“When I was young,” the professor said, “we were excited by the Tsukiji Shogekijo. Is it that kind of movement?”
“It’s a little different,” the assistant professor said with a puzzled look. “How can I describe it? They’re bolder, and more creative.”
“I see. And next?”
“That’s the playwright Takebe, isn’t it?” The assistant professor looked to the hostess for confirmation.
“Yes, that’s Takebe-sensei.”
“Who’s the one with his back to us?”
“That’s the critic Sekigawa-sensei,” the hostess answered.
“And the one next to the girl?”
“The architect Yodogawa-sensei.”
“You call them all sensei, as if they were professors?” The professor let out a sarcastic laugh. “They must be something to be called sensei at such a young age.”
“Anyone is called sensei these days. Even the leaders of underworld gangs,” the assistant professor said.
“What are they laughing about?”
“It must be about Waga-sensei,” the hostess said. She had overheard some of the conversation at the other booth.
“And what’s so special about this Waga?”
“Waga-sensei’s fiancée is Tadokoro Sachiko-san. You know, the sculptor. She’s also famous because her father is Tadokoro Shigeyoshi, the former cabinet minister,” the hostess explained.
“I see.” The history professor seemed to lose interest.
A similar conversation was taking place at the booth where the executives were seated.
“Oh, Tadokoro Shigeyoshi…” The executive did not know the names of the young artists, but his expression suddenly lit up when he heard the name of the former cabinet minister.
The bar gradually filled with customers. Most of those who arrived later came in twos and threes, so the group of young men continued to be the object of attention.
The door opened quietly and an elderly gentleman entered the bar. His hair was long and gray, and he wore thick-framed metal glasses. He started to walk in, but when he saw the young men seated at the large booth, he hesitated. The young men recognized him as well.
“Mita-sensei,” Sekigawa said, standing and greeting the newcomer. Mita Kenzo was a well-known cultural critic who wrote commentaries not only on literature but also on topics related to art and popular culture.
“Good evening,” Mita replied with a tentative smile. “I didn’t realize you fellows came here.”
“Yes, sometimes we do.”
Mita seemed to be at a loss for words and stood there hesitantly.
“Sensei, Mita-sensei, please sit with us,” the architect Yodogawa Ryuta said.
“Thank you. Maybe I’ll join you later.” Mita walked off with a hostess, nodding good-bye to the young men.
“Escaped,” Sekigawa said. His voice was low, but the group let out a burst of loud laughter. Sekigawa had often voiced his scorn of Mita as a low-brow critic. He had secretly given him the nickname “Jack-of-all-trades.”
The young men continued their conversation. The first one to suggest leaving was Waga Eiryo. “I have to meet someone,” he said.
“Oh, Waga-sensei, you seem to be happy about it,” a slim hostess said, clapping her hands.
“I’d better go home, too. I just remembered I have something to do,” Sekigawa said.
Taking this as their cue, they all stood up. The madam, who had been at another table, hurried over and shook their hands. They left the bar.
“Sekigawa,” Takebe asked, “where are you going?”
“In the opposite direction. See you.”
Takebe stood looking after him, but gave up and went off with the architect and the stage director. Waga Eiryo waved to them and started walking toward the main street.
Sekigawa watched him go.
A young girl came up to him. “Mister, how about some flowers?” Sekigawa brushed her aside. He spotted a telephone booth on the street corner, entered it, and without consulting his address book began to dial.
At eleven o’clock exactly Sekigawa got out of a taxi in front of an apartment house in a crowded residential area on a hill in Shibuya. As always, the gate was open. The entryway, lit by a dim lamp, was also left open all night. The hallway was faintly lit and on either side were apartments with locks on the doors.
Sekigawa never came here during the day. A card pasted on the farthest apartment door on the second floor indicated that it was rented to Miura Emiko. Sekigawa tapped lightly, barely grazing the door with his fingertips. The door opened a crack.
“Welcome home,” a young woman said.
Sekigawa entered the room silently. The slim hostess from the Club Bonheur had changed from her black dress into a casual sweater.
“You must be warm. Why don’t you take your jacket off?”
Emiko helped Sekigawa off with his jacket and put it on a hanger.
The small, six-tatami-mat room was crowded with a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a bureau set against one wall. It was neat and scented. Emiko always sprayed the air with perfume when she expected Sekigawa.
Sekigawa sat down, and Emiko brought him a moistened hand towel.
“When did you get home?” Sekigawa asked, wiping his face with the towel.
“Just now. I asked for permission to leave as soon as I received your call. I was in the middle of my shift, so it wasn’t easy.”
“You should have made arrangements as soon as I came into the bar.”
“But you didn’t say anything. You didn’t even give me a sign.”
“I couldn’t do anything with all those nosy guys around.”
“That’s true. They’re all so sharp. But I was so happy to see you unexpectedly.”
Emiko leaned toward Sekigawa, who put his arms around her shoulders. She collapsed into his arms.
Startled by a noise, Sekigawa pulled his lips away from hers and asked, “What’s that?”
Emiko opened her eyes. “They’re playing mah-jongg. It’s the student across the hall. They play on Saturday night.”
“Do they play all night?”
“Yes. Normally he’s just a quiet student, but he has his friends over every Saturday.”
“He’s in the room diagonally across the hall, right?”
“Yes. At first the noise used to bother me, but he’s young, so I put up with it. Now I’ve gotten used to it.” To change the subject she asked “Would you like something to eat?”
“I’m a little hungry.” Sekigawa took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. Emiko picked it up and put it on a hanger.
“I thought so. I suppose you haven’t eaten anything since you left the bar?”
“All I had was a few bites of a sandwich at the party.”
“I made something light.”
Emiko brought out some sashimi, poached turbot, and pickles from the kitchen and placed them on the dining table.
“What is this fish?” Sekigawa asked, looking at the sashimi.
“It’s sea bass. I went to a sushi shop and asked them to prepare it. They said it’s the season for sea bass.”
Emiko scooped some rice into a bowl she kept especially for Sekigawa. Sekigawa ate silently.
“What are you thinking about?” Emiko studied his expression from across the table.
“I’m not thinking about anything.”
“But you’re eating so quietly.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“I feel lonely when you don’t say anything. Where did you leave the others?”
“Just outside the Bonheur.”
“What about Waga-san?”
“He probably went to his fiancée’s.”
Emiko glanced at his sullen face. “Would you like another bowl of rice?”
“No, I’ve had plenty.” Sekigawa had her pour some tea. “Is the bar busy?” he asked.
“It’s been very busy recently. That’s why it was so hard to get to leave early tonight.”
&nb
sp; “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind leaving for you.”
“No one at the bar suspects anything?”
“Don’t worry. They don’t suspect anything.”
“Didn’t the person who answered the phone recognize my voice?”
“Don’t worry. There’s no way they would know. I get lots of telephone calls.”
“I bet you’re very popular.”
“Don’t talk that way. Of course, since this is my business, I’d feel humiliated if I didn’t have a few customers of my own.”
Sekigawa smiled coldly. His face was very hard. But Emiko was bewitched by him.
They heard footsteps in the hall.
“It’s so noisy. They’ll be going back and forth to the toilet like that all night, won’t they?” Sekigawa said, frowning.
“That can’t be helped.”
“That student hasn’t ever seen my face, has he?”
“Don’t worry… I don’t like it when you act so nervous.”
Sekigawa laughed and took off his undershirt.
Emiko switched on the lamp and turned off the overhead light. The soft light shone around the pillow. Emiko slid out of her slip.
Sekigawa turned over on the mattress and said, “Hand me a cigarette.”
Emiko quickly threw something on and turned on the lamp. She took a cigarette from the cigarette box on the dining table, put it to her lips, and lit it. She then placed it between Sekigawa’s lips for him.
Sekigawa lay on his back and smoked.
Emiko returned to his side and lay down. “What are you thinking about?”
“Hmm.” He continued to smoke.
“You’re impossible. You’ve been like this all evening. Is it about work?”
There was no answer. The sound of the mah-jongg pieces could be heard from across the hall.
“They’re so noisy.”
“It just seems that way to you because you’re overly conscious of it. I’m used to it, it doesn’t bother me… You’re going to drop those ashes.” Emiko held up an ashtray and took the cigarette from Sekigawa’s lips. She knocked off the ashes and put the cigarette back between his lips.
“How old do you think Waga-san is?” Emiko asked, looking sideways at Sekigawa.
“Twenty-eight, I think.”
“So he’s a year older than you. How old would you say Sachiko-san is?”
“Twenty-two or -three, I guess,” Sekigawa muttered.
“Then they’re a perfect match in terms of age, too. I read in a magazine that they’re getting married next fall. I wonder if it’s true.”
“No reason not to think so,” Sekigawa answered, sounding bored. The light from the lamp near the pillow lit his forehead and the tip of his nose.
“Waga-san is so lucky. You should get married to someone like that, too,” Emiko said, looking intently at Sekigawa’s face.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sekigawa spat the words out. “I’m not like Waga. I wouldn’t get married for political reasons.”
“Is it a political marriage? The magazines say they’re in love.”
“There’s no difference. Waga’s an opportunist.”
“That’s not the philosophy Waga-san and your group express.”
“Waga has his rationalizations. He says ‘I won’t compromise my integrity no matter whose daughter I marry.’ And although he considers Sachiko’s father part of the opposition, he claims that by marrying her he’ll be able to infiltrate their ranks and fight more effectively against the Establishment. But I see through him.” Sekigawa reached over and tossed his cigarette into the ashtray.
“Then you wouldn’t marry someone like her?”
“No.”
“Really?” Emiko put her hand on his chest.
“Emiko,” Sekigawa said in a low voice, “you took care of everything I asked you to, didn’t you?” His eyes remained focused on the ceiling.
“Don’t worry.”
He sighed and stroked her hair.
“Please trust me. I would do anything for you,” she said.
“You would?”
“Yes, anything. I realize that it’s a critical time for you right now. You’re on your way to becoming someone. I’ll keep any secret you have. You don’t have to worry at all.”
Sekigawa turned toward her, his hand caressing her neck. “Are you sure?”
“For your sake I’d die if I had to.”
“Don’t let anyone find out about us, understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sekigawa’s expression hardened. “What time is it now?”
Emiko looked at her watch, which lay next to the pillow. “It’s ten minutes past twelve.”
Without a word Sekigawa got up. Emiko watched him get dressed with a resigned look on her face.
“Are you going home? I know you have to, but I’d like you to stay over sometime.”
“Don’t be impossible,” Sekigawa scolded as he put on his undershirt and his trousers. “I’ve already explained it to you. I can’t leave after it’s light.”
“Of course, I understand. But I can’t help asking.”
Sekigawa walked to the door and opened it a crack. No one was in the hallway. He sneaked out into the hall. He could hear the sound of the mah-jongg pieces as he passed by the student’s door on his way to the toilet.
Sekigawa was cautious on his way back, too. He muffled the sound of his slippers. A door opened. The movement was so sudden, it took Sekigawa by surprise. A student stopped in his tracks, startled at seeing another person. The hallway was narrow with no place to hide. Sekigawa turned his head away and kept walking.
As he reached Emiko’s door, he turned around. The student looked back at Sekigawa at the same time. Their eyes met.
When Sekigawa had returned to Emiko’s room and closed the door, he stood very still.
“What happened?” Emiko asked, raising herself from the mattress. “Why do you look so angry?”
He didn’t answer. He sat on the tatami and, taking a cigarette, started to smoke. Emiko got up from the mattress and came over to him.
“Did something happen?” She looked closely at him.
Sekigawa whispered, “The student saw me.”
His voice was so low, Emiko couldn’t hear. “What did you say?”
“He saw my face.”
Emiko’s eyes widened. “Who saw you?”
“The student across the hall.” Sekigawa pressed the hand holding his cigarette against his forehead.
Emiko watched him, saying, “Don’t worry. You just passed each other.”
“That’s not all. When I turned around, he looked right at me.”
“Really?”
“He saw my face straight on.”
Emiko watched Sekigawa. After a while she said, smiling reassuringly, “There’s nothing to worry about. He probably didn’t really see your face. He couldn’t recognize you from one glance and won’t remember your face for long. Besides, the light in the hallway is terrible. If he’d seen you during the day that might be a problem. But you don’t have to worry now.”
Sekigawa continued to fret. “I just hope he didn’t recognize me.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. What did he look like?”
“He was round-faced, kind of stocky…”
Emiko nodded. “Then it’s not him, it’s not the one who lives across the hall. He’s tall and thin. You probably saw one of his friends. So he’d be even less likely to recognize you.”
“A friend of his?”
“Relax.” Emiko frowned at him reproachfully. “You’re too touchy, even about small things. We’ve been together for a year now, but you’re always so edgy,” she sighed.
“I’m leaving,” Sekigawa said, standing up abruptly.
Emiko wordlessly helped him get his things together.
Sekigawa went out to the hallway. He crept quietly to the head of the stairs. No student appeared this time. He could hear the noise of the mah-jongg pieces mixed w
ith the students’ voices. He crept down the stairs and put on his shoes. He went out the entryway and closed the sliding door. Once outside the gate, he felt a sense of relief.
All the houses along the street had their night shutters closed. The street was empty. Sekigawa walked down the darkened street toward the main street to hail a taxi. He was still upset. Students these days were lazy. What did they mean by playing mah-jongg all night long? The student might not have recognized his face, but he was afraid that the student would remember him.
When he reached the main street, he saw a stream of taxi headlights. Few were empty. Most of the silhouetted passengers were couples. Finally an empty taxi came by, and Sekigawa raised his arm to stop it.
“Take me to Nakano.”
“Yes, sir.”
The driver sped down the road alongside the streetcar tracks.
“You’re out late.” The driver tried to start up a conversation.
“Yeah, I was playing mah-jongg with some friends,” Sekigawa said, lighting a cigarette. “How’s business these days?”
“I’d say better than last year.”
“They say few cabs are empty these days. The economy must be good. Not long ago there were a lot of empty taxis except for rush hour and when it rained, but that’s all over now. I hear the Transportation Ministry has approved an increase in the number of cabs, so taxi companies must be happy.”
“No, they’re not. My company is one of the bigger ones, but they’re only getting ten more licenses. The company’s pretty mad at the Ministry.”
“I understand they meant to make more licenses available to new companies rather than to the established companies.”
The taxi driver suddenly changed the subject and asked, “Mister, are you from the northeast, from Tohoku?”
“How could you tell?” Sekigawa was caught off guard.
“By your accent. No matter how long you’ve been in Tokyo, I can tell. I’m from northern Yamagata myself. Listening to your accent, I’d say you’re from Akita. How about that, am I wrong?”
“No, that’s pretty close,” Sekigawa said, scowling.
FOUR Unsolved
The investigation had reached an impasse. Even with eight full-time investigators on loan from the Homicide Division of the Metropolitan Police Force helping fifteen local precinct investigators, not one concrete lead had turned up. Morale at headquarters hit bottom.
Inspector Imanishi Investigates Page 5