The Lady Killer

by Masako Togawa

  So far, he had visited this apartment three times; on the first occasion, Fusako had taken him there, but subsequently he had visited her without any warning, and she had always been glad to see him, even as late as 1 a.m. “Come whenever it suits you,” she had said to the young Algerian student, and he felt in her something protective, which was different from the emotions displayed toward him by his other victims. This gave him a strange sense of security.

  He looked at his watch; it was already ten to three. Not wishing to disturb or attract the attention of the neighbors, he knocked again gently, but there was still no reply. It was late; perhaps she was sleeping heavily, he reasoned. He decided to go home, but the same instinct that makes one try the door of an empty house took hold of him and he turned the knob. The door was unlocked, and he stepped into the room.

  There was a strange, sweet smell inside, something stagnant, reminiscent of Formalin in a hospital, both sweet and sour at the same time. He turned on the light, and saw Fusako spread-eagled on the bed, stark naked, her legs slightly apart, her hands resting at her sides. Her head was turned to one side. Could she be sleeping naked in this cold weather?

  He moved over and stood by her. Her face was swollen and tinged with a purplish hue, and there was a red line about her throat, about as thick as a belt. It looked as if she had been strangled. He moved his hand toward her fat underbelly, so pink, and for a moment he imagined that she was breathing. Could she really be dead? But there was no doubt that she was.

  He stepped back sharply, but at the same time as he felt terror he also felt drawn toward her by carnal desire. He hurried out of the room, switching off the light and obliterating the sight of that naked body. Creeping down the staircase, he realized that he had had a momentary desire to rape Fusako’s corpse, and knew that he could have been capable of such a cold-blooded act.

  But still, he thought, who on earth could have forced Fusako Aikawa into such a posture? What other man had she let into her room? He felt as if the dead woman had betrayed him somehow. But he had no idea that Fusako’s death was another step on the path to his own misfortune.

  He walked away from the apartment rapidly and met no one for several minutes. Then he came to a well-lit intersection and found a policeman standing there. They exchanged glances, but Ichiro said nothing, and the policeman merely tapped his left palm twice with the flashlight he was carrying in his right hand and then moved on without a word. Honda had no intention of reporting the murder that he had discovered.

  He caught a taxi on Olympic Street and, his deep voice full of depression, told it to take him to Yotsuya Sanchome. Sitting in the back of the speeding cab, it suddenly occurred to him that the murder of Fusako Aikawa bore a similarity to the killing of the supermarket cashier about two months before. She, too, had been strangled at night, although in her case they had found the string of her Japanese nightgown around her neck. And the coincidence went further; on the night that Kimiko Tsuda was murdered in Kinshicho, had he not had sex with Fusako for the first time? And tonight, had he not expected to enjoy Mitsuko Kosugi—this very night upon which Fusako had been murdered? He felt an awful sense of premonition, but kept it at bay by muttering “No! No!” to himself several times. After all, his visit to Fusako’s room had been but a sudden whim. If he had not tried the door, then he would have left totally unaware of what had happened. So therefore the death of Fusako had nothing to do with him, he reasoned. But in the back of his mind, he heard a voice whispering doubts: “Do you really believe that? Did Fusako Aikawa’s death really have nothing to do with you?” And the voice would not be stilled.

  The taxi stopped outside his secret flat, and Honda absent-mindedly handed the driver a five-hundred-yen bill and told him to keep the change. The driver, a good-natured-looking old man, took off his cap and bowed his profuse thanks. As he did so, he memorized the face of this unusual customer who had tipped him twice the fare. Another witness had unwittingly been created to Honda’s future disadvantage.

  He entered the Meikei-so and lay down on the bed without taking off his clothes; putting his hands behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling, a vacant look in his black-ringed eyes. How could such a thing happen to him? So far, his secret life of fishing for women had gone without a hitch. But surely it was nothing—merely a coincidence? He strove to drive the doubts from his mind, but without success. A new, dark thought began to obsess him—both of the women were his victims, were they not? Both had had sexual relations with him. And as he moved on to each fresh victim, a murder was committed. Was this some epidemic—was there a carrier stalking the town? He loosened his tie, undid his shirt buttons and massaged his chest. Was he a leper, his body gradually rotting away? But the feel of his muscular, hairy chest reassured him.

  But then: What if all the women I touch are murdered? Surely this was impossible. What had happened so far was mere chance. It was arbitrary that two women with whom he had slept were now dead—there could be no possible connection. It was all chance.

  Sluggishly, he pulled himself up off the bed and changed his suit and prepared to go back to the hotel. In his mind rang that one word, his breastplate: “Chance.”

  3

  All day long Ichiro Honda waited with mounting impatience for the evening papers to come out, expecting to read of the discovery of Fusako Aikawa’s dead body. In his office on the sixth floor, he listened to the 3 p.m. news, but there was nothing on it. Whereas at the time of the last murder he had stayed fairly calm, this time he couldn’t—perhaps because he had seen the corpse with his own eyes.

  He switched off the radio, got up, and went to the window. On the road far below, cars were moving like toys and pedestrians like ants; it was impossible to tell the difference between men and women from this height. He thought of how, amongst the billions of people on earth, only two knew that, in a flat with the plaster peeling in Koenji, a woman’s body was beginning to decay: only two people—himself and the murderer who had strangled her with a nylon stocking. He felt a weird sense of affinity for the murderer, as if they were partners in crime. There was some poem like that, wasn’t there? He couldn’t remember. He went out to buy the early editions of the evening papers.

  In the corridor, he met an acquaintance from the General Affairs Department. He wore rimless spectacles and spoke with an effeminate voice.

  “When are you next off to Osaka, then?”

  “The day after tomorrow. I always at least spend Christmas with my wife.”

  “Do give your father-in-law my best regards.”

  During this exchange, he beamed and looked at ease, but as soon as the other man was gone his face resumed its look of gravity and exhaustion.

  He bought several evening papers, but there was no news in any of them of the death of Fusako Aikawa.

  When work was over, he walked down Ginza, occupying himself by staring at displays of women’s shoes or else by standing behind a girl who was trying on scarves. Reaching Shinbashi, he went into a large pachinko hall, which had previously been a cabaret. The staircase and the ceiling were all too gorgeous for a pinball parlor, he thought. He looked around; the players, each riveted to his machine, seemed to lose themselves in the oppressive clamor. Perhaps he could, too; he bought a hundred yen worth of balls and sat down at the nearest vacant machine. As he played, he noticed a girl of about fifteen peering around the machine at him. She had single-lidded eyes heavily painted with mascara and seemed to display an interest in him. For his part, he was getting bored with the monotony of the game; his saucer was full of balls and emitted an oily smell. He noticed a man of his own age standing behind him.

  “Care to try?” he said.

  The man, despite his cheap suit, had his pride. He flushed at what he took to be an insult. Honda ignored him and walked out, leaving the balls behind him.

  The murder was not reported on that day, nor indeed the next day, finally appearing in the evening papers of the third day. Now that it at last came out, it was a shock to him. He
bought all the evening papers and took the underground to his hideout in Yotsuya Sanchome. He was tightly squeezed between other passengers and closed his eyes, listening to the rattle of the wheels over the points. The headline he had read kept appearing in front of him.

  SOBRA, AN ALLEGED ALGERIAN, KEY WITNESS

  As he visualized this, he could almost smell the newsprint.

  When he got to his apartment, he started to devour the newspapers eagerly. Perhaps because he had seen the corpse, he felt a far deeper interest than he had in the case of the cashier. Again and again it came up: “Sobra an important witness.”

  However, only one paper, and that a second-rate one, saw any connection between the two crimes. He got out the two-month-old papers that had reported the last murder and, blowing the dust off them, sat down and began to compare the two cases.

  There were four similarities.

  Firstly, both women had been strangled.

  Secondly, the victims were single women living alone.

  Thirdly, both seemed to have intimate male friends.

  These were the obvious points in common. In both cases, the papers had suggested a degree of intimacy between the killer and his victim as there were no signs of resistance, but otherwise there was nothing of interest.

  And there was a fourth similarity that only he knew about. Both of the victims featured in his hunting log. This fact, unknown to everyone else, was the only thing that bound him to the cases. And what could he do about it? Nothing.

  Events had to develop as they would. He was due to fly back to Osaka by the night plane; for a few days, at least, his hunting would cease.

  And with this comforting thought, he dozed off.

  THE THIRD VICTIM (JANUARY 15)

  The Day When Mitsuko Kosugi Was Strangled at Midori-so at XX Asagaya, Suginami-ku

  1

  Ichiro Honda flew back to Osaka on Christmas Eve. He had taken leave over the whole Christmas and New Year season. At the airport, he got a splinter in his hand from a temporary plywood partition that had been put up alongside the walkway, and it drew blood. He mopped the blood with his handkerchief but did not bother to ask the stewardess for iodine.

  He looked down at the lights of Tokyo. Oh marvelous living city, that seemed to breathe as he watched it! What did it matter to him that human beings were dying there, people being murdered, all the time?

  At Itami Airport, his wife met him. “Welcome home,” she said smilingly. “Have a good flight?” They agreed to go for a walk down the bustling streets of Shinsaibashi before dining there. They then visited a bar where Taneko was known, and it was midnight before they sat down to dinner. They had reserved a table for two, and as it was now Christmas Day they followed their custom and ordered turkey and opened a bottle of champagne.

  “Do you remember,” he said, toasting her, “Christmas Eve in New York?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “We went to Très Bon.”

  “That’s right,” he said. Then, changing the subject, “Let’s dance.”

  She was wearing a black, low-necked dress with an orchid pinned to it. She danced closely in his arms, not caring if the flower was crushed or not. They went back to their table.

  “Ah, Très Bon,” she said wistfully. “We were so green that we didn’t know anywhere else. So we went there on New Year’s Eve, too.”

  “So we did.”

  “And at midnight, when the church bells rang, everyone started kissing each other, even total strangers.”

  “Yes—very American, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but so lovely. I wish we were back in those times again.” She nuzzled close to him, and he felt her soft hair brush his face, but felt a repugnance beyond his control and turned away quickly. As an excuse he slipped his forefinger down the front of his collar and twisted it around vigorously. “The hotel laundry just doesn’t know how to starch a shirt properly,” he explained apologetically. His wife withdrew and fell silent. Once again, they were up against the solid, opaque film that always seemed to separate them.

  “It can’t be helped,” he muttered, as he always did on these occasions. His wife remained silent, her eyes showing either reproach or pity, he could not tell which.

  After dinner, they went bar-crawling again and had a superficially good time calling strolling musicians, singing songs, and drinking heavily. Before they noticed, it was 3 a.m.; the alcohol seemed to have washed away some of the latent hostility between them.

  They decided it would not be safe to drive, so Taneko left her Mercedes Benz in a garage and they walked arm in arm until they caught a taxi and drove back to Ashiya. As they passed through the stone gate, the light in the entrance hall came on, and the old housekeeper appeared like a phantom before them.

  “Welcome home, young mistress,” she said in her old-fashioned way. She was over seventy and a faithful retainer of the old school; her rheumy eyes were unblinking as she gazed at them attentively. Ichiro found this old woman, who had played a mother’s role to Taneko and still seemed to do so, difficult to handle. She had used exactly the same stilted greeting when they came back from America as she did tonight.

  “You shouldn’t have waited up for us!” protested Taneko. But the housekeeper ignored her, concentrating on locking the door.

  They looked into the dining room to make sure that Taneko’s father wasn’t still up and then made their way upstairs to their bedroom.

  Ichiro took a shower and came out to find his wife removing her makeup. She looked at him and said in a matter-of-fact way, “Darling, you kept repeating Hamlet’s line in the bar. You know, ‘To be or not to be.’ What did you mean by that?”

  Ichiro looked at her in the mirror; by now, she was combing her long, black hair.

  “Nothing in particular,” he replied. “I just think of death from time to time nowadays, that’s all.” His wet hair hung down his forehead, contrasting blackly with his face as pale as a corpse, but there was a strange beauty about his face nevertheless.

  She went on combing her hair; after a little while, she questioned him again in the same expressionless manner. “Why so morbid, all of a sudden?”

  “Well, I don’t know…” He went to turn down the central heating in the bedroom while his wife went into the bathroom. During her absence he lay on his back with his eyes open. She came back, wearing a beige dressing gown.

  “Well, after all, we didn’t get divorced, did we?” she remarked, taking off the dressing gown and standing naked for a moment before getting into bed. Her body was silhouetted against the bedside lamp and cast a shadow on the ceiling.

  Without turning toward her, he replied, “Maybe it’s because we’re Christians.” His voice was so soft that she could hardly hear him.

  She turned on her side and examined her husband’s profile.

  “You know, you are still very important to me. I feel that you are a half of my body,” she said.

  They fell silent; not even their breathing could be heard in the quiet room. Ichiro suddenly got out of bed, standing on the cold floor, and looked down at his wife, who had closed her eyes. She lay motionless, and he imagined that he could see shadows under her eyelashes. He moved toward her and peeled back the bedclothes, exposing her white body, but still she did not move. He buried his face in her pudenda and lay there gripping her breasts; still she did not move. After a while, he looked up, the expression in his eyes hollow. He placed his hands on her stomach; the skin was soft, but not as soft as the skin of his victims.

  He thought of the infant, born obscenely deformed, the birth of which had come between him and his wife. He threw himself down on her, kissing her frantically—her breasts, her narrow waist, her armpits. She moved spasmodically, but her eyes remained closed.

  After a while he desisted and began to sob—but was it tears, or was it hysterical laughter brought on by despair? Once again he was impotent in the presence of his wife, as he had been a week ago… a fortnight ago… a year ago… two years ago…

&nb
sp; Taneko opened her eyes and gazed at him silently; her look was one to kill any emotion.

  He went back to his side of the bed, his hands hanging by his side in the dejection of a defeated fighter.

  2

  On the fifth of January, he took the noon plane back to Tokyo. Contrary to his normal custom, he had a window seat. The skies were clear and cloudless, and he could see the pure white cone of Mount Fuji from a great distance. Looking at the unsullied mountain against the blue sky, he found it hard to believe that two women had been killed in Tokyo at the end of the last year. The memory of Fusako Aikawa lying naked and dead in the dark, damp room in Koenji had all but vanished from his mind. How foolish he had been to fear that he would be accused of the crime! He had been afraid of the scandal and didn’t want to get involved, that was all.

  However, he had better stop using the name Sobra from now on. He could change the name on the passport to something a bit more British, something with a grave and serious ring about it. Hume, perhaps, or Wigland; those were good names. Just as other salarymen applied themselves, during their leisure, to do-it-yourself, he would apply himself to modifying the passport.

  Well, it was time for a change, and he could alter his life so simply; the obsessive fear of being hunted himself vanished from his mind. He accepted a cup of tea from the stewardess. Next to him, a fat foreigner was engaged in the crossword of an English-language newspaper. He felt cocooned and safe in this environment—the fat foreigner, the smiling stewardess, the passengers all around him. He had nothing to do with the deaths of the two women; it was purely coincidence that they had both been his victims. He really began to believe that he was safe. All he had to do was to abandon the name Sobra, and Ichiro Honda’s connection with the murders would be severed. He touched the window and wrote the name “Sobra” on it with his fingertip and then rubbed it out.