The Master Key

by Masako Togawa

  She went down to the front office at about four pm, and, arranging her features in an unnatural smile, went to the window. Miss Tamura looked up in a startled manner; a small drop of saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She had undoubtedly been catnapping again.

  Suwa gradually brought the conversation round to the point. Laughing artificially, she led off: ‘What a fascinating advertisement! How much would one get, I wonder, if one produced a copy of the paper?’

  ‘Eh? Do you mean to say you have a copy?’

  ‘No, I don’t, but…’

  ‘Nor I. It makes me wish that I’d kept my papers all these years. But old newspapers… one just throws them away after a while.’

  ‘Has anyone come up with a copy?’

  ‘No one so far. But there’s quite a hunt going on, I can tell you. Miss Takiguchi on the fifth floor may have a copy. She’s got every copy of Woman’s World since it was first published twenty years ago. But she doesn’t want to break up her collection, so she won’t part with it, even on loan.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s a magazine. I can understand people keeping old magazines, but newspapers… who could imagine keeping every copy of a newspaper for all those years? And even if they did, surely they’d have donated them to a salvage drive during the war!’

  ‘Well, the way he saw it, this is an old building and many of the residents have lived here a long time. And as she pointed out, there’s one or two who are, shall we say, a bit odd, so the chances are that a copy will turn up. A bit cheeky of him to say that, I must say, even if it’s true.’

  ‘He? Who do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, the foreigner who came and asked us to display the advertisement. He certainly wasn’t stingy, though. He left this envelope to be given in exchange for the newspaper. And how much do you think was in it? Five thousand yen!’

  Miss Tamura opened her desk drawer and produced a white envelope which she passed to Suwa.

  ‘It’s pretty bulky. Must all be in hundred-yen notes.’

  Suwa looked at the back of the envelope, and saw the initials ‘A.D.’—the same as those of André Dore, from whom she had stolen the Guarnerius! But André Dore had died fifteen years ago, in Switzerland, at the ripe age of seventy. She tried to conceal her emotion by chatting animatedly, but realised that her face had gone as white as a sheet.

  ‘Well, there certainly are some queer foreigners around, I must say! What on earth would he want with such an old newspaper?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t here when he came—it was Miss Tojo. Seems he was a young man, around thirty, and handsome too—just like a movie star, it seems. He’s a historian, specialising in studies of ancient Tokyo. Apparently that newspaper had a photograph of an old temple which has since been burned down.’

  That was obviously a lie. If his objective was just to get a photo of the temple, the mysterious foreigner would only have to visit the newspaper publishers. So the story about the temple was just a pretext. But who on earth could the young man be? Clearly, André Dore must have had a child by some woman. For a moment, Suwa felt a pang of jealousy.

  Miss Tamura went on gossiping in her usual manner. But Suwa’s mind was full of other things, and she heard not a word of it all. She memorised the address on the back of the envelope before returning it to Miss Tamura. There was just a lot number in Nihonbashi, Tokyo.

  ‘I’d love to get a look at that foreigner next time he comes.’

  ‘Well, he says he spends a lot of time travelling, and so no one can tell when he might turn up.’ Miss Tamura spoke regretfully; Suwa felt insecure at the thought of not knowing when the foreigner might appear. She resolved to go to Nihonbashi and take a look for herself.

  The next day, Suwa put on one of her better kimonos, which she had scarcely had occasion to wear of late, and went to the address in Nihonbashi. It proved to be a large music shop. She bought one or two small items for her pupils, and then asked the young girl who had served her about the foreigner.

  ‘No, there’s no foreigner working here that I know of—but try the publicity department upstairs. You never know—that’s the sort of place they might employ a foreigner.’

  Suwa went up and asked for the manager, who proved to be a middle-aged man. She gave her name, and then very politely asked if she could contact André Dore.

  The manager looked at her queerly and replied that there were no foreigners employed in the shop.

  ‘Well, have you recently had a European ask you to hold and forward letters for him?’ Suwa felt on the point of giving up.

  The manager phoned all the other departments, and then regretfully informed her that there was no such case that he could discover.

  Suwa, who had convinced herself of the existence of the young man called André Dore, felt bitterly disappointed and then annoyed at the trick which had been played on her. Instead of going straight home, she went to the cinema for the first time in over a year. But she could not take her mind off the foreigner who called himself ‘A.D.’ Her emotions were in conflict; half of her wanted to meet this man who seemed to be the son of André Dore, the other half wanted to flee him. On her way home, she bought some cakes for Miss Tamura, and gave them to her with the request that she be informed as soon as the foreigner appeared again.

  But there was no word of him for several days, during which time Suwa’s emotions were disturbed every time she passed the noticeboard and caught sight of the advertisement on it.

  It was not until a week later that she received the letter. It seemed as if the writer knew the correct psychological moment to strike.

  But before that, there was another development. Someone found a copy of the newspaper which was being sought.

  On the morning of the fourth day after its appearance, the advertisement disappeared. Just as Suwa noticed this, Miss Tamura called her into the office. It was about tenthirty; those who were going to work had all left, and there was no one around the hall.

  ‘Well, at last someone found the paper! She brought it here last night and took the five thousand yen. She doesn’t want anyone to know her name. I made sure it was the right date, and then got Miss Tojo to check too, just to be sure. It would be a terrible mistake to give all that money for the wrong paper.’

  ‘And was there a photo of the temple in it after all?’

  Well, I didn’t look, to tell the truth. I just folded it up quickly and put it in a large Manilla envelope—Miss Tojo said we should take great care of it and not handle it too much in case it got damaged.

  She took out the envelope from the drawer and showed it to Suwa. It was sealed.

  ‘This is it. I hope he comes for it soon. I bet he’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t help thinking of the woman who had it for thirty years. She must hoard things carefully!’

  ‘Ah, but she’s no ordinary person, that one. Her room is full of old newspapers—ah, what am I saying! I’ve given her away to you—you’re bound to know who I mean.’ Miss Tamura giggled, and went on.

  ‘Of course, it’s Miss Ishiyama, who lives on the third floor. You know, the one they call Miss Seaweed! The one with the ragged skirt, who used to be an art teacher. Well, she’s receiving Public Assistance, so she’s supposed to declare any income that she receives. That’s why she doesn’t want anyone to know. As if we would concern ourselves about her private affairs. But I wonder what she’ll find to use five thousand yen on. She’s a real miser, that one. Would you believe that her gas and electricity bills are next to nothing?’

  The image of the beggarly Noriko Ishiyama floated into Suwa’s mind. That old miser had spent the last four days going through all the newspapers in her room in order to get her hands on five thousand yen. And at last she had found it; had she read it, and, seen the article about the violin? Well, even so, it didn’t matter. Suwa felt that Noriko Ishiyama’s finding the paper bore no direct connection to her own problem.

  ‘But please don’t tell a soul, Miss Yatabe, I beg of you—it wouldn’t do
to have it get around.’

  Miss Tamura smiled sweetly at Suwa. Clearly she wanted to strengthen the relationship between the two of them. Suwa thereby realised that she need have no fear that her secret—her link with the old newspaper—was known to either of the receptionists. Thereafter, her only worry was Noriko lshiyama, and she felt a slight frisson every time she passed her in the corridor.

  During that week, apart from Noriko having found the newspaper and claiming her five thousand yen, nothing out of the ordinary occurred. The foreigner did not turn up to collect the paper. Nonetheless, Suwa felt a sense of foreboding. Then the letter arrived, brought to her one afternoon by a pupil who had been given it to deliver by the front office. Suwa put it on the piano and tried to conduct the lesson as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But she was more than usually severe with her pupil during that lesson, torn as she was by the desire to leave her duties for just a moment to attend to her private business. That square white envelope seemed to dance before her eyes wherever she looked, threatening her and disturbing her concentration. Suwa’s name and address were written with unexceptionable penmanship; when she had received the envelope from the hands of the child, she had sneaked a glance at the back, and sure enough, in the space reserved for the sender’s name there appeared the initials ‘A.D.’ Well, the anticipated had at last occurred; she felt half resigned to the fact that her fate had caught up with her, half afraid, and altogether disturbed. The thirty-minute lesson period seemed to drag on and on. At last it came to an end; she saw the pupil off and then hurried back to her room and tore the envelope open. There was just one sheet of notepaper inside; the message was written in perfect Japanese.

  Dear Madam,

  Thank you for going to the trouble of sending me the newspaper dated 26 January 1933.

  Further to this, I would really like to discuss with you the matter of the musical instrument.

  I shall wait at the entrance of the Hibiya Concert Hall from four pm on 12 February. I shall wear a red carnation in my buttonhole.

  It will give me great pleasure if you would be so good as to meet me there.

  A.D.

  The handwriting could not have been that of a foreigner; some Japanese must have written it at A.D.’s request. But what was the meaning of the reference to the newspaper, the insinuation that Suwa had sent it to him? He hadn’t come to the apartment block; instead, he proposed a meeting at the Hibiya Hall. Why? And why did the sender shelter behind initials, instead of having the grace to reveal his full name and details? It was all beyond her. There was just one possibility that occurred to her; dismiss it as she might, she could not drive it entirely from her mind. Perhaps someone else living in the apartment block had sent a copy of the newspaper using her name. But she could think of no possible motive for anyone doing such a thing. Nonetheless, she could not entirely rule out the possibility.

  She wondered what attitude she should adopt when she met the foreigner. Even more important was the question as to whether she should meet him at all. The more she racked her brains, the harder the problem became.

  André Dore had publicly forgiven her, and the question of theft no longer arose. But now it was as if the case had been reopened after a lapse of thirty years, and the sole witness to her intentions and his forgiveness was no longer of this world. She was afraid, but there was no alternative to going to Hibiya Hall at the appointed time, on 12 February—the very next day.

  The corridor on the ground floor was a gloomy place even in the middle of the day, and when the weather outside was overcast or when it was sleeting it was necessary to turn on the lights to find one’s way around.

  Noriko came out of the washroom and made her way along the passage, pausing for a few seconds at each light switch. She turned the light on for a moment, to make sure she knew where the next switch was, and then flicked it off again. In this manner, she progressed slowly towards Suwa Yatabe’s room, pausing every now and again to make sure that no one was coming. If she had perchance been observed by any of the other residents, the chances were that they would find nothing strange in her behaviour, knowing her eccentricity as they all did.

  She had carried out this procedure for the last four or five days, on the pretext of visiting the downstairs toilet. Every time she had crept up to Suwa’s door and listened carefully for a while. Sometimes she had heard music, or rather attempts at music shrill enough to set her teeth on edge; at other times, she heard Suwa’s voice, usually scolding her pupil. Once or twice, she had bumped into Suwa making her way to the front hall, a shopping basket in her hand. But she did not feel that the length of absence involved in a mere shopping trip would give her long enough for her purpose.

  Ever since finding the old newspaper on top of the incinerator, Noriko had been consumed by the desire to enter Suwa’s room, find the stolen violin, and ascertain the state of the thief’s fingerprints on it. So every night she would get out the master key, the loss of which had caused old Miss Tamura so much trouble, and arouse herself with the thought of using it for her purpose.

  ‘Like me, she’s haunted by the thought of her fingerprints. All those years ago… Maybe, just as I only wanted to try a mouthful of milk, she wanted to play that famous violin just once.’ Such were her thoughts as she massaged her aching thighs. Suwa was like her, a victim of similar misfortune. But in spite of this feeling of Noriko’s, she sensed that when they bumped into each other, Suwa gave her the same suspicious glance as the other residents did.

  Somewhere behind her she heard a door grating open. She felt sure that it was Suwa’s door. This was her third sally into the ground-floor corridor that morning, and so far she had heard not a sound from Suwa’s room. Plainly, she had no pupils that day. Noriko pretended to be looking for something she had dropped on the floor, meanwhile stealing a glance back down the corridor.

  Suwa was quite plainly dressed to go out. Instead of the shopping basket she had a handbag; in place of the slipons she wore to go around the neighbourhood, she had on a pair of high-heeled shoes. She seemed to be lost in thought as she locked her door and made her way towards the exit. She paused for a few words with the receptionist and left the building. She did not seem to have noticed Noriko.

  The sky was slate grey, and seemed pregnant with sleet or rain. Noriko, who was following Suwa at a distance, felt a piercing chill around her shoulders; she shivered, and drew the lapels of her jacket closer across her breast.

  Suwa was plainly deep in thought. She stepped onto the pedestrian crossing without noticing that the light was red, and was shouted at by a taxi driver who had to pull up suddenly. The wind whipped up the skirts of her long winter coat, revealing for a moment her spindly legs. Then the light changed, and she hurried across the road.

  Noriko watched her go, and almost lost sight of her in the throng. Then she saw her again; without casting a glance behind her, Suwa jumped onto a tram. It was crowded with cheerful and bustling children, for the school day had just ended. Pushed here and there by the young students, Suwa, as was her wont, yet stood as stiff as a ramrod amongst the seething mass of people.

  Noriko stayed hidden behind a telegraph pole until the tramcar had vanished into the distance. She wondered where Suwa was going. It didn’t look to her as if she would be back all that soon. Noriko turned round and made her way back as fast as her strange prancing gait, which seemed designed to protect her loins from some attack, would permit her. Her long tattered skirts brushed against the ground, sometimes fluttering in the wind. Her jacket only came down to her elbows; underneath it she was wearing a grubby blouse. Her lank, dry hair was disordered in the wind. Passers-by turned to stare at her retreating figure.

  Miss Tojo was sitting at the reception desk, her head bowed over a book. Noriko wandered slowly down the ground-floor corridor, taking in her surroundings cautiously. There was no one around; this was her chance to enter Suwa’s room. She slipped her hand under her blouse and withdrew the precious master key from its hiding plac
e between her flaccid breasts. She felt the warmth of her own body in the metal.

  She opened Suwa’s door and slipped into the room. She stood in the tiny entrance space which opened directly onto the room, which she took in in one glance. Suwa must have had the gas stove on until just before leaving; Noriko felt the warm air brush against her cold cheeks. She stole one more swift glance down the corridor, and then closed the door and locked it from the inside, leaving the key in the lock. She didn’t even bother to slip off her canvas shoes, but gazed around the room in wonder. The main items of furniture were a piano and a standard lamp. They had both been articles of some quality in their day but now had a faded and worn look. The large lampshade was covered in blotches and stains so that it looked like some strange map. Two curtains hung across the room, dividing it; beyond them she could see an unmade bed, the covers of which were thrown half back. Everything about the room spoke of the occupant having left in a great hurry.

  She decided to begin her search in the living half of the apartment. Discarding her shoes, but carrying them with her, she entered the room.

  The first focus of her attention was the piano. There were three uncased violins on top of it but clearly, from their size, they were children’s instruments. There didn’t seem to be anywhere where a violin case could be hidden.

  She went through the curtain into the inner half of the room. There, on the bedside table, she found a black violin case which seemed to have been put down untidily without any particular concern. She wrapped an old rag around her finger and opened the catch of the case. The violin shone sombrely in the gloom. Her feeling was that both the case and the instrument reeked of humanity, suggesting that both were in regular use. Although she knew nothing of musical instruments, and had no way of telling the stolen Guarnerius from any other violin, she instinctively felt that this was not it.

  But she did somehow sense that the stolen violin was not far away. She put the case back on the side table and peered under the bed. The space was occupied by empty cardboard boxes, odd shoes, rolled-up blouses and stockings, all covered with dust, but there was no sign of a violin case. The only remaining hiding places were the wall cupboard and the wardrobe. She looked inside the wardrobe first; as soon as she opened the doors, she was overpowered by a strong smell of mothballs issuing from the dated and faded dresses and gowns which must have been designed long ago for appearances on the concert platform. The wall cupboard was full of dress boxes and willow baskets such as Japanese clothes are stored in. She went through them all, but to no avail. She had already spent nearly twenty minutes in her search, and felt on the verge of giving up. She went over to the piano, opened the lid, and peeped inside. There was nothing to see but the dusty strings. She looked again at the violin on top of the piano. It told her nothing.