“Did she give you the impression of being disguised?”
“Not at all. A white uniform in a hospital is most natural, after all, so I thought nothing of it.”
“But didn’t you think it a bit peculiar—coming from so far to collect semen?”
“Not really—she could have used a taxi.”
“Do you usually keep donations so secret?”
“Our professor tells us to. And it’s an important principle, don’t you agree? Can I go now? Frankly, by nature I don’t like discussing things that are over and done with.” His face had grown cold.
“Of course, and I’ll treat everything you have said in strict confidence, don’t you worry. But just one last question before you go. Yesterday, you told me that blood donation is a stale topic and that artificial insemination is more interesting. You even mentioned an interview with a popular magazine. Frankly, it seemed to me that you were being evasive. Now I want you to be perfectly frank with me. Did it not later occur to you that there was some connection between this incident and Ichiro Honda’s case? Didn’t there seem to be some linkage, perhaps more than coincidence, between the date of your donation and the rape-murder in Kinshicho?”
“No, not for one minute. Your hypothesis lacks scientific substance.” He looked disdainfully at Shinji and went on. “Human beings are divided into secretory and nonsecretory types, you know. It is only in the case of a secretory type that the semen and saliva are identical in type to the blood. And I am a nonsecretory type. So although my blood type is AB, my semen and saliva will not show up as AB but as O. If you don’t believe me, look it up or go and ask an expert.”
“And how do you know you are nonsecretory? Most people wouldn’t, would they?” Shinji made a last effort to catch him out.
“We were experimenting in the forensic lab at university, and they used a cigarette butt that I had smoked. Do you know that you can detect a saliva type from one-third of a postage stamp that someone has licked? So that’s how I know.” And without further ceremony he turned away from Shinji, hurrying down the corridor with long strides.
Could this really be true? Could the semen found in the body of Kimiko Tsuda not belong to Yamazaki after all? So was he wrong in his theory about the woman with a mole who collected samples of AB Rh-negative blood and sperm? His supposition, which had seemed to be 99 percent probable, seemed on the point of collapse. But then, why would the woman with the mole bother to collect Yamazaki’s semen?
Shinji felt that he was still blundering in the dark.
2
Shinji came to the end of his report, but even then the old man did not raise his hooded eyes. He was gazing down at the scrap of paper that the Turkish bath girl had given to Tanikawa, tapping it absently with his fingertip. Was the old man silent because the case had turned out to be as he had expected? Was he stunned by this or merely satisfied? And yet, was there not an enormous hole in his theory—the matter of secretory and nonsecretory types, which Yamazaki had explained?
“The fact that Yamazaki is a nonsecretory type, and that his fluids are type O, does not matter at all,” said Hatanaka at length. “Indeed, it only goes to prove that the woman with the mole did use his sperm.”
“Why?”
“Well, go back and read the trial transcript. You will find that the semen found in Kimiko Tsuda’s body was originally classified as type O. However, a later submission by the prosecution to have it reclassified AB was upheld by the judge. It was partly due to this doubt that Honda was acquitted of that murder. However, it now seems plain to me that the original assessment was correct and that the semen found in the corpse must have indeed been type O.”
“But surely it is a matter of scientific fact rather than surmise?”
“Not a bit of it. Expert evidence is often just as subjective as lay evidence. Two different professors are quite likely to come up with two different views.”
“So you are convinced that the woman with the mole is the person who entrapped Ichiro Honda?”
“Can there be any doubt? I am quite convinced that the woman with the mole collected the semen and deposited it in the women’s bodies. And furthermore, I have proof that these crimes were premeditated for a long time. You see, last night I went to a bar called Boi in Shinjuku.” The old man’s eyes were like curtains; he paused and lit a fresh cigar.
“Let me tell you a little story. One summer’s evening just two years ago, Ichiro Honda was in that bar, singing the ‘Zigeunerliedchen.’ A girl joined him and sang with him. And they ended up spending the night together.”
“Where did they go? An inn?”
“Probably, but it is not relevant.”
Shinji felt the excitement welling up inside him; at the same time, he felt disgusted by Honda’s promiscuity.
“And let me tell you another little story. Six months later, there was a key-punch operator who took her own life; she fell from the window of an office building.” He drew heavily upon his cigar, blowing the purple cloud of smoke high toward the ceiling. “And the two stories are linked, for the girl was the same in each case. The girl who killed herself, and the girl who slept with Honda after singing ‘Zigeunerliedchen.’ One and the same—Keiko Obana, aged nineteen.”
“And was Honda the cause of her suicide?”
“No. She had become neurotic because of a vocational disease.” Shinji was listening attentively, but in place of the key-punch operator he was thinking of his former lover, the lending clerk in the library. She, too, had slept with Ichiro Honda, hadn’t she? He reflected bitterly upon his client.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the old man continue. “Keiko Obana had an only sister, much older than she was.” Hatanaka’s voice was like a bee heard at a distance in a summer garden. “When Honda told me about Keiko Obana yesterday, I felt I had to go to the bar. So I went and sat in the box seat on the second floor where Honda said the girl was sitting before the singing began. After a little while, I heard the weeping strains of a violin from the ground floor, just as Honda had described to me. So I sent for the player and asked him to play ‘Zigeunerliedchen.’ The violinist, a bald old man, changed his expression sharply at my request.”
At last Hatanaka opened his sleepy eyelids and gazed at his junior. The old man’s voice began to take on an urgency that Shinji had never heard before.
“The player grinned at me in a crooked way and remarked, ‘Customers at Boi certainly like this song, don’t they, sir?’ I asked him what he meant, and he looked knowing and replied, ‘Next you are going to tell me that a thin girl occupied this seat and sang in chorus with a man downstairs. That would be right, wouldn’t it, sir?’” The old man stubbed out his cigar. “I asked if anyone else had put these questions to him, and he immediately answered that a woman had, about a year ago.”
Shinji felt as if he had suddenly been pulled from a dark coalhole into brilliant sunshine. He watched the old man’s lips as a gambler watches the dealer; it was as if two cards were about to be turned up, and they would both turn out to be the same.
“So I asked what the woman looked like. All he could remember was that she had a mole at the base of her nose, for the rest of her face was concealed by a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses.”
Silence dominated the room. What had that woman with the mole been up to? Surely, Shinji thought, the old man was right; she was preparing to entrap Ichiro Honda.
“And what did the woman ask of the violinist?”
“The name of the man who had sung in union with the girl, and also the bars that he frequented.”
“And that was a year ago?”
“Yes. Just four months before the murder of Kimiko Tsuda at Kinshicho.”
“And who do you think she was?”
“I don’t know, but I have my suspicions. A relative of Keiko Obana’s, I’d say.”
“And the sister was the only relative?”
“Yes. I read up all the newspaper articles that came out at the time of the suicide. The
y were living together in an apartment at Omori. So I’ve sent a researcher off there to see what he can find.”
Shinji drew in his breath sharply, an involuntary sign of respect. The Hatanaka Law Office had found the trail, which would help it in its efforts to defend Ichiro Honda. It did indeed seem as if there was some connection between the key-puncher’s suicide and the murders. He saw in his mind’s eye those three faces: the worker at the film laboratory, the cosmetics salesman, the homosexual prostitute. Now they had to string together the moist episodes in the secret lives of these three men of a rare blood group and so prove Honda’s innocence.
The old man had again closed his eyes as if in sleep. Suddenly the phone on his desk rang with heart-stopping suddenness; the old man was shaken, for his hands trembled as he picked up the receiver.
The conversation was one-sided; occasionally, the old man would grunt or interject a terse word. Meanwhile, his right hand was engaged in scribbling on the memo pad in front of him. He replaced the receiver and lay back with his eyes closed, and Shinji knew better than to interrupt. After a while, the old man opened his eyes, lit a cigar and spoke.
“Keiko Obana’s sister moved from the Omori apartment last September. No one knows where she went, just that she moved. But all the people living around there describe her in the same way—a woman with a large mole on the right-hand side of her nose.”
“So that’s it; we’ve got her, haven’t we?”
“No. In addition to finding her, we’ve got to find a motive, and also how the crimes were committed.” The old man showed his normal prudence.
“She must have believed that her sister killed herself because of Honda deserting her.”
“I expect so.”
“So we must find out where the sister is.”
“That may not be so easy. However, I agree with you that we have no alternative.” The old man’s voice was suddenly tired, and Shinji could see why. A person capable of the cunning that had been used to trap Ichiro Honda would be no less capable of disappearing from the face of the earth once the plot was complete. If they failed to prove Honda’s innocence, and if he were executed, would the real criminal wallow in secret satisfaction? Or would he or she—and it seemed to be she—have killed herself by then?
The old man looked up at Shinji. “I’d like you to go to the police station that handled Keiko Obana’s suicide,” he said, half apologetically.
3
The M Police Station was housed in a gray building so dirty in color as to be almost sordid. Shinji reported to the policeman at the front desk and was kept waiting on a plain wooden bench in the entrance hall for some time. The section chief who had been in charge of Keiko Obana’s case was informing the relatives of the discovery of a drowned corpse in the palace moat that morning. Eventually he came out, conducting a matronly-looking woman whose eyes were red from weeping. She had a small baby on her back, poor soul, and Shinji reflected that those who are left behind always suffer most.
The section chief greeted him amiably and conducted him into his room. But when he heard that Shinji’s business concerned Keiko Obana, his face set in firm lines and he crossed his arms.
“It is correct that this station handled the suicide of Keiko Obana, a key-punch operator with K Life Insurance. We officially decided that the motive for suicide was neurosis caused by a vocational disease.” As he spoke, his eyes avoided Shinji’s; he stared at the wall or else widely over his shoulders, as if addressing a large audience. Shinji judged him to be an honest man who did not like telling lies.
“Yes, that’s very interesting, but apart from the official version, what else can you tell me—off the record, of course.” The section chief struggled with himself for a moment and then obviously decided there was nothing for it but to tell the truth.
“Well, there’s one thing I did not make public, and that was on my own responsibility. Keiko Obana was six months pregnant at the time of her death. I did not tell the press, and I hope you see why.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“Just her sister, when she came to collect the body.”
“And did she know who the child’s father was?”
“It seems that it was some man that she met at an all-night café or some such place.” But it was so long ago that the policeman did not wish to talk further without reference to his records and, excusing himself, went over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Shinji gazed at the toe caps of his shoes and reflected, So Keiko Obana, too, was pregnant by Honda. That would surely give Keiko Obana’s sister adequate motive for revenge. How many people would pardon such a thing? How many more would never forgive?
He imagined the sister sitting in this room, perhaps in this very chair, two years ago and hearing the news of her dead sister’s pregnancy. Did she not at that moment fix her mind upon revenge? And after so many long nights, so many slow dawns, would she ever have relented? Perhaps grudges bring out the most tenacious in the human spirit.
The policeman came back to his desk, bearing a file. Shinji hastened to ask him the most important question that was on his mind.
“Did the sister have a mole on the right side of her nose?”
“Oh, yes, a big mole—I remember it quite clearly, although I forget which side it was on.”
“And did she seem very shocked to learn that her sister was pregnant?”
“To the extent that I felt pity when I saw her reaction and half wished that I had not told her. And I am quite accustomed in my duty to imparting bad news to the relatives of suicides and witnessing their grief.”
Shinji half thought of observing that the sister must have been indeed a beautiful woman to have won the sympathy of the section chief, but he thought better of it.
He glanced quickly through the file and, thanking the section chief, left the building. He wondered if he could bring out what he had learned in court; it would certainly put the policeman in a difficult spot for having covered up the pregnancy out of the kindness of his heart.
The lives of men and women are like toothed cogs; once one cog slips out of sync, it damages not merely those around it but also others having no direct connection with it. Thus, now, the tiniest secrets of individuals were likely to be laid before the public gaze. Not just the policeman—the cosmetics salesman and the medical intern, too.
He phoned the office and reported the results of his visit to the police station, but the old man did not seem in the slightest surprised. “Is that so?” was his only response.
“Well, I’ll be off to check out the Omori apartment,” Shinji said and hung up. He must do his best to track down Keiko Obana’s sister as quickly as possible.
The apartment was located close to the waterfront, and he could smell the sea as he got out of the taxi. “It’s somewhere round here,” the driver said and was of no further assistance. He had to hunt for the red pillar box that stood on the corner near the building. When at last he found it, it proved to be a cheaply constructed wooden edifice, its corridors cluttered with such junk as old earthen braziers, empty orange boxes, and so forth.
He found a housewife roasting fish over a charcoal brazier, which she had taken into the garden. She seemed to be a person who liked to talk and answered him immediately. Fortuitously, it turned out that she lived immediately next door to Number 5, which was where the Obana sisters had lived. The surviving sister had moved out in the last September. The decision had apparently been very sudden, and she had sold all her furniture to the local secondhand shop. She had let it be known that she was moving to the west of Japan and had departed without making the appropriate round of farewell calls.
“Did she have any visitors just before she left?”
“I heard that a journalist from a woman’s magazine came to interview her about her sister’s suicide two or three times, but I don’t think she had any other visitors.”
“So no one knows where she went?”
“Well, she did talk about going back to Hiroshi
ma sometimes, but…”
“Did she use a removal firm when she left?”
“No, I doubt it. There was nothing to carry—she even sold her bedding. But she left late at night, so none of us saw her go. The rumor is that she got paid a lot of condolence money for her sister’s suicide, and so she probably went home and set herself up in some small business.”
He thanked her for her help and left. He could not help feeling gloomy, for it was clear to him that tracking down Keiko Obana’s sister would be no easy task. Suppose—and it seemed quite possible—that she had vanished on purpose; how could he find her amongst over one hundred million Japanese? And there was a deadline—the opening day of the trial at the appeal court. And that was looking on the bright side of things, presuming that she was still alive. What if she had killed herself—had plunged into the crater of an active volcano, or cast herself into a whirlpool, had gone, in fact, where none would ever find her body? Such cases were common enough.
He was caught in a steel trap, and the more he moved, the more hopeless his predicament became. In the taxi, he decided to make inquiries at the various scenic spots where people commit suicide. One never knew, after all…
He got back to the office, but the old man was out. The secretary, Mutsuko Fujitsubo, was engaged in copying a newspaper advertisement.
“Mr. Hatanaka has gone to the prison. He asked me to place an advertisement in the missing-persons section of the paper—do you think that this will do?” And she handed him her draft.
MISSING PERSON
TSUNEKO OBANA. Aged 31. Born in Hiroshima city. Lived at Fujii Apartment, Sansei-cho, Omori-kaigan, Shinagawa-ku, Tokyo, until last September. Distinctive feature: a large mole, about the size of an azuki bean, on the right base of her nose. We wish to contact her urgently. A reward will be paid for information leading to her whereabouts.
HATANAKA LAW OFFICE
The Lady Killer Page 15