The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories

by Kyotaro Nishimura

  In the afternoon, a fine, dreary drizzle started falling. It was typical rainy season weather, hot and humid. Taguchi hated this time of year. Being overweight did not help—even just standing still, he quickly broke out in a sweat.

  “Well?” He wiped the moisture from the back of his neck before looking up at Detective Suzuki. “How did you get on at Turkish Sun?”

  “They knew her—they even had a copy of her CV. Here,” Suzuki handed him a standard format résumé form folded in half. Taguchi sank back in his swivel chair and opened out it out.

  Name

  Kazuko Watanabe

  Date of Birth

  May 7, 1949

  Permanent residence

  A_____Village, A_____ County,

  Tochigi Prefecture

  Education

  A____ Village Junior High School

  Employment

  S____ Pharmaceuticals, Shinagawa

  Factory

  Chat Noir Tearoom

  Shochiku Cabaret

  That was it—in barely legible handwriting. It was a pretty familiar scenario, thought Taguchi. A girl from a rural area gets a respectable job in Tokyo through the mass recruitment program. Before long she moves to a tearoom, then to a cabaret, and finally to a bathhousecum-brothel. It was a classic descent into degradation, although she probably thought she was moving up in the world.

  “The victim appears to have been on the night shift last night,” Suzuki said, consulting his notebook.

  Taguchi raised his eyes to his subordinate’s face. “They have night shifts at a bathhouse?”

  “The girls apparently take turns in staying overnight. The manager claims it’s a precaution against fire, but—”

  “So you reckon the murderer knew she was on the night shift, and called her out to the alley in order to kill her?”

  “It narrows the field,” Suzuki’s eyes glittered. “The victim had gone to the trouble of making herself up before going out, so it’s reasonable to assume that she was meeting someone she was pretty close to.”

  “Were there any men in her life?”

  “She was getting married in the fall.”

  “Ah,” Taguchi’s eyes widened. This piece of news was unexpected, although not inconceivable for a girl working in a bathhouse. After all, she turned out to be only twenty-one. “Who’s the lucky man?”

  “The boss of a small workshop. Forty years of age. Widowed. He’s a regular at Turkish Sun, and got to know the victim there.”

  “Were they really planning to get married? It’s not just gossip?”

  “It seems so. There’s a reservation in their names at a nearby wedding hall. And the victim was happily showing off a marriage brochure to the other girls.”

  “So she was engaged to be married, huh?” Taguchi turned his gaze out of the window. The Tokyo Culture Center and bus terminal looked blurred and hazy through the glass misted with raindrops. When he found out the victim worked in a bathhouse, the dark image of a fallen woman had immediately come to mind. However, what Suzuki came back with was a story of an ordinary twenty-one-year-old girl, her heart aflutter with plans for marriage.

  Not only that, but…

  With a troubled expression, Taguchi recalled the body lying in the alley. Suzuki had said the girl must have been going to meet a man she was on close terms with, since she had made herself up. That certainly made sense—but if it had indeed been the case, why had she slipped her feet into those scruffy sandals? They were printed with the name of the bathhouse and were provided for the use of customers. If she had gone to the trouble of making herself up for a man, why hadn’t she worn some nice smart shoes to go out and meet him?

  Perhaps there was more to this case than met the eye?

  Taguchi looked pensive for a moment, but quickly recovered his usual smile. The murderer’s identity would become clear as the investigation progressed, he thought. Things that looked strange at first glance often turned out to have a perfectly rational explanation when the case was solved. Twenty years’ experience as a detective had instilled him with confidence.

  He heaved himself out of the chair. “It’s about time we paid the workshop boss a visit, don’t you think?”

  “Yoshimuta Packaging” was inscribed in gold lettering on the glass door. It was not so much a workshop as the front room of an ordinary town house. A small truck was parked outside, the name Yoshimuta Packaging emblazoned on its side. From inside the house, the regular thwump of a cutter could be heard.

  When Suzuki pressed the doorbell, the sound of the machine stopped, the glass door opened, and a middle-aged man with a growth of stubble on his chin peered out. Dressed in a sleeveless undershirt and long johns, he was broad-chested and sweating profusely. Drying himself with the hand towel slung around his neck, he stared at the two detectives, “What can I do for you?”

  Taguchi showed him his police badge. “I guess you haven’t heard yet, then?”

  “Heard what?” Yoshimuta looked questioningly at the two men as he showed them inside.

  Taguchi did not answer at once; instead he glanced around the wooden-floored workspace. It was thirteen or fourteen square meters in size, and equipped with a large cutting machine. Ready-trimmed posters were piled almost as high as the ceiling, but there was no sign of any employees. It appeared that he worked alone. This really was what you would call a cottage industry, thought Taguchi. The window was open, but not a breath of air came in. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the back of his neck.

  “About the murder of Kazuko Watanabe of Turkish Sun,” Taguchi looked directly into Yoshimuta’s eyes, ready to catch any reaction in his expression. “I heard you were due to marry her, is that right?”

  “Kazuko? I don’t believe it!” Yoshimuta’s face crumpled. His hand, still clutching the towel, stopped in mid-air and his shoulders slumped as he groaned, “Who on earth…?”

  “That’s what we intend to find out,” said Taguchi slowly. “Were there any problems with you two getting married?”

  “What do you mean? Everyone was really happy for us! We’d sometimes talk about what it was going to be like once we were married. It might sound a bit odd for someone my age, but I was serious about her, you know. And now—”

  Taguchi was taken aback to see tears glistening in Yoshimuta’s eyes. This big bear of a man was all choked up. Taguchi was surprised, but unmoved. In fact, he was instantly on his guard. It was unfortunate, but so many years working as a detective had made him naturally wary. He had seen any number of criminals feigning tears after having coolly murdered a lover.

  He deliberately wiped the back of his neck once more. “Didn’t you go to Turkish Sun last night?”

  “I wanted to, but I’ve had a rush job in these past few days.” Yoshimuta pointed to the pile of posters still waiting to be trimmed, saying that he would have to work through the night again tonight to meet the deadline. But now he didn’t feel like working, he added with a sigh.

  “Do you know of any men who were close to Kazuko, other than you?”

  After rubbing his eyes with his thick fingers, Yoshimuta answered, “There is one, but he’s not the one you’re after.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s called Sakakibara. A young guy who writes poetry.”

  “Poetry?” echoed Taguchi, puzzled. It was not unthinkable for a bathhouse girl to get together with a local small workshop owner. It even seemed like a pretty good match. But a poet? That just didn’t add up. “What sort of relationship did she have with this poet?”

  “Kazuko had been through a lot, and Sakakibara liked to hear her talk about it. She could tell him all her troubles and he would listen to her. She would say that just talking to him made her feel better about things. Poets are known for their sensitivity, aren’t they? Of course, once we decided to get married, she was really happy and didn’t have so much to grumble about any more.”

  “Wasn’t this Sakakibara scrounging off her? Sweet-talking her into giving him
money, or something like that?”

  “If you meet him you’ll know he’s not that sort. He’s clever, but he doesn’t brag about it. He’s a great guy.”

  “So where can I meet this great guy?”

  “I don’t know where he lives, but he often goes to Julie’s—that small bar behind the station. That’s where I got to know him. Other than that, he sometimes sells his poetry books outside Shibuya station, by Hachiko. They go for fifty yen. I bought one once, but I can’t say I understood much of it.”

  So it was that guy who sold poetry. Taguchi recalled having seen him several times by the Hachiko statue. He was tall and thin, and vaguely hippyish, although Taguchi’s memory of him was hazy, having seen him only in passing. In any case, he would just have to meet him to get an idea of the sort of man he was.

  Taguchi asked Yoshimuta one last question, “Did you work all night last night too?”

  Yoshimuta answered slowly, “Pretty much—although I did get two or three hours shut-eye in that chair over there.”

  Taguchi sent Detective Suzuki back to Turkish Sun before setting off alone for Julie’s, the bar that Yoshimuta had told him about.

  It was on the corner of the very alley where the body had been found; small, with a sign on the door reading “No Under-18s by Law.” Taguchi could not help a wry smile as he went in.

  There were just two customers in the small, dimly lit interior. One was at the counter, an older man with a neat little mustache who was intent on teasing the landlady. Glancing over at the other, much younger man, Taguchi had the feeling he had seen him before somewhere. He had long hair and a beard, and was seated at a table in the corner toying with his glass, now half empty. On the table before him lay a red leather-bound book. Taguchi went up to him and, having noted the title Selected Poems of Baudelaire on the spine, took a seat in front of him.

  “You must be Sakakibara.”

  The young man looked up, his face unhealthily pale in the semi-darkness. There was a trace of amusement in his eyes as he nodded.

  “I’m from the Shibuya Police Sta—”

  “I could tell you were a detective from a mile off,” interrupted Sakakibara. “Police all have a distinctive smell.”

  “Is that so? I hadn’t noticed personally.”

  “A dung beetle rooting around in shit doesn’t notice how much it stinks.”

  “You don’t seem too fond of the police.”

  “Can’t say I am. They make out they’re on the side of justice, but what they call justice is synonymous with the Establishment. The moment you do anything antiestablishment, they immediately crack down on you in the name of justice. I joined a protest against the US–Japan Security Treaty and was locked up for a week.”

  “I see,” laughed Taguchi.

  Sakakibara sneered. “I don’t want your rotten sympathy. Why don’t you get on and question me about that girl who was killed. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.” Taguchi turned toward the counter and ordered a beer, his brows knotted in a frown. By the time his gaze returned to the young man, however, his amicable smile was once again in place. “Now that I’ve met you, I find I’m just as interested in you as I am in the case.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been a detective for twenty years. If you’ll allow me to speak from long experience, sarcastic people like you are surprisingly submissive deep down. You’re ashamed of it, so you hide behind a mask of sarcasm and make yourself out to be the villain.”

  “Are you saying I’m submissive?” Sakakibara gave a brief chuckle. It was a nervous, feminine sort of laugh, noted Taguchi, which matched the gentle-looking long, slender fingers wrapped around his glass.

  “Is that all your twenty years of experience has taught you? What a shallow way of seeing things.” Sakakibara snickered. “People are more complicated than that. You can’t just explain them away as neatly as that. If you approach this girl’s murder with such a simplistic mindset, you’ll never catch the culprit.”

  “Sounds like you know who did it.” Taguchi leaned forward in his chair and looked searchingly at the young man. The collar of his purple shirt afforded a peek of shallow chest. His lips were thin, too. He really did look somewhat neurotic—and sensitive, although there was also something cold about him.

  Sakakibara put down his glass, and took a crumpled cigarette out of his shirt pocket, slowly straightened it out, and put it in his mouth.

  “I wouldn’t say I know who did it, but I am familiar with the case.”

  Taguchi raised his beer to his mouth. It was barely chilled, and unappetizing.

  “We’ve also learned a few things about the case.” Taguchi put the beer down. “The bathhouse girl who was strangled to death— her name was Kazuko Watanabe. She was twenty-one years of age. She was on the night shift. There were two men in her life: one was a workshop owner she was due to marry; the other was you. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Yes. The very crux of the matter.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you know what the key to solving a murder case is?” Sakakibara looked defiantly at him. Taguchi had to smile. This youngster seriously appeared to be lecturing him, a detective with twenty years’ experience, on the basic rules of solving a crime. It was just as well young Suzuki wasn’t here. He would have been apoplectic with rage by now. “The motive.” Sakakibara stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “The motive?” Taguchi laughed. “Even a child knows that.”

  “But you lot don’t know what that really means. If someone gets stabbed, then there must be a subtle difference between a case where a woman crazed with jealousy stabs a man, and one where a lunatic stabs someone for no reason. With the former, there must be hatred involved, and even love, too. But you detectives don’t understand that subtle difference. Strangulation is just that, strangulation to you. And you don’t even realize that you’re missing the essence of the crime.”

  “So, what do you reckon is the motive in this case?”

  “There is no motive. That’s the distinguishing feature of this case.” Sakakibara grinned, pleased with himself.

  “No motive?” queried Taguchi, tonelessly.

  “That’s right. If the motive reveals the killer’s face, then in this case there is no face. So you guys will never catch the murderer.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “I had to laugh.”

  “If you’re trying to wind me up, it’s not going to work. You’re just an amateur.”

  “And I won’t be able to stop laughing. Especially if you don’t get him, and the press criticize you for incompetence.”

  “I’m grateful for your concern, but shouldn’t you be more worried for yourself?”

  “Are you saying I’m on your list of suspects?”

  “Not just you.”

  “Me and the workshop owner, then?”

  “I met him earlier.”

  “So you’ve been wasting your time.” Sakakibara snickered again.

  “That man couldn’t even harm a fly. He hasn’t got the guts to do something like that, or the motive. He really wanted to marry her, you know.”

  “So what about you?”

  “It’d be great if I had a motive, but I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “You had a thing for her, didn’t you?”

  “That’s just the sort of crude comment I’d expect from a detective,” Sakakibara shrugged. “But yes, I did like her. Not in the vulgar way you’re imagining, though, but in a poetic, spiritual sense.”

  “Poetic?”

  “You heard. But it wasn’t just her—I like all the bargirls in this alley. All of them are burdened with misfortune, yet they’re gentle and sweet. They’re much more womanly than those pretentious celebrities or girls from rich families. I get them to tell me about themselves, and in return I dedicate one of my clumsy poems to them. Did you know that Baudelaire spoke of woman as slave to the muse, and the poet as slave to woman?�
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  “Meaning they’re mutually dependent on one another, I suppose?”

  Sakakibara muttered something under his breath, but it sounded like French and Taguchi could not understand. He was probably cursing Taguchi’s vulgar language as unworthy of the muse.

  Taguchi’s silence seemed to restore Sakakibara’s good mood. “Shall I tell you something else you don’t know?” he asked, a smile playing around his lips. “She had almost two million yen in the bank.”

  Seeing the gleam in Taguchi’s eyes, Sakakibara grinned. “I suppose you’re thinking that two million yen is motive enough for murder, but it merely serves to prove mine and Yoshimuta’s innocence.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She always used to say that out of those two million, she would give one and a half million to her husband once they were married, as capital for his business. The remaining half million was for penniless little me, to pay the costs of publishing an edition of my poetry. Everyone knew about it. Now that she’s been killed, far from profiting from her death, Yoshimuta and I have lost out on our share of those two million yen. In other words, those two million in the bank indirectly prove our innocence. That’ll stump the police now, won’t it? I sympathize. Looking at the situation on the ground, the murderer has to be a man close to her. There are only two men close to her, Yoshimuta and me. But as I just said, neither of us have a motive. So now do you understand what I meant by a crime with neither a face nor a motive?”

  “Where do you get money to live on?”

  “Huh?”

  A flicker of dismay ran across Sakakibara’s self-satisfied expression, and his pallid face reddened at Taguchi’s unexpected query. “I’ve been talking about things that are crucial to your investigation, so why do you come out with something trivial like that?

  “Looks like I’ve upset you,” laughed Taguchi. “I asked because I’m concerned about you. You want to publish a collection of poetry, but you haven’t got any money, right? Yet you’re a regular at this bar. So you’ve got enough money for that, I guess.”