by David Peace
The latest discovery showed thereby that the water-colour artist, who is known to have had no steady income about that time, opened two deposits under assumed names shortly following the Teigin crime.
Meanwhile, handwriting experts studying Hirasawa’s handwriting with that on a money order which is believed to have been used by the Teigin criminal, said that there was some likeness between them but declined to give a decisive answer pending a further check-up.
A fresh slant relative to Hirasawa’s suspected use of potassium cyanide in the Teikoku Bank case was also offered to the police on Monday when a conference of scientific experts clarified that the Teigin criminal did not have to possess expert knowledge in the use of the poison. This has stirred police to make a renewed effort to trace how and where Hirasawa may have possibly obtained the poison.
POISON SEEN USED IN MIXING COLOURS
Presence of Cyanide in Tempera May Pin Teigin Suspect
TOKYO, Sept. 14 – Police who have been trying hard to establish whether latest Teigin suspect Hirasawa Sadamichi ever possessed or knew anything about potassium cyanide are now believed to have unearthed positive evidence that the 57-year-old artist had frequently used the lethal poison in mixing colour for his tempera paintings.
Investigators working on the case are said to have found that Hirasawa frequently used potassium cyanide with copper materials and coins to produce light green colour for his tempera paintings. He is said to have neutralized green colour obtained from such a mixing with the white of eggs.
Furthermore, in producing light green colour, Hirasawa is reported to have used a small syringe similar to the one which the Teigin criminal is said to have used in perpetrating the diabolic crime.
Police efforts to ferret out conclusive evidence that Hirasawa committed the diabolic ‘poison holdup case’ have now entered the fourth week of investigation with the question of Hirasawa’s guilt still unsolved.
However, in the course of these past investigations, investigators have uncovered a wealth of other circumstantial and puzzling information, strengthening suspicion against Hirasawa in the Teigin case and proving that Hirasawa, at any rate, has been guilty of numerous cases of fraud.
HIRASAWA FACES ABORTION CHARGE
Teikoku Bank Suspect Is Alleged to Have Used Drugs in Treatment
TOKYO, Sept. 15 – Police authorities investigating latest Teikoku Bank suspect Hirasawa Sadamichi have come across information that the latter personally administered illegal abortion to more than 10 women, the Yomiuri learned.
This information is said to have been tendered to the police by a certain artist and another unnamed person, both of whom are well-acquainted with Hirasawa. The artist friend is alleged to have revealed that Hirasawa personally brought about more than 10 cases of abortion in Hokkaido by claiming knowledge of a method for inducing abortion through physical pressure. The other person is reported to have told the police that Hirasawa induced abortion by the use of drugs.
Should these allegations prove true, Hirasawa is liable to further indictment on the charge of violating medical practice.
Furthermore, it is said Hirasawa’s alleged use of drugs may lead to shedding important light on his believed employment of potassium cyanide in the Teigin case.
TEIGIN MURDER CASE
New Poison Angle Found; Will It Finally Lead To Hirasawa?
TOKYO, Sept. 20 – Police authorities who have been striving for some time without success to definitely link latest Teigin suspect Hirasawa Sadamichi with the Teikoku Bank case are reported to have turned up a new poison angle involving the daughter of his mistress.
It has become known that Hirasawa obtained some potassium cyanide from Miss Kamata Michiko, 25-year-old daughter of his mistress, shortly after the end of the war.
Miss Kamata is said to have told the police that this came about through her acquisition of some potassium cyanide while working as a typist for a firm in Tokyo during the war and shortly thereafter.
About this time, she said that Hirasawa frequently came to see her mother and is believed to have walked off with her potassium cyanide after she had shown it to him.
Meanwhile, authorities were said to be investigating other phases of the poisoning case, such as Hirasawa’s possible acquisition of potassium cyanide while working as a member of the special painting material research centre of the Kisarazu airfield during the war.
POLICE CLARIFY HIRASAWA CASE
Declare Teigin Suspect Is On The Point Of Making Vital Confession
TOKYO, Sept. 26 – Teigin suspect Hirasawa Sadamichi is believed to have been driven to the verge of making a vital confession at any time as a sequel to renewed, detailed police questioning relative to fresh incriminating evidence that has turned up concerning his possession of a large amount of questionable money shortly following the Teikoku Bank ‘poison holdup case’.
Chief Fujita of the Detective Section, Metropolitan Police Board, commenting on the progress of the latest investigation, said that it may lead the 57-year-old artist finally to come forth with a vital confession.
‘At any rate, the investigation has reached a highly important stage,’ he said, adding that if such a confession should be made the press would speedily be informed.
MURDERER OF 12 CONFESSES CRIME
Hirasawa Admits He Administered Poison to Bank Workers; ‘I Confessed My Guilt On Own Free Will,’ Says Hirasawa; Family Stands By Him
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, again and again I knock on her door, until she says from behind the door, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘It’s Takeuchi.’
‘What do you want?’
‘He’s confessed,’ I tell her. ‘Hirasawa has confessed!’
The lock turns. The door opens. Murata Masako stares at me. Murata Masako says, ‘But it wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t him.’
‘But it was him,’ I tell her. ‘He’s confessed everything, says he made the unsuccessful attempts to poison and rob the employees at Ebara and Nakai, that he did what he did at the Teikoku Bank for money, that he needed the money for his tempera paintings and for family reasons, and that it was him and him alone …’
‘I don’t believe it,’ she says. ‘I can’t.’
‘Well, you should and you must…’
‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why must I?’
I step forward into her genkan. I take her hand in mine. I say, ‘Because it means it’s over, it’s finished now. You don’t have to be afraid any more, you can forget it, forget him. You can move on now, you can start a new life. We can start…’
‘We?’ she laughs. ‘We? Us?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Together …’
‘Are you asking me to marry you?’ she whispers.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m asking you to marry me.’
‘As a reporter,’ she says. ‘Or as a …’
‘As a man,’ I say. ‘I’m going to quit my job …’
‘You’re going to quit your job? Really?’
‘You don’t believe me?’ I ask her.
In the Fictional City, in the genkan to her house, Miss Murata Masako stares at me, Miss Murata Masako stares at me and says, ‘I don’t know what to believe any more …’
‘Believe me,’ I say. ‘Please …’
‘I’m not sure I can …’
‘Then pretend,’ I say. ‘Let’s both pretend …’
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I walk her streets and I hear her stories, but I’ve had enough of her streets and enough of her stories, her telephones and her voices, her wires and her cables, her alleyways and her back rooms, all her times and all her places –
‘I just want to know who did it…’
The man slowly folds up the newspaper. He takes off his glasses. He puts the glasses in the breast pocket of his jacket. He sits forward in his chair. He looks up at me and he says, ‘But why?’
‘For me,’ I say. ‘Not for a story, not for the paper.’
The man smiles and says, ‘What differe
nce would it make? They’ve got their man and you’ve got your story …’
‘I don’t want any more stories,’ I tell him.
The man laughs, ‘No more stories? Bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But no more stories, please …’
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I stand before my editor’s desk –
‘Ah, Takeuchi,’ says Ono. ‘You still here?’
‘Well, not for much longer,’ I say. ‘But I just wanted to say goodbye and also to thank you for all you have done for me.’
‘So you’ve not changed your mind, then?’ asks Ono. ‘Never too late to change your mind, you know …’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Well then, I’m sorry to lose you,’ says Ono. ‘I had high hopes for you, very high hopes for you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘No, don’t thank me,’ says Ono. ‘It’s probably all for the best. I always told you, in this business there’s no room for doubters, no room for quitters. Don’t get me wrong, I thought you had potential, thought you had a future. But if this business is not for you, it’s not for you. So what is for you? What now, what next, Takeuchi?’
‘The Japan Advertising and Telegraph Service.’
‘Advertising?’ laughs Ono now.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Copywriting.’
‘Well, I hope you’ve got a good imagination …’
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, it is November 1948, and the headlines on today’s newspaper, my old newspaper, all the newspapers read:
TOJO AND 6 OTHERS ARE SENTENCED TO HANG; 16 DRAW LIFE; SHIGEMITSU GIVEN 7 YEARS; ACCUSED GUILTY ON 1 TO 8 COUNTS
In a hotel room full of journalists and policemen, of survivors and witnesses, we are sitting side by side on a stage in our wedding costumes, Masako with her eyes closed, tight –
In the Fictional City, I whisper –
‘Let’s pretend …’
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, let’s pretend that an innocent man is guilty, that he deserves to be convicted and sentenced to death, and that the police conducted a proper and thorough investigation, let’s pretend that the Government and GHQ did not conspire to pervert the course of justice, that the newspapers and their reporters were not complicit in their stories, and that everything we read is true –
In this city made of paper, this city made of print –
In this Fictional City, let’s pretend …
Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, among the flurries and the flakes, the paper flurries of paper flakes, these black and white flurries of news-paper flakes, this former Master of Insincerities, former Master of Lies, he looks up from the damp floor of the occult circle and now he whispers, ‘Let’s pretend that this city is not a story, not a fiction, not made of paper, not made of print…
‘Let’s pretend that we are not just your stories, not just your fictions, that we are not made of paper, not made of print…
‘Let’s pretend all your papers are now a finished manuscript, that your manuscript is now a book, a book called –
‘Teigin Monogatari…
‘Let’s pretend that this book has come, this book not a fiction, and that this book absolves the innocent and accuses the guilty …
‘Let’s pretend that this book ends the whole mystery, that this book solves the whole case, that this book solves the crime …
‘This crime and all crimes, all mysteries …
‘All stories, all fictions now ended …
‘Let’s pretend, sweet writer …
‘Let’s pretend …’
Now he closes his eyes and begins to count, to count out loud, ‘I say one, I say two, I say three, I say four, I say five, and I say six.’
And now the journalist opens his eyes and stares at the candle before him, the sixth candle. But now the journalist shakes his head.
He leans forward on his knees, on the damp floor, in the occult circle, leans forward towards the sixth candle.
Now the journalist blows out the candle –
The sixth candle.
In the half-light, you are alone again, in the upper chamber of the Black Gate, in the occult circle of now-six candles,
and in their half-light, alone again,
you half-whisper, you half-beg,
‘Let’s pretend, please …’
That all these words are not just the sum of their absences, that you, you are not the sum of your absences;
that a man is not what he lacks,
this city, this country,
not what they lack,
this world –
‘Lacks?’ laughs a voice now, the Black Gate spinning, spinning and spinning. ‘Lacks what? Look outside this window, Mister Writer. Look at the height of those buildings, those skyscrapers. Look at those people down below, in their suits and in their cars. Not on their hands, not on their knees –
‘They lack for nothing. Nothing!
‘Because of me! Me! Me!’
The six candles gone, the occult circle gone, the upper chamber gone, the Black Gate gone, and now you are standing in an enormous room, on thick carpet, high above the city,
THE FUTURE CITY rising, here, now –
‘But I am everything you hate,’ laughs the man beside you, his hand on your shoulder, fingers in your flesh and nails in your bones. ‘For I am the future, your future! Now …
The Seventh Candle –
The Exhortations of a Soldier, Gangster, Businessman and Politician
The city is a market, a black market, a stock market, a free market. And I run this city. I rule this city. For I built this city. From ash, through wood, to concrete, steel and glass –
Rise up Tokyo! Rise up Nippon!
You are not ash. You are not wood. You are concrete, steel and glass. I have dragged you out of the ash, through the wood to be here now, in concrete, steel and glass –
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Beneath skies crossed and matted grey with your tangled strings, across grounds crawling and stained with your severed strings, you are all puppets. But I am no puppet –
I have cut my strings!
From Defeated and Ruined City, Surrendered and Occupied City, to Olympic and Future City, in less than twenty years –
THIS IS MY CITY …
MY CITY!
¥
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a wooden building, in an upstairs office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Boss, boss!’ pants my best puppet. ‘They’ve robbed the Teikoku Bank up by the Nagasaki Shrine. They’ve killed all the staff. Police everywhere, all over the place, all over the town …’
I look up from the cards. I look up from the die. I say, ‘This is my town. No one robs a bank in my town. No one murders its staff. Not in my town. So you find out who did this …
‘And you bring them to me …
‘And you do it now!’
¥
Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’
In a bunk in China, I am a soldier. I wake. I rise. Step by step. I rob. I rape. I kill. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –
Fight! Fight! Fight!
For you, for me –
Fight! Fight!
Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I kill them all and I get money and I get medals –
But these fields of slaughter, these forests of skeletons, they trade not in bravery, trade not in honour, they deal in luck, they deal in death; lucky soldiers and dead soldiers –
For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, on and on, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across the fields and throug
h the forests, on and on, over looted house and over stripped corpse, on and on, and from severed hand into bloody hands, forever-bloody hands, money passes, money changes, money grows –
Lesson #1: dog kills dog.
¥
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a wooden building, in an upstairs office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’
‘It was a doctor,’ says the puppet in the uniform. ‘Or at least a man pretending to be a doctor. A public health official.’
I look up from the flowers on the cards, the spots on the die, and I say, ‘Describe this doctor to me …’
‘Aged between forty-four and fifty. About five feet three inches tall. Thin build with an oval face. A high nose and a pale complexion. Hair cut short and flecked with grey. He was dressed in a brown lounge suit, wearing brown rubber boots. He had a white armband on his left arm on which was written “LEADER OF THE DISINFECTING TEAM”. He had a raincoat over one arm and he was carrying a doctor’s bag …’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, he had two distinctive brown spots on his left cheek. The survivors also said he was a distinguished and intelligent-looking man with the air of an educated doctor.’
‘Do you have any suspects?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Not as yet.’
‘Well then,’ I say, ‘let’s see if me and my men can’t jog a few memories, get you a few names, shall we?’
‘Thank you,’ he says with a low bow, my pills in his wooden hand, his paper money in mine.
¥
Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’
In a courtroom, in a dock, I am a criminal, a war criminal. I wake. I rise. Step by step. But I do not cry. I do not apologize. I do not speak. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –
Fight! Fight! Fight!