Puppet Master vol.1

by Miyuki Miyabe

  　It was a beautiful, luxurious scene without a care in the world. Yoshio felt a dazed sense of unreality and, wondering what the hell he was doing here, felt suddenly tired. Normally he would never have set foot in such a luxury hotel as this. He counted a number of small traditional inns among his most valued customers at Arima Tofu, but no big hotels. The hotels used for meetings of the Tofu Makers Association were much smaller places in less showy areas like Asakusa or Akihabara. The caller had known perfectly well how out of his depth Yoshio would feel in a place like the Plaza Hotel. He'd even warned him not to go wearing his usual slip-on sandals.

  　The receptionist returned with a younger staff member, a man of about twenty-two. He was wearing the same uniform, but the badge on his breast was a different color.

  　“I'm sorry to keep you waiting,” the receptionist told Yoshio with a bow and, indicating the young man next to him said, “This is the person who took the delivery.”

  　Thus introduced, the young man said, “It was a high-school girl.”

  　Yoshio was stunned. “A what?”

  　“You are Mr. Arima, aren't you? The girl who brought the letter addressed to you was wearing a high-school uniform.”

  　“A-a schoolgirl?”

  　“Yes. She came about five minutes ago, it must have been.”

  　Yoshio was speechless. That had been right before him. He might even have passed her on his way into the foyer.

  　“Do you happen to know which school she was from?”

  　“Well really,” the young man said doubtfully, “all uniforms look pretty much the same, don't they?” For some reason he was grinning.

  　“Didn't it have the school emblem or anything on it?”

  　“Now why would you want to know such a thing?” the young man said, still grinning, and gave Yoshio a knowing look. A smile appeared on the lips of the woman receptionist at the computer again.

  　“What? I have my reasons. I need to know.”

  　“I'm afraid I don't know,” the young man said curtly. “Now if it were a matter of a registered guest, I might have paid more attention, but that doesn't appear to be the case.”

  　The receptionist who had first dealt with Yoshio shot the younger staff member a reproving glance and then turned to Yoshio, “I'm sorry we haven't been of more help.”

  　“No, no … not to worry,” Yoshio shook his head. There wasn't any point in trying to push them further. He bowed his head slightly at the receptionist and then headed to the center of the lobby.

  　“Oh, if you're going to the bar, the elevator's the other way,” the kind receptionist told him.

  　Coming to his senses, Yoshio turned and went the other way. He could hear suppressed giggles at the front desk again, and a woman's voice saying, “Dirty old man!” She'd apparently meant for Yoshio to hear her.

  In the fancy bar, too, Yoshio was as out of place as a lone azuki bean in a sack of rice. Unsure of what to order he asked for a whiskey and water, only to be presented with an array of brands he'd never heard of and so he simply chose the first one. He ignored the curious stares of the other guests and the barman's condescending attitude. He was far too preoccupied to be concerned with things like that. A high-school girl!

  　He took the letter out of his breast pocket and read it again. The cold formality of the typed words and the commanding tone of the message, as well as the insolent way it had been addressed without any title, was really in keeping with the guy who had called him. But it had been delivered by a schoolgirl. Could she be his accomplice?

  　The caller had definitely been a man. However much he'd disguised his voice, you could tell from the way he spoke. Yoshio had been dealing with customers for years, and had come across all kinds of people, some of them pretty strange. He had developed a strong sixth sense over the years. And his gut feeling was that it was a man.

  　It was possible he wasn't acting alone, but had cohorts─even a high-school girl. Suddenly he remembered the uniform at the private girls' high school Mariko had attended. It had been the typical sailor style, but he'd thought that the neckline was too low and the skirt way too short. He never said so directly to Mariko, but when he'd mentioned it to Machiko she had agreed. “But it's the same at all the schools nowadays. The uniforms have become fashionable, and Mariko's school even uses a famous designer to design theirs, you know.” And it had cost a small fortune, she'd added, laughing. In any case, that sailor-style uniform had really suited Mariko. She had sent him a photo taken at the entrance ceremony, which he'd put away in his desk drawer. Kida had found it and said, laughing, she looks so cute in that you should put it up on the wall. That would be indecent, he'd responded.

  　The ice in his whiskey on the table in front of him clinked as it melted. Yoshio looked at the clock. Over thirty minutes had passed since he'd come up here. I'll contact you at 8 PM. The contact would probably be by phone. But why was he being made to wait another hour? The guy was probably just having fun making him anxious. He might even be watching─

  　Yoshio suddenly sat up straight and looked around him. The view through the dimly lit bar was obscured by leafy plants and screen partitions. He had been shown to a seat at the far end of the counter next to the staff entrance, where he didn't have a good view over the other seats in the bar. But it would be relatively easy to watch him from one of the booths. Most bars were designed like that. Looking restlessly about him was a waste of time. There was a young couple, some businessmen, foreign tourists─even if the caller were among them, he wouldn't be able to tell. All he could do was stare at the ice melting in his tumbler and wait for the time to pass.

  　Whoever he was, that caller at least seemed to be punctilious about time. When the hands on Yoshio's watch were pointing to two minutes past eight, a telephone rang behind the bar. Yoshio stiffened. Soon the barman quietly called out a name.

  　“Mr. Arima. Mr. Arima, there is a telephone call for you.”

  　When Yoshio held up his hand and rose to his feet, the barman looked a little taken aback, but nevertheless he brought him the cordless phone. The red “Talk” button was flashing. Yoshio was nervous, not being accustomed to this type of phone. He mustn't cut off the call by mistake.

  　“Please press ‘Talk’ to connect,” he was told.

  　Yoshio pushed the button and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said quietly.

  　The machine-like voice came on the line, a little more distant than before. “Hey there, Gramps, having fun? So you found your way to the hotel okay.”

  　Yoshio's throat went dry, and he couldn't speak right away. He coughed. “Yes, I'm in the bar. I did as you said in your note. What should I do next?”

  　“What are you drinking?”

  　“Whiskey.”

  　“What a boring choice,” the voice laughed brightly. “I should have told you what to order. The bartender would have been shocked to hear you wanted a Pink Lady.”

  　“Well, that aside─”

  　“Don't be in such a hurry, Gramps. Are you really feeling so uncomfortable there?”

  　“I'm not used to it, so I feel awkward.”

  　“I guess so. So, have you got it yet?”

  　“Got what?”

  　“These days, if you don't look good you don't deserve to live. There's no value in slow decrepit old men carrying on living”.

  　Yoshio didn't say anything. Suddenly he had a clear sense of the savagery that lay behind that voice.

  　“I can't even get an old man to use a top-class hotel properly. It's a good experience for you, eh?”

  　“What do you want me to do?”

  　“Nothing. Just I'm trying to teach you about society.”

  　“The hotel people told me a high-school girl delivered your letter. Friend of yours, is she?”

  　The voice laughed. “I only did that to entertain you. Nice touch, don't you think?”

  　“Well, what's next? I can't stay talking her
e forever.”

  　“I've changed my mind,” the voice said coldly. “Our little game has come to an end. Go straight back to Mariko's house. If you dawdle around there any longer, the staff'll kick you out anyway.”

  　And with that the line went dead.

  Yoshio felt exhausted and depressed. He was aware that he still didn't even know whether he'd just been given the run-around by a prankster, or had really been in contact with whoever had snatched Mariko. He was annoyed at his own incompetence. He should have contacted Sakaki and got him to accompany him to the hotel. He shouldn't have acted alone. Sakaki would probably have given wiser answers and enticed more information out of the caller.

  　He should go home and rest. He got into a taxi and told the driver where to go. But still one thing the caller had said was niggling him. Go straight back to Mariko's house. He hadn't told him to go home, but to Mariko's house. He knew that Yoshio didn't live there. Perhaps there was some particular reason for saying that?

  　“Sorry, I've changed my mind. Can you take me to Higashi-Nakano instead?” he told the driver.

  　When they reached the Furukawa's house, Yoshio got out of the cab and rushed to the front door. The porch light was still on. The lock was as it should be, and the windows were properly closed. Perhaps there would be another call? Yoshio hurriedly took out his key. Just then he noticed the edge of an envelope sticking out of the post box to the side of the door. It hadn't been there when he'd gone out earlier.

  　Yoshio took the envelope out of the box. It was the same type of lined white envelope that had been delivered to the hotel earlier. Inside was a piece of notepaper folded in fourths, and a woman's wristwatch. It was slim with a black leather strap, a Seiko. He didn't have to think about it at all. He recognized it immediately. He had bought it for Mariko to congratulate her on starting work that spring. He'd even had her name engraved on the back.

  　He turned the watch over, and in the light from the porch lamp read, “M. Furukawa.”

  　The words printed on the notepaper read, “So now you know I'm the real deal.”

  Chapter 8

  Takegami was peering closely at the photograph through the magnifying glass he held in his right hand, the tip of his nose almost touching the print. Next to him, Shinozaki was doing the same. Without moving, now and again the two would exchange the odd word that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else.

  　“Looks like kawa, I think.”

  　“You mean kawa as in ‘river’?”

  　“Yeah.”

  　“I guess. Although it could have more strokes than that. Isn't that a vertical bar?”

  　“Yeah, I see what you mean. But that could just be the pattern on the fabric. Could be thin stripes.”

  　“Might be the texture of the fabric itself?”

  　“Mm, could be.”

  　“But what kind of uniform could it be? Fabric used for uniforms is usually more flimsy than that, isn't it?”

  　“Uh-huh …”

  　They were in a small meeting room adjacent to the incident room. Photographs were strewn all over the table, and several files held the numbered photos they had already finished classifying.

  　The photos were the ones taken by an amateur photographer in Okawa Park the day before the discovery of the arm. As Detective Akitsu had requested, Takegami had gone to visit the man in person and had managed to persuade him to lend them the negatives. He'd then had them all developed, and had first gone through them noting down all the car number plates and running a search on those, then had set about an analysis of the images themselves.

  　Now the two of them had put their heads together and were studying a photo in which a young woman was standing right next to the trash can in question. She was standing sideways to the camera, and behind the bed of cosmos flowers in the foreground, so only the top half of her body was visible. She was wearing what looked like a typical company uniform: a smart skirt and matching vest, with what might be a company name embroidered on the breast. Takegami and Shinozaki were now working together to try to decipher it.

  　Why was it so important for them to identify the woman? Because in the same shot a shadowy figure looked as though it was approaching the trash can in question. Unfortunately, the figure was not only hidden in the shade of the trees, but was out of focus and it was impossible to distinguish the clothes, age, facial features, or gender. All they could deduce was that it was between 160 and 170 centimeters tall. What had fired their interest, though, was that this individual was holding something that, whichever way you looked at it, could only be a brown paper bag.

  　It was a bit premature to conclude this photo had been taken just before the severed arm was thrown into the garbage can, thought Takegami. Common sense dictated that it was just too convenient. But as he knew in the fiber of his being, investigations often progressed in unpredictable ways so they really couldn't automatically discount that possibility. When they'd asked the photographer if he remembered anything about the people in the frame─the young woman and the unknown shadowy figure─he'd scowled and told them irritably that he'd been photographing the cosmos flowers. “I wasn't looking at the people. I don't photograph people, because I don't like them.” Which meant that they would have to track down the people in the photo and question them.

  　They had sent a copy of the photo to NRIPS, the National Research Institute of Police Science, for analysis, and while they awaited the results Takegami and Shinozaki were hunched over their old-fashioned magnifying glasses. If they could just make out the embroidered name on the woman's breast, it wouldn't be hard to identify her. The photo series was shot the day before the discovery, on September 11, between about 3 PM and 6 PM. It was a weekday during working hours, so the woman in her work uniform couldn't have come to Okawa Park from all that far away. She was probably on company business and cutting through the park, or even perhaps dawdling a while before going back to work. The chances of her working for a company in the neighborhood were extremely high.

  　“Looks like it could be Kawashige.”

  　“You mean the characters for ‘river’ and ‘thicket’?”

  　“Yes, Kawashige─maybe a heavy machinery firm. It's a bit of an odd combination of characters, isn't it?”

  　Just then there was a knock on the door, and Akitsu poked his head into the room. “We're done with interviewing the witnesses. I brought the tapes with me.”

  　“Great, thanks.”

  　Akitsu leaned a bit further into the room and lowered his voice. “Gami, won't you meet him?”

  　“Who?”

  　“The old man, of course. It'd be better to hear what he has to say for yourself─he'll recall the conversation better that way.”

  　Takegami looked at the wall clock. Just after 2 PM on Tuesday. “Is he still here?”

  　“Yes, he's still in the interview room.”

  　“What did the captain say?”

  　“That you could go ahead and meet him if you want.” Akitsu grimaced. “He seems whipped. Hardly surprising, really. I felt quite sorry for him.”

  　Takegami wondered what to do. He wasn't keen on meeting someone who was in such a state that even Akitsu felt sorry for them. One of the reasons he liked desk duty was that he rarely had occasion to meet the families of victims or people related to an incident. “I suppose investigations at the hotel and the Furukawa house are still going on?”

  　“Yes, I'm on my way there now. To the Plaza Hotel. We're trying to identify the high-school girl who delivered the letter.”

  　“He's a cautious bastard,” Takegami said. “He probably saw her at the station, and offered her some pocket money to do it.”

  　“Yeah, that's what I think too. I doubt she's an accomplice. It's just that she's been in direct contact with him, so she's a valuable witness.” Akitsu looked down at the tapes in his hand, his face dark. “Even so, just hearing about the son of a bitch makes my blood boil. Seems he was enjoying pushi
ng the old man around.”

  　In retrospect, Takegami couldn't help regretting not having placed a recording device on the phone in Mariko's home. It had occurred to him briefly after that call to the TV station, so he should have mentioned it right away to Captain Kanzaki. It was just that it had been widely reported that Mariko's mother was in the hospital, and he'd thought it was unlikely the culprit would try calling the Furukawa house.

  　Takegami had heard last night about what happened at the Plaza Hotel. He had immediately woken Shinozaki from his nap, and the pair of them had watched all the TV coverage on the Okawa Park case they had recorded to date, from news reports to gossip shows and the like, all the way through from start to finish. They confirmed that Mariko's father's name had not been broadcast, and while it had been mentioned that her house was in Higashi-Nakano, the precise location had not been specified, and nobody had mentioned that Mariko's grandfather was going to the house regularly to check up on things there.

  　Which meant several things. How had the caller found the telephone number for the Furukawa house? The most obvious explanation was that Mariko had made a note of it in something that was now in his possession. Given that Mariko's mother was in the hospital and they were not able to question her about it, what this might have been remained unclear. It wasn't her health insurance card, which they'd found in the drawer of the desk in her room, and she hadn't yet acquired a driving license. The home address and telephone number of employees was not shown on the staff identity card at the bank where Mariko worked. There had been a small address book in her desk drawer, in which she had meticulously recorded the personal information of friends and acquaintances, as well as the number of her own private phone line in her room, along with the password of her voicemail─which for some reason she hadn't taken with her the day she disappeared. Mariko's commuter pass had been in the caller's possession, since he had thrown it away in Okawa Park, but while it showed her name, age, and sex, it didn't include her address. Nothing else a young woman would normally carry around with her that would have her address on it came to mind.