by Emma Lathen
“Iwamoto could have remained here someplace unobtrusive until two and then attempted to kill Mr. Matsuda. But that does not address the basic problem.”
“I know, I know,” grunted McLeod. “If Alderman didn’t shoot Matsuda, then how did a third party become aware of their meeting? It’s much simpler to believe that Matsuda asked for the meeting to make some kind of deal, and Alderman decided to rid himself of a threat.”
The Japanese inspector had been looking more and more dissatisfied.
“Not for me, it isn’t,” he said decisively.
“You don’t think Matsuda would have set a price on his silence?”
“That’s not what I meant. Matsuda is subject to the temptations and alarms of all human beings. He might take a bribe, he might even commit murder. But under no circumstances would he appear at his office in Bermuda shorts. He would also not arrange clandestine meetings at deserted swimming pools. Even if a nighttime rendezvous was necessary, what was wrong with Alderman’s room?”
McLeod tried to transpose Matsuda into a comparable British civil servant.
“In a way, you’re right. But you know the basic flaw as well as I do,” he said at last. “No matter what the compulsion, Matsuda was at that swimming pool.”
Chapter 26
For forty-eight hours the world awaited Mr. Matsuda’s story. During this period his wife and son emplaned for London, the Prime Minister expressed the deep regret of the British people, and the Japanese ambassador announced that his government was following developments.
The only meaningful public statement emanated from St. Ethelred’s Hospital. In spite of medical technicalities, the message was clear. Mr. Matsuda was in no immediate danger.
Inside Tudor House, an army of Superintendent McLeod’s minions moved purposefully through the vast complex, acquiring snippets of information here and there. The gun was discovered at the bottom of the swimming pool.
“No fingerprints, and it was reported stolen from a collector’s home six years ago,” a subordinate reported.
“What about witnesses?”
They were few and far between. A porter, after replacing a light bulb, had used the elevator bank servicing the Lackawanna rooms at one-fifty. Of the three cars available, two had been down in the lobby and the third had been at rest on the penthouse floor. At one forty-five, two guests had walked past Don Hodiak’s door without seeing signs of life.
“Keep at it,” McLeod directed.
Outside Tudor House, a pack of reporters circled like wolves. In Tokyo, where the press had come on the scene after the participants had scattered, the emphasis had been on the ministry scandal. Here, with a public shootout and the entire cast onstage, the focus was on personalities. There were photographs of Mr. Arai on his morning promenade, of Kruger and Pamela Webb fighting their way to a taxi, of Kyle Mendelsohn, now sober as a judge. The only person coming and going with any freedom was Haru Fleming, who returned from her sorties with bright-eyed accounts of what was going on.
“They were shouting to Mr. Kruger, asking if he expected Mr. Alderman to be arrested. He said he had no comment.”
Nobody was asking Bennet Alderman, because he was spending full time assisting the police with their inquiries.
Among those feeling the strain was Inspector Hayakawa. The bullet that smashed into Mr. Matsuda had destroyed the Japanese government’s opportunity to handle a ticklish situation with discretion. Bowing to the higher realism, Tokyo had issued its edict. Hayakawa, by cooperating with the British, was to remain close to the investigation and obtain early news of progress. It went without saying that his frankness was to be restricted. The inspector’s case notes on Messrs Arai and Iwamoto were not for foreign eyes—at least not yet.
“The circumstances are unavoidably embarrassing,” a testy embassy official explained. “But an unexpected statement by Mr. Matsuda could render them far more difficult. In many ways it would have been simpler . . .”
His voice died away as Hayakawa remained impassive. It was not his place to acknowledge that he understood this sentiment, let alone to share it. The official position was gratitude that Deputy Secretary Matsuda’s life had been spared.
Clearing his throat, First Secretary Sessue continued. “In order to avoid this predicament, I gave his son a message to take to the hospital.”
“And was Mr. Matsuda receptive?” Hayakawa asked, now able to evince legitimate interest. The answer might well establish open season on Noriko Iwamoto.
But Sessue’s program had been thwarted by human frailty.
“It is impossible to tell. According to the son, Secretary Matsuda was too weak to do more than send his thanks to the ambassador for wishing him a speedy recovery.”
Both Hayakawa and his embassy believed that correct preparation could prevent unpleasant surprises. Unfortunately the tempo of events was no longer in their hands.
“The doctors say that Mr. Matsuda is now fit to be questioned,” a clerk from Scotland Yard informed Sessue on the phone.
“Excellent news,” said the first secretary, mentally cursing the medical fraternity for unseemly haste. Another round of communication via the younger Matsuda might have accomplished much.
“. . . know that you and Inspector Hayakawa wish to attend,” the youthful voice went on. “Superintendent McLeod expects to be at St. Ethelred’s at two o’clock this afternoon and will welcome your presence.”
“Please thank the superintendent for me,” said Sessue, foreseeing a difficult passage ahead.
In this he was not alone.
Superintendent McLeod, normally the most phlegmatic of men, was beginning to regard the Matsuda case as punishment for whatever sins he had committed. Twenty-five years on the force had inured McLeod to crime in odd places, to stories so thin they might even be true, to suspects claiming to have slept through critical moments. Nine times out of ten, he knew, methodical plodding could clarify matters.
But methodical plodding held no attraction for the forces that had been unleashed. The press assailed him with pleas for startling revelations. The experts concerned with Anglo-Japanese relations and U.S. investment in the U.K. peppered him with warnings to avoid giving offense to anybody. His superiors urged him to provide material that would ready the home secretary for hostile questions in the Commons.
Before setting forth for St. Ethelred’s, the superintendent was subjected to yet another round of advice from the Foreign Office.
“. . . and God knows we don’t want any official protest lodged, either.”
“No, sir,” said McLeod, keeping his opinions to himself.
“So you must exercise extreme care in dealing with Mr. Matsuda. There must not be the slightest suggestion of harassment or of overtaxing his strength. Simply ask neutral questions and accept his answers at face value. Remember, no matter how Mr. Matsuda is viewed in Japan, here he is a victim, pure and simple.”
Senior police officers are hardened to situations in which they are instructed to moderate efficient investigative procedures. At the same time they are asked to produce speedy results. McLeod frequently wondered how many areas of government were conducted with the same lack of elementary reason.
“That may make our interrogation of Mr. Matsuda less productive,” he pointed out.
“I know, I know,” said the anxious official. “Really, in many ways, it would have been simpler if . . .”
Firmly clamping down on this thought, he indicated appropriate guidelines. “You can take your cue from the Japanese representatives present.”
McLeod had much to learn about diplomacy.
“I suppose things could be worse,” he said sourly. “We could have the Yanks butting in as well as the Nips.”
The Foreign Office shuddered.
The only person looking forward to two o’clock was the man already installed at St. Ethelred’s. Tomaheko Matsuda was still lying motionless upon his hospital bed. His words to his wife and son continued to be little more than criticism of
their needless histrionics. If anything, his withdrawal into self was increasing with the return of physical strength.
However, contrary to appearances, Matsuda was now ready to shed the habits of a lifetime and replace endurance with candor. The attempt on his life had been a severe shock. Matsuda was bitterly energized by the conviction that he had been subjected to one indignity too many.
“You ask why I should be at a health club in the middle of the night,” he told McLeod. “I am eager to tell you.”
Only their rigorous training kept Inspector Hayakawa and First Secretary Sessue from exchanging dismayed glances. The very timbre of Matsuda’s voice suggested emotional recklessness.
“Glad to hear it,” said McLeod laconically.
Although supine, Matsuda seemed to draw himself up. “In the course of my duties here, it is vital for me to maintain close contact with my office at MITI, often by fax. So I had occasion to stop by the station in the hotel—to gather important material that I was expecting.”
McLeod, Hayakawa, and Sessue were about as dissimilar as three men could be. Nevertheless they all registered the same cautionary note. With his phalanx of flunkies, why should Matsuda have been running his own errands?
Incongruous or not, his story tumbled out.
“. . . While I stood waiting, what should I happen to discover but a note carelessly left on the desk. Quite casually I glanced at it—and to my astonishment I found a message, purporting to come from me. A rendezvous, if you can believe it, to meet Bennet Alderman. Late, late at night!”
The mere memory enraged Matsuda so much that he missed audience impatience.
“I determined to learn who was misusing my name and for what purpose,” he continued with hauteur. “The very nature of the meeting—after midnight and in such unsuitable surroundings—suggested furtive and possibly criminal dealings. I considered it my duty to expose the impostor.”
His defiance invited challenge, but none was forthcoming. McLeod, who knew all about the visits of the younger Matsuda, realized that this testimony might be hand-tailored to accord with Bennet Alderman’s story. Orders, however, are orders. He was supposed to accept any answers, no matter how farfetched.
“Go on,” he invited.
But Matsuda’s recital had effectively ended. He remembered emerging into a deserted corridor and opening the door to the pool. After that, all was confusion. There had been a loud noise, intolerable pain, then blankness.
Secretary Sessue had armed himself with medical support. “The doctors say this is quite a common response. Trauma, I believe they call it.”
“Yes,” said McLeod uncommittally, noting that Matsuda’s attention had wandered.
“. . . as I am sure Inspector Hayakawa’s experience will confirm,” Sessue prattled on.
McLeod made no pretense of caring about Hayakawa’s experience.
“Mr. Matsuda,” he said, “this note you—er—happened to come across. We didn’t find any sign of it.”
Matsuda was listening after all. “Naturally I destroyed it at once. As the message was totally invalid, I deemed it necessary to ensure that it did not fall into other hands.”
“I see. You did not feel it desirable to inform Mr. Alderman of this invalidity?”
In spite of being flat on his back, wearing inappropriate attire, Matsuda sounded every inch the civil servant.
“I carefully considered the available alternatives. In my view it was imperative that the meeting take place in order that the identity of the impostor should be discovered. I had no assurance that I could rely on the cooperation of Mr. Alderman.”
McLeod, knowing that he was now on thin ice, proceeded cautiously. “Very well. But what about notifying the authorities? It isn’t as if you had to report to us. You had Inspector Hayakawa here, at your beck and call.”
Constraint descended like a fog. Then, in a dead heat, the Japanese all spoke:
“I must protest—” Sessue began hotly.
“. . . limited jurisdiction,” Hayakawa declared.
“The situation has been made very complicated for me by earlier events,” said Matsuda, with a wary look at Sessue.
McLeod blinked. “No offense intended,” he said, “but tell me, what do you mean about very complicated, Mr. Matsuda?”
To the great relief of Inspector Hayakawa and Sessue, St. Ethelred’s intervened.
“I’m afraid that’s all the time we can allow now. Mr. Matsuda needs his rest.”
“Fine, fine” said McLeod genially. “We’ll just all have to come back tomorrow, then.”
“. . . So despite everything, it’s beginning to look as if Bennet may be telling the truth,” said Carl Kruger a day later.
“Before I believed Bennet I’d need a lot of confirmation,” said Audrey.
Pamela, in the Kruger suite with them, looked up from the newspapers she was reading. “Apparently Matsuda’s provided it, Audrey. I admit the whole story’s weird, but it seems to be holding together. At least the press is beginning to back off Bennet. Unfortunately they’re still fascinated by the shooting.”
While Pamela, Don Hodiak, and Carl struggled to go on about their business, Audrey had remained at the hotel.
“And I’m getting cabin fever,” she complained.
“Going to Grosvenor Square with me wouldn’t have given you much joy,” Carl told her. “The reporters who aren’t circling the fort here are camped out in front of the embassy.”
Nevertheless the embassy was proving to be a more reliable source of official information than the newspapers. Kruger was getting fully briefed.
“. . . and I’ll bet Arai is too,” he said reflectively. “And probably Iwamoto as well. God, the Japanese must be going crazy trying to figure out what the hell is happening.”
Pamela remained more positive. “Let’s hope that Mr. Arai already knows. At least he understands the politics involved and how MITI is likely to react.”
But hope was not enough for Kruger. “We’re doing more than that,” he announced. “I want you to go right up to Birmingham.”
“Why on earth?” she demanded.
“Look, we were on a pretty even keel, counting down to Ali’s presentation,” he said. “Then Matsuda gets shot, and Bennet’s detained. And we’re back in the mud. Well, by God, I’m not going to let them screw Lackawanna again.”
“I read what you told the Financial Times,” Pamela said dryly. “But, Carl—”
He did not let her finish. “Naturally we’ve postponed Ali’s big show until the smoke clears,” he said. “It wouldn’t look right to forge on as if nothing had happened. Besides, the Japanese need time to get their act together. But meanwhile I’m not going to let us sit here twiddling our thumbs. So here’s the scenario. I’ll stay here in London to show sympathy and incidentally stand by Bennet. That shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”
“When you’ll need me,” Pamela argued. “You just said this is where everything is happening.”
“No, I need you in Birmingham, keeping Ali up to speed,” he responded. “MR has to be just as sharp as if we were right on schedule. Somebody has to go, and that somebody is you.”
“What about Don?” she replied, casting around for another objection.
“Don’t be silly,” Kruger said baldly. “You know how Don feels about the whole project. You get up there tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
His tone made her flush angrily. “All right, all right,” she said with resentment. “I’ll check back with you before 1 leave.”
She was storming out when Audrey called after her: “Be sure you do that, Pamela.”
“It isn’t as if she cares what happens to Bennet,” she said. “Why do you suppose it makes her so mad to have to go to Birmingham?”
Audrey’s brightness remained when she was left alone with her husband.
“Who knows?” he replied abruptly.
Being a wise woman, Audrey did not ask another question that occu
rred to her.
Why was Carl hell-bent on getting Pamela out of town?
Chapter 27
Mr. Matsuda was still lying on his hospital bed when Shima’s day of judgment arrived in Washington. There, the original cries for vengeance had been replaced by a growing desire to maintain a low profile in the Midland Research scandal. In consequence the announcement was anticlimactic.
John Thatcher scanned the fine print before laying it aside.
“It’s confined entirely to Shima Computers. There’s not a word about the parent company. I expect Len Ridgeway to start calling any minute.”
“This doesn’t mean a thing,” said Gene Fleming, who was fresh from an hour on the phone with his office.
Thatcher had suspected as much. “Now we wait for the other shoe to fall?”
“Right. And what they decide to do in Tokyo won’t be tied to the violation or even the MR situation. The government is trying to stay in power by painting Shima as black as possible, then clobbering them.”
“All right, that’s what the government wants to do. Will they succeed?”
“It won’t be easy now they’ve got this attack on Matsuda. Mysterious notes, assignations in the middle of the night, shooting!” Every fiber of Gene Fleming’s sturdy common sense recoiled. “It’s hard to believe even when you’re sitting in the same building. This must make great reading in Tokyo.”
Thatcher thought this was too parochial. “Not just in Tokyo,” he said.
“It’s more than this frolic upstairs,” said Fleming, with a contemptuous jerk of his thumb toward the ceiling of the Tudor House bar. “I’m talking about killing Ushiba. That’s what doesn’t make sense to the Japanese. Everybody involved had access to a hell of a lot of money. The normal procedure would have been to buy his silence. Then, as Matsuda’s role clarified, the government remembered that he didn’t have the key to a corporate bank account.”
“Come now, that’s not entirely true,” Thatcher objected. “He had a million-dollar bribe he could offer to split.”