SARA PARETSKY
THE TAKAMOKU JOSEKI
January 1984
SARA PARETSKY has helped to transform the mystery genre within the past couple of decades. She pioneered the female hard-boiled P.I. with her popular character V. I. Warshawski, and she supported the work of other women mystery writers by founding the Sisters in Crime organizations. Paretsky’s novels are distinguished by gritty realism, the loving evocation of Chicago, and engagement with larger social issues. Warshawski debuted in Paretsky’s first novel, and this story appeared shortly thereafter.
Mr. and Mrs. Takamoku were a quiet, hardworking couple. Although they had lived in Chicago since the 1940s, when they were relocated from an Arizona detention camp, they spoke only halting English. Occasionally I ran into Mrs. Takamoku in the foyer of the old three-flat we both lived in on Belmont, or at the corner grocery store. We would exchange a few stilted sentences. She knew I lived alone in my third-floor apartment, and she worried about it, although her manners were too perfect for her to come right out and tell me to get myself a husband.
As time passed, I learned about her son, Akira, and her daughter, Yoshio, both professionals living on the West Coast. I always inquired after them, which pleased her.
With great difficulty I got her to understand that I was a private detective. This troubled her; she often wanted to know if I were doing something dangerous and would shake her head and frown as she asked. I didn’t see Mr. Takamoku often. He worked for a printer and usually left long before me in the morning.
Unlike the De Paul students who form an ever-changing collage on the second floor, the Takamokus did little entertaining, or at least little noisy entertaining. Every Sunday afternoon a procession of Orientals came to their apartment, spent a quiet afternoon, and left. One or more Occidentals would join them, incongruous by their height and color. After a while, I recognized the regulars, a tall, bearded white man and six or seven Japanese and Koreans.
One Sunday evening in late November I was eating sushi and drinking sake in a storefront restaurant on Halsted. The Takamokus came in as I was finishing my first little pot of sake. I smiled and waved at them and watched with idle amusement as they conferred earnestly, darting glances at me. While they argued, a waitress brought them bowls of noodles and a plate of sushi; they were clearly regular customers with regular tastes.
At last, Mr. Takamoku came over to my table. I invited him and his wife to join me.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said in an agony of embarrassment. “We only have question for you, not to disturb you.”
“You’re not disturbing me. What do you want to know?”
“You are familiar with American customs.” That was a statement, not a question. I nodded, wondering what was coming.
“When a guest behaves badly in the house, what does an American do?”
I gave him my full attention. I had no idea what he was asking, but he would never have brought it up just to be frivolous.
“It depends,” I said carefully. “Did they break up your sofa or spill tea?”
Mr. Takamoku looked at me steadily, fishing for a cigarette. Then he shook his head, slowly. “Not as much as breaking furniture. Not as little as tea on sofa. In between.”
“I’d give him a second chance.”
A slight crease erased itself from Mr. Takamoku’s forehead. “A second chance. A very good idea. A second chance.”
He went back to his wife and ate his noodles with the noisy appreciation that showed good Japanese manners. I had another pot of sake and finished about the same time as the Takamokus; we left the restaurant together. I topped them by a good five inches, so I slowed my pace to a crawl to keep step with them.
Mrs. Takamoku smiled. “You are familiar with Go?” she asked, giggling nervously.
“I’m not sure,” I said cautiously, wondering if they wanted me to conjugate an intransitive irregular verb.
“It’s a game. You have time to stop and see?”
“Sure,” I agreed, just as Mr. Takamoku broke in with vigorous objections.
I couldn’t tell whether he didn’t want to inconvenience me or didn’t want me intruding. However, Mrs. Takamoku insisted, so I stopped at the first floor and went into the apartment with her.
The living room was almost bare. The lack of furniture drew the eye to a beautiful Japanese doll on a stand in one corner with a bowl of dried flowers in front of her. The only other furnishing was a row of six little tables. They were quite thick and stood low on carved wooden legs. Their tops, about eighteen inches square, were crisscrossed with black lines that formed dozens of little squares. Two covered wooden bowls stood on each table.
“Go-ban,” Mrs. Takamoku said, pointing to one of the tables.
I shook my head in incomprehension.
Mr. Takamoku picked up a covered bowl. It was filled with smooth white disks, the size of nickels but much thicker. I held one up and saw beautiful shades and shadows in it.
“Clam shell,” Mr. Takamoku said. “They cut, then polish.” He picked up a second bowl, filled with black disks. “Shale.”
He knelt on a cushion in front of one of the tables and rapidly placed black and white disks on intersections of the lines. A pattern emerged.
“This is Go. Black plays, then white, then black, then white. Each tries to make territory, to make eyes.” He showed me an “eye”—a clear space surrounded by black stones. “White cannot play here. Black is safe. Now white must play someplace else.”
“I see.” I didn’t really, but I didn’t think it mattered.
“This afternoon, someone knock stones from table, turn upside down, and scrape with knife.”
“This table?” I asked, tapping the one he was playing on.
“Yes.” He swept the stones off swiftly but carefully and put them in their little pots. He turned the board over. In the middle was a hole, carved and sanded. The wood was very thick—I suppose the hole gave it resonance.
I knelt beside him and looked. I was probably thirty years younger, but I couldn’t tuck my knees under me with his grace and ease: I sat cross-legged. A faint scratch marred the sanded bottom.
“Was he American?”
Mr. and Mrs. Takamoku exchanged a look. “Japanese, but born in America,” she said. “Like Akira and Yoshio.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand. It’s not an American custom.” I climbed awkwardly back to my feet. Mr. Takamoku stood with one easy movement. He and Mrs. Takamoku thanked me profusely. I assured them it was nothing and went to bed.
THE NEXT SUNDAY was a cold, gray day with a hint of snow. I sat in my living room in front of the television, drinking coffee, dividing my attention between November’s income and watching the Bears. Both were equally feeble. I was trying to decide on something friendlier to do when a knock sounded on my door. The outside buzzer hadn’t rung. I got up, stacking loose papers on one arm of the chair and balancing the coffee cup on the other.
Through the peephole I could see Mrs. Takamoku. I opened the door. Her wrinkled ivory face was agitated, her eyes dilated. “Oh, good, good, you are here. You must come.” She tugged at my hand.
I pulled her gently into the apartment. “What’s wrong? Let me get you a drink.”
“No, no.” She wrung her hands in agitation, repeating that I must come, I must come.
I collected my keys and went down the worn, uncarpeted stairs with her. Her living room was filled with cigarette smoke and a crowd of anxious men. Mr. Takamoku detached himself from the group and hurried over to his wife and me. He clasped my hand and pumped it up and down.
“Good. Good you came. You are a detective, yes? You will see the police do not arrest Naoe and me.”
“What’s wrong, Mr. Takamoku?”
“He’s dead. He’s killed. Naoe and I were in camp during World War. They will arrest us.”
“Who’s dead?”
He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know name.”
I pushed through the
group. A white man lay sprawled on the floor. It was hard, given his position, to guess his age. His fair hair was thick and unmarked with gray; he must have been relatively young.
A small dribble of vomit trailed from his clenched teeth. I sniffed at it cautiously. Probably hydrocyanic acid. Not far from his body lay a teacup, a Japanese cup without handles. The contents sprayed out from it like a Rorschach. Without touching it, I sniffed again. The fumes were still discernible.
I got up. “Has anyone left since this happened?”
The tall, bearded Caucasian I’d noticed on previous Sundays looked around and said “no” in an authoritative voice.
“And have you called the police?”
Mrs. Takamoku gave an agitated cry. “No police. No. You are detective. You find murderer yourself.”
I shook my head and took her gently by the hand. “If we don’t call the police, they will put us all in jail for concealing a murder. You must tell them.”
The bearded man said, “I’ll do that.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Charles Welland. I’m a physicist at the University of Chicago, but on Sundays I’m a Go player.”
“I see … I’m V. I. Warshawski. I live upstairs: I’m a private investigator. The police look very dimly on all citizens who don’t report murders, but especially on P.I.’s.”
Welland went into the dining room, where the Takamokus kept their phone. I told the Takamokus and their guests that no one could leave before the police gave them permission, then followed Welland to make sure he didn’t call anyone besides the police, or take the opportunity to get rid of a vial of poison.
The Go players seemed resigned, albeit very nervous. All of them smoked ferociously; the thick air grew bluer. They split into small groups, five Japanese together, four Koreans in another clump. A lone Chinese fiddled with the stones on one of the Go-bans.
None of them spoke English well enough to give a clear account of how the young man died. When Welland came back, I asked him for a detailed report.
The physicist claimed not to know his name. The dead man had only been coming to the Go club the last month or two.
“Did someone bring him? Or did he just show up one day?”
Welland shrugged. “He just showed up. Word gets around among Go players. I’m sure he told me his name—it just didn’t stick. I think he worked for Hansen Electronic, the big computer firm.”
I asked if everyone there were regular players. Welland knew all of them by sight, if not by name. They didn’t all come every Sunday, but none of the others was a newcomer.
“I see. Okay. What happened today?”
Welland scratched his beard. He had bushy, arched eyebrows that jumped up to punctuate his stronger statements. I thought that was pretty sexy. I pulled my mind back to what he was saying.
“I got here around one thirty. I think three games were in progress. This guy”—he jerked his thumb toward the dead man—“arrived a bit later. He and I played a game. Then Mr. Hito arrived and the two of them had a game. Dr. Han showed up, and he and I were playing when the whole thing happened. Mrs. Takamoku sets out tea and snacks. We all wander around and help ourselves. About four, this guy took a swallow of tea, gave a terrible cry, and died.”
“Is there anything important about the game they were playing?”
Welland looked at the board. A handful of black and white stones stood on the corner points. He shook his head. “They’d just started. It looks like our dead friend was trying the Takamoku joseki. That’s a complicated one—I’ve never seen it used in actual play before.”
“What’s that? Anything to do with Mr. Takamoku?”
“The joseki are the beginning moves in the corners. Takamoku is this one”—he pointed at the far side—“where black plays on the five-four point—the point where the fourth and fifth lines intersect. It wasn’t named for our host. That’s just coincidence.”
SERGEANT MCGONNIGAL didn’t find out much more than I had. A thickset young detective, he has had a lot of experience and treated his frightened audience gently. He was a little less kind to me, demanding roughly why I was there, what my connection with the dead man was, who my client was. It didn’t cheer him up any to hear that I was working for the Takamokus, but he let me stay with them while he questioned them. He sent for a young Korean officer to interrogate the Koreans in the group. Welland, who spoke fluent Japanese, translated the Japanese interviews. Dr. Han, the lone Chinese, struggled along on his own.
McGonnigal learned that the dead man’s name was Peter Folger. He learned that people were milling around all the time watching one another play. He also learned that no one paid attention to anything but the game they were playing, or watching.
“The Japanese say the Go player forgets his father’s funeral,” Welland explained. “It’s a game of tremendous concentration.”
No one admitted knowing Folger outside the Go club. No one knew how he found out that the Takamokus hosted Go every Sunday.
My clients hovered tensely in the background, convinced that McGonnigal would arrest them at any minute. But they could add nothing to the story. Anyone who wanted to play was welcome at their apartment on Sunday afternoon. Why should he show a credential? If he knew how to play, that was the proof.
McGonnigal pounced on that. Was Folger a good player? Everyone looked around and nodded. Yes, not the best—that was clearly Dr. Han or Mr. Kim, one of the Koreans—but quite good enough. Perhaps first kyu, whatever that was.
After two hours of this, McGonnigal decided he was getting nowhere. Someone in the room must have had a connection with Folger, but we weren’t going to find it by questioning the group. We’d have to dig into their backgrounds.
A uniformed man started collecting addresses while McGonnigal went to his car to radio for plainclothes reinforcements. He wanted everyone in the room tailed and wanted to call from a private phone. A useless precaution, I thought: the innocent wouldn’t know they were being followed and the guilty would expect it.
McGonnigal returned shortly, his face angry. He had a bland-faced, square-jawed man in tow, Derek Hatfield of the FBI. He did computer fraud for them. Our paths had crossed a few times on white-collar crime. I’d found him smart and knowledgeable, but also humorless and overbearing.
“Hello, Derek,” I said, without getting up from the cushion I was sitting on. “What brings you here?”
“He had the place under surveillance,” McGonnigal said, biting off the words. “He won’t tell me who he was looking for.”
Derek walked over to Folger’s body, covered now with a sheet, which he pulled back. He looked at Folger’s face and nodded. “I’m going to have to phone my office for instructions.”
“Just a minute,” McGonnigal said. “You know the guy, right? You tell me what you were watching him for.”
Derek raised his eyebrows haughtily. “I’ll have to make a call first.”
“Don’t be an ass, Hatfield,” I said. “You think you’re impressing us with how mysterious the FBI is, but you’re not, really. You know your boss will tell you to cooperate with the city if it’s murder. And we might be able to clear this thing up right now, glory for everyone. We knew Folger worked for Hansen Electronic. He wasn’t one of your guys working undercover, was he?”
Hatfield glared at me. “I can’t answer that.”
“Look,” I said reasonably. “Either he worked for you and was investigating problems at Hansen, or he worked for them and you suspected he was involved in some kind of fraud. I know there’s a lot of talk about Hansen’s new Series J computer—was he passing secrets?”
Hatfield put his hands in his pockets and scowled in thought. At last he said to McGonnigal, “Is there someplace we can talk?”
I asked Mrs. Takamoku if we could use her kitchen for a few minutes. Her lips moved nervously, but she took Hatfield and me down the hall. Her apartment was laid out like mine, and the kitchens were similar, at least in appliances. Hers was spotless; m
ine has that lived-in look.
McGonnigal told the uniformed man not to let anyone leave or make any phone calls and followed us.
Hatfield leaned against the back door. I perched on a bar stool next to a high wooden table. McGonnigal stood in the doorway leading down the hall.
“You got someone here named Miyake?” Hatfield asked.
McGonnigal looked through the sheaf of notes in his hand and shook his head.
“Anyone here work for Kawamoto?”
Kawamoto is a big Japanese electronics firm, one of Mitsubishi’s peers and a strong rival of Hansen in the mega-computer market.
“Hatfield. Are you trying to tell us that Folger was passing Series J secrets to someone from Kawamoto over the Go boards here?”
Hatfield shifted uncomfortably. “We only got onto it three weeks ago. Folger was just a go-between. We offered him immunity if he would finger the guy from Kawamoto. He couldn’t describe him well enough for us to make a pickup. He was going to shake hands with him or touch him in some way as they left the building.”
“The Judas trick,” I remarked.
“Huh?” Hatfield looked puzzled.
McGonnigal smiled for the first time that afternoon. “The man I kiss is the one you want. You should’ve gone to Catholic school, Hatfield.”
“Yeah. Anyway, Folger must’ve told this guy Miyake we were closing in.” Hatfield shook his head disgustedly. “Miyake must be part of that group out there, just using an assumed name. We got a tail put on all of them.” He straightened up and started back toward the hall.
“How was Folger passing the information?” I asked.
“It was on microdots.”
“Stay where you are. I might be able to tell you which one is Miyake without leaving the building.”
Of course, both Hatfield and McGonnigal started yelling at me at once. Why was I suppressing evidence, what did I know, they’d have me arrested. “Calm down, boys,” I said. “I don’t have any evidence. But now that I know the crime, I think I know how the information was passed. I just need to talk to my clients.”
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense Page 25