“Think about it. The corpse had been doused with kerosene and gone up in flames. The face was, of course, unrecognizable, but old wounds or traces of surgery wouldn’t have been easy to find either. I don’t know how the police identified the body, but there’s a possibility it was someone other than Seiji. And then we have the disappearance of the gardener who’d been on the island at the time… Mr Shimada?”
“Yes, Detective?”
“Did you happen to check whether Seiji and Yoshikawa Sei’ichi were of similar age and build?”
“Haha. You’re sharp.” Shimada laughed cheerfully. “Yoshikawa was the same age as Seiji, forty-six. Both were of medium height and build. And both had blood type A. The burnt body naturally also had blood type A.”
“How did you find all of that out?” Kawaminami asked in surprise, to which Shimada scratched his cheek in embarrassment.
“Ah, didn’t I tell you? I know some people in the police. Morisu, supposing Nakamura Seiji and Yoshikawa Sei’ichi really switched places, how do you explain the events of the case?”
Morisu placed his hand on his forehead and stared into space.
“Kazue was the first to be murdered. Her estimated time of death was between the 17th and 18th. The gardener had arrived on the island and called his wife Masako in the afternoon of the 17th, so Kazue had probably already been killed by then. When the gardener thought it strange he hadn’t seen Kazue, Seiji told him his wife was sick and in bed. In truth, he’d already given her a sleeping draught and then strangled her.
“So, fearing he might be found out, Seiji decided to murder the Kitamuras and Yoshikawa too. He drugged all three of them and tied them up. He killed the couple with an axe on the 19th. He then moved Yoshikawa, who was still sleeping because of the drug, to the room where he had killed Kazue earlier. He untied Yoshikawa, dressed him in his own clothes and poured kerosene over him. And then he set fire to the mansion and fled the island.
“And so the switch of the murderer Nakamura Seiji and the victim Yoshikawa Sei’ichi was complete. A textbook example of what is known in crime fiction circles as the ‘headless corpse’ trick. But even this theory leaves some questions unanswered. I can come up with four, just off the top of my head.”
“Oh? And they would be?…” Shimada urged him.
“First of all, motive. What reason could Seiji have had to kill the woman who had been at his side for over twenty years? You could simply say he was mad, but even madmen have their own reasons.
“Second—and I already mentioned this last night—is the missing left hand. Why would Seiji cut off the left hand of his wife? And what did he do with it?
“Third is the time gap between the murders. He killed his wife first on the 17th and finally the gardener in the early morning of the 20th. What was Seiji doing during those three days?
“And finally, how did Seiji flee from the island after committing these crimes? And where has he been hiding since then?”
“I was thinking along almost the exact same lines on our way over here,” said Shimada, “and I think that, of the questions you just listed, I can at least provide an answer to the first.”
“A motive for killing Kazue?”
“Yes. Of course, as you said, this is nothing but a wild guess.”
“Jealousy?” tried Morisu carefully. Shimada pursed his lips and nodded.
“Even normal emotions can turn into madness if they manage to dwell long enough in the heart of a genius like Seiji.”
Shimada turned to Conan.
“What do you mean?” asked the latter.
“Do you remember what Yoshikawa Masako said about Nakamura Chiori?”
“Yes, of course.”
“She said that Chiori seldom returned to the island. She also said that Kazue adored her daughter, but when we asked about Seiji…”
“She said something about Seiji not being fond of kids.”
“Precisely. Seiji didn’t love his daughter very much.”
“And I remember that, at Chiori’s funeral, he wasn’t the chief mourner.”
“You understand what I’m trying to tell you, don’t you?”
Kawaminami looked alternately at Morisu and Shimada. The latter nodded gently. Morisu frowned and looked away.
“You suspect that Chiori wasn’t Seiji’s daughter.”
“That’s correct, Conan.”
“But then whose daughter was she?”
“Nakamura Kōjirō’s. According to Masako, Kō occasionally visited the island when she was working there and before she married Yoshikawa. That means there hadn’t always been bad blood between the brothers. And I think the period when Kō stopped going to the island dates from the time Chiori was born. What do you think, Morisu?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Morisu reached out for the cigarettes on the table.
“So that’s why we went by Kōjirō’s house on the way back,” said Kawaminami.
“Yes. I wanted to see what I could get out of Kō.”
“Mr Shimada,” interrupted Morisu. “I think you had better reconsider that.”
“Oh, and why?” Shimada was taken aback.
“It might be none of my business, but even if you and Kōjirō are good friends, I don’t think much good can come of you prying into rather private affairs.”
Morisu looked silently at Shimada.
“There’s nothing wrong with us talking about the case here. But I don’t think it’s right to act purely on guesswork and invade other people’s privacy, especially when it involves a secret as delicate as that.”
“But Morisu, it was you who suggested we visit Yoshikawa’s wife,” retorted Kawaminami. Morisu sighed gently.
“All day today I’ve been regretting saying something as careless as that. But even I make mistakes when my curiosity clashes with my conscience. And last night, I was caught up in the moment. But I shouldn’t have said that merely because I found the case intriguing. I felt even worse thinking about it while facing the stone Buddhas.”
He looked at the easel near the wall. Thick colour had been applied to the picture on the canvas with a palette knife.
“It might be selfish of me, Mr Shimada, but I’m getting out of the game at this point. I’ve explained my deductions and I’m now resigning as ‘armchair detective’,” said Morisu.
Shimada didn’t seem to be offended at all. “So your final conclusion is that Seiji is still alive?”
“Conclusion is too strong a word. I merely pointed out a possibility which may not have been given enough attention before. If you ask me whether I really think Seiji is still alive, then I’ll have to answer with a no.”
“And the letter? What do you make of that?”
“Probably just a joke by one of those who’ve gone to the island—would you like some more tea?”
“No, thanks.”
Morisu poured himself a fourth cup.
“Suppose Seiji were really still among the living, would he be making accusations about the death of Chiori, a daughter he didn’t love, and possibly even hated?”
“Hmm.”
“And I also think that keeping an extreme feeling—like the urge to murder someone—burning for a long time is much more difficult than you make it out to be.
“If Seiji had been responsible for the incident six months ago and he wanted to kill not only Kazue, but also the persons responsible for Chiori’s death, as well as his brother Kōjirō, wouldn’t he have gone after Kōjirō and the others right after killing Kazue? I don’t think that his urge to kill could have been all that strong if he went into hiding for six months first, and then restarted his revenge by sending a bunch of threatening letters.”
“…”
“Do you have some more hot water for me?” asked Kawaminami,
trying to help Shimada, who seemed at a loss for words.
“There’s no more left. I’ll boil some.”
“No, that’s OK. I’ve had enough anyway.”
Kawaminami lay down on his back and crossed his arms.
“Mr Shimada and I have too much free time, so while you’re entitled to your own opinion, of course, I think we’ll continue digging a bit more.”
“Look, I’m not telling you to stop.”
Morisu’s face softened.
“But I do think you should avoid trampling over the secrets people have been trying to keep hidden, without any regard for their feelings.”
“All right.”
Kawaminami yawned and muttered.
“I wonder how the guys on Tsunojima are doing.”
They of course had no idea.
No idea that, on the little island not far across the sea from the mainland, the parade of death was about to begin.
FIVE
The Third Day on the Island
1
It was almost noon when Agatha woke up. She had overslept because she had lain awake almost the whole night, finally falling asleep only in the morning.
She took one look at the clock and sat bolt upright. But, after listening carefully, she realized the others hadn’t got up either.
She covered herself with the blanket again and lay restlessly on her stomach.
She had gone to bed at three in the morning. Except for Van and Carr, who had gone to bed early, she guessed the others had turned in at around the same time.
At first Agatha felt ashamed of getting up so late, even if she was on holiday, but when she realized she wasn’t the only one, she reached out for the cigarettes on her bedside table.
She had low blood pressure. It would take a good hour before she could get up and get ready for the daily routine.
That’s odd, thought Agatha… Is Orczy still in bed?
Even though they had gone to bed so late last night, it was unlike Orczy to lie in this long. Maybe she had already got up, but had returned to her room when the others didn’t appear. Or…
With vacant eyes she followed the drifting cigarette smoke. She enjoyed smoking, but refrained from it in the company of others.
After starting on her second cigarette, she slowly pulled her weary body out of bed.
She put on a beige jumper over a black blouse and stood in front of the mirror. Making sure her clothes were in tip-top order, she collected her toilet bag and make-up pouch and exited the room.
The empty decagonal hall was as gloomy as ever despite the noon hour. The table in the centre was like a white spot floating in the darkness. The ten-sided patch of sky visible through the skylight was as grey as yesterday.
Agatha walked straight to the bathroom, washed her face quickly and applied her make-up. Returning to the hall, she started cleaning the cups, glasses and ashtrays full of stubs that had been left lying on the table last night.
And then she caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye…
What’s that?
She turned her head and immediately remembered where she had seen that red before. She could feel herself turn as white as a sheet. It was hanging on one of the plain wooden doors.
At first only a faint sound came from her lips, but in the next moment Agatha was screaming at the top of her lungs.
A door behind her swung open and Carr became the first to jump out into the hall. He was already up and dressed.
He caught sight of the petrified Agatha and then saw the object she was staring at.
“Whose room is that?” he shouted.
Agatha was unable to speak. The plate with the red characters was covering the name on the door.
Door after door opened and the others came out.
“Whose room is it, Agatha?” repeated Carr.
“O-Orczy’s.”
“What?”
It was Poe who darted to the door. Still dressed in his pyjamas, his hair shaggy from disturbed sleep, he grabbed the doorknob furiously.
The door wasn’t locked.
It was almost anticlimactic how easily the door opened.
A dark room. A beam of light coming in through the gap between the shutters, cutting through the darkness like a sharp-edged sword.
“Orczy.”
Poe called out to her in a trembling voice.
“Orczy.”
The bed against the wall was grey in the darkness. She was lying there peacefully, her blanket covering her neatly up to her chest. Her own dark-blue cardigan had been pulled over her head…
“Orczy!”
Poe let out a roar and rushed into the room. The body lying on the bed, however, did not move at all.
“What happened? Orczy…”
Lifting the cardigan that covered Orczy’s face with his powerful, trembling hands, Poe felt his whole body shiver. The other five, who had followed him and were now standing in the entrance, tried to push inside.
“Don’t come in,” implored Poe, his arms raised to discourage them. “I beg you. She wouldn’t want you to see her like this…”
Hearing these words, the five stayed where they were.
Poe took a deep breath, raising his shoulders. He carefully lifted the blanket and started to examine the body of poor Orczy, who would never move or feel embarrassed again.
After he was done, Poe replaced the blanket and cardigan. He got up sluggishly, stared up at the ceiling and let out a long, groaning sigh.
“Let’s get out.” He turned to the others. “This is a crime scene. We’d better lock it. Where’s the key?”
“It’s here.” Before anyone could react, Ellery stepped into the room and picked up the key from the desk by the wall. “The window’s unlatched. What about that?”
“Better lock it too. Let’s get out, Ellery.”
“But what happened to Orczy?” Van asked. Poe grasped the key Ellery had given him and said in a quiet voice:
“She’s dead—strangled.”
“No!” screamed Agatha.
“I’m sorry, Agatha.”
“No… Poe, I want to see Orczy.”
“I can’t let you.”
Poe closed his eyes and shook his head sadly.
“Orczy was strangled to death, Agatha. Please, don’t look at her. Even if she’s dead now, she still deserves some dignity.”
Agatha instantly understood what Poe meant. He was talking about the horrible sight of a strangled body. She nodded and was led away from the room.
And just when Poe was reaching to close the door, someone stepped in front of him to block his way.
“Aren’t you trying a bit too hard to get us away from the room?”
It was Carr. He looked up at Poe and, with a grim smile on his face, said: “You could say we’re all experts on murder here. And we all want to find the person who did this to Orczy. So give us a chance to investigate the crime scene and the body.”
“Damn you!”
Poe’s face turned pale, and his whole body trembled as he yelled.
“Are you going to use the death of a friend as a source of amusement? This is work for the police.”
“What are you blathering about? When will the police come? How are we going to let them know? Remember what the plastic plates said. By the time the police arrive, we might all be dead except for ‘the Murderer’ and ‘the Detective’.”
Poe pushed harder in an attempt to close the door. Carr, in turn, used his bony yellow hands to push Poe’s away.
“Think about it more carefully and don’t be so stupid, Poe. The next to be murdered might be none other than yourself, you know.”
“Move away, Carr.”
“Or is th
ere something else? Why are you so confident that you alone won’t be killed? The only person who can be sure of that is the murderer himself.”
“What?”
“Oh, now I’ve got it!”
“You bastard!”
“Stop it, you two.”
Poe was ready to jump at Carr. The look on Carr’s face showed he was ready to take Poe on, too. But Van grasped Carr’s arm and pulled him away from the door.
“What’re you doing, you piece of scum?!”
Carr’s face was crimson with fury as he screamed the words. Taking advantage of the moment, Poe closed the door quickly and locked it.
“That was unseemly of you, Carr,” said Ellery, who had just come back from the kitchen unobserved and was holding the remaining six plates in his hands. “Poe’s right. Unfortunately.”
2
“It’s unbelievable. This has to be a sick joke by someone. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life.”
“Leroux.”
“A murder is no joke! This has to be a nightmare. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Leroux, stop it.”
Agatha’s shrill voice made Leroux start, his round shoulders shuddering. He looked up.
“Sorry,” he muttered softly and stared down at the floor.
The six were all sitting around the table in the hall. Not one of them looked into any of the others’ faces. The empty seat that, until last night, had been occupied by the girl with the short hair and downcast eyes stood out painfully now.
“Who killed Orczy?”
The question came from Agatha’s rose-pink lips, but it sounded more like a curse and hung trembling in the cold air.
“Nobody’s going to just come out and say, ‘It was me,’” replied Ellery.
“But the murderer has to be one of us. One of us six. Who killed Orczy? Why not stop pretending you don’t know anything about it, you murderer?”
“I told you, nobody’s going to kill someone and then confess to it just like that.”
The Decagon House Murders Page 10