?” the professor asked, turning around to take a look.

  “They’re members of the Nouveau group,” explained a hostess who had been watching them.

  “I guess I have heard of them,” the elderly professor said. “I think I read about them in the newspaper.”

  “See the fellow with the long, messy hair sitting across from the madam? He’s Waga Eiryo, the composer. His intent is to destroy the nature of conventional music,” the assistant professor said.

  “You don’t have to explain it all to me. Who’s the one beside him?” the professor asked.

  “The one sitting beside him is the stage director Sasamura. He’s trying to start a revolution in the structure of dramatic production.”