Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  Of course, said the manager. And he led them out of his office, and he took them down a corridor. He opened a door, he showed them in. Another man already getting up from behind his desk, another man already looking concerned, the manager telling him, Mister Kashiwa, these gentlemen are from GHQ, investigators from the Public Safety Division. These gentlemen are here about President Shimoyama. These gentlemen wish to speak with you about the President.

  Is it true the President is dead, asked Mister Kashiwa. I heard it on the radio. They found his body on the Jōban line.

  Unfortunately, it’s true, said Harry Sweeney again. We are trying to account for the President’s movements yesterday. We understand that he visited your bank early in the morning and that you dealt with him personally?

  Yes, said Mister Kashiwa.

  Did you notify the Metropolitan Police?

  Er, no, said Mister Kashiwa, looking at the manager, his superior. After I heard that the President was missing, I spoke with the manager. I told him that President Shimoyama had visited the branch yesterday morning, and we discussed what we should do –

  Yes, interrupted the manager. That’s correct. We discussed what to do, yes.

  And so what did you do, asked Harry Sweeney.

  Well, er, stammered the manager. We decided we should inform the Railroad Headquarters. So I telephoned them and I told them that President Shimoyama had visited our branch that morning. Just after we had opened.

  And with whom did you speak?

  The President’s secretary, I believe.

  And what did he say?

  He thanked me and said he would notify the police.

  Harry Sweeney nodded: I see. And so did the police contact you? Did they visit you?

  The Japanese police, asked the manager. No. Not yet. But I presumed that’s why you are here. Because we called.

  Harry Sweeney nodded again. He turned to Mister Kashiwa again. He asked, What time exactly did President Shimoyama visit here yesterday?

  Er, about five or ten past nine, I think. Yes.

  And what was the reason for his visit?

  The President asked for the key to his safety-deposit box. I gave him his key. He went down to the basement, to the safety-deposit boxes. And then he returned the key and left.

  And what time was that?

  Mister Kashiwa walked over to a cabinet. He opened a drawer. He took out a file. He looked down at the file and said, Nine twenty-five. We keep a record, a log.

  So President Shimoyama was in the basement for approximately fifteen to twenty minutes then, asked Harry Sweeney. With his safety-deposit box?

  Yes, sir, said Mister Kashiwa.

  Was any member of your staff present?

  No, sir.

  Any other customers there at that time?

  No, sir. Only one person can go down at a time.

  So he was alone in the basement?

  Yes, sir.

  And that’s the policy of the bank?

  Yes, said both Mister Kashiwa and the manager.

  Harry Sweeney nodded, then asked, And so how long has President Shimoyama had a safety-deposit box with you?

  Actually, not very long, said Mister Kashiwa, looking down at the file in his hands again. Yes. He’s only had it since the first of June this year. So just over a month.

  And how often did he visit here?

  Quite frequently, said Mister Kashiwa. At least once a week. According to this record, President Shimoyama was here the day before yesterday, for example.

  At what time was that?

  Er, two forty on the afternoon of the fourth.

  And the last visit before then?

  The thirtieth of last month.

  Thank you, said Harry Sweeney. Now we’re going to need to see the safety-deposit box. The contents of the box.

  Mister Kashiwa looked at the manager, the manager looking at Mister Kashiwa, Mister Kashiwa saying, But…

  We cannot open the box without the permission of the safety-deposit-box holder, said the manager. Or we would need the authorization of a family member…

  President Shimoyama is dead, said Harry Sweeney. GHQ are investigating the circumstances of his death. That’s all the authorization we or you need.

  Both men nodded. Their faces drained, their faces pale, the manager whispering, I’m sorry. Of course, right away.

  Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda followed the manager and Mister Kashiwa out of the office. Down the corridor, down the stairs. To the basement, to the room. This narrow room of boxes, these high walls of boxes, each box numbered, each box locked. Where Mister Kashiwa turned one key, where Mister Kashiwa removed one box: box number 1261. Then Mister Kashiwa carried box 1261 to the private tables at the end of the room, placed box 1261 down upon one of the tables, put another key in the lock of box 1261, and then Mister Kashiwa stepped away from box 1261.

  Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda stood before the box, the key hanging, waiting in its lock. Harry Sweeney glanced at Susumu Toda, Susumu Toda staring down at the lid. Harry Sweeney turned the key in the lock, then Harry Sweeney lifted the lid of the box. He reached into box 1261 and took out a narrow package wrapped in newspaper. He unfolded the newspaper. Three bundles of one-hundred-yen notes lay on top of the paper in his hand. He counted out the notes. There were thirty one-hundred-yen notes. He placed the newspaper and the notes on the table beside the box. He reached into box 1261 again. He took out some share certificates. He placed them on the table beside the box. He reached into box 1261 again. He took out the registration for a house. He checked the address. The registration was for the family house in Ōta Ward. He placed it on the table beside the box. He reached into box 1261 again. He took out five one-dollar notes. He placed them on the table beside the box. He reached into box 1261 again. He took out a rolled-up scroll. He untied and unrolled the scroll. It was a woodblock print of a man and a woman engaged in a sexual act. He rolled and tied up the scroll again. He placed it on the table beside the box. He stared down at the box on the table. Box 1261 empty now. Harry Sweeney turned to Susumu Toda, Susumu Toda writing in his notebook. He asked, Are we done?

  Yes, said Toda. I got everything, Harry.

  Harry Sweeney turned back to the table. He picked up the scroll and put it back in the box. He picked up the dollar bills and put them back in the box. He picked up the registration for the house and put it back in the box. He picked up the share certificates and put them back in the box. He picked up the newspaper and the bundles of one-hundred-yen notes. He checked the date on the newspaper: June 1, 1949. He folded the newspaper around the money and put it back in the box. He closed the lid of the box, he turned the key in the lock. He stepped away from the box, he stepped back from the table –

  Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen, said Harry Sweeney, turning to the manager and Mister Kashiwa. Now the Metropolitan Police will also ask to see the contents of this box. But please ensure a member of the Shimoyama family is present when you open the box for the police. And please do not mention our visit to either the family or the police.

  * * *

  —

  Mother of God, Harry, sighed Chief Evans. This is fucked up.

  Yes, Chief, said Harry Sweeney. Very.

  Chief Evans rubbed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, shook his head again, then sighed again and said, So go on then, what you got, Harry?

  Harry Sweeney opened his notebook and read: Shortly after oh one hundred hours, the mangled and partially dismembered body of Sadanori Shimoyama was discovered near a railway bridge on the Jōban line, close to Ayase station, north of Ueno. Employees of the National Railroad identified the body at about oh three hundred hours by means of a railway pass, a name card, and other papers on the body. The identification was confirmed by senior staff from Railroad Headquarters at approximately oh four hundre
d hours. The family were informed soon afterwards. Preliminary investigations indicate that the body of Shimoyama had been run over by a train, though whether that was the cause of death has yet to be determined. The body has been moved to Tokyo University for autopsy.

  When can we expect the results?

  Harry Sweeney closed his notebook, shrugged, and said, Sometime this afternoon, Chief. Hopefully.

  Chief Evans rubbed his eyes again, squeezed the bridge of his nose again, and said, So what do you think, Harry?

  Harry Sweeney shrugged again: I don’t know, Chief.

  Oh, come on, Harry, said Chief Evans, banging down his hand on the top of the desk. Come on, you went out there, you saw the scene, you saw the body. Tell me what you think for Chrissake, man. What the fuck you think happened?

  Harry Sweeney shook his head: Chief, sir, with all due respect, you never saw a more fucked-up or compromised crime scene. You got a real toad-strangler of a storm flooding the place, then a hundred goddamn pairs of boots tramping back and forth. Bits and pieces of the man up and down the track, his face hanging off. An arm here, a foot there. Clothes being picked up, moved here, moved there. None of it left in situ. Basic fucking procedures ignored. Last person to arrive at the scene is the goddamn medical examiner…

  But you were there, Harry.

  Yes, I was there.

  So come on, what do you think? Was the man dead or alive when that train hit him?

  Harry Sweeney shook his head again, shrugged again, and said again, I just don’t know, Chief. But if it’s not a suicide, then it’s been made to look like one. And if it was staged, they’ve made a pretty good job of it.

  Jesus, said Chief Evans, getting up from behind his desk, walking over to the window. He looked up at the gray sky over the city and sighed, It’s a goddamn fuck-up, either way.

  Harry Sweeney nodded: Yes, sir. Very much so, sir.

  You see the papers this morning, Harry?

  No, sir. Not yet.

  Well, some six hundred union men occupied a railroad office in Fukushima. Dragged the officials out. Took two hundred police to sort it out. Same story in Toyama, Osaka, and Shikoku. Reports of some of these damn returnees joining them, all singing the Red Flag. So you can imagine what General Willoughby is going to say about all this.

  Yes, sir.

  What a fuck-up, said Chief Evans again, turning back from the window, walking back over to his desk. He sat back down, looked across his desk, and said, The General’s called a meeting for this evening at GHQ. Colonel Pullman will be there, I’ll be there, and I want you there with me, Harry. The General’s office, seven o’clock sharp. I want you to bring all we have.

  So you want me to stay on this, Chief?

  You’re even asking me?

  I’m sorry, sir.

  This is all there is now, Harry. Turns out the man jumped in front of that damn train, then we’re done. You can go back to chasing gangsters. But if Shimoyama was murdered, and we’d all better hope he was, then this is all there is.

  I understand, sir.

  I damn well hope you do, Harry. Because I want your full attention on this. I want every single goddamn scrap of information you can get. I don’t want to be walking into that meeting tonight with only bullshit excuses and a file full of nothing. We better fucking have something, yeah?

  Yes, sir. I understand, Chief.

  Then get to work…

  * * *

  —

  Back in Room 432, back at his desk, Harry Sweeney went back to work. He had Susumu Toda on the telephone to Metropolitan HQ begging for scraps, anything at all. He had his own notebook open, turning the pages, back and forth, typing up bits, typing up pieces, just bits and pieces, all of it scraps, scraps of nothing, nothing at all, glancing at the telephone, waiting for it to ring, to ring with some news, with a break, with anything at all –

  Listening to heels and soles up stairs and down corridors, toilets flushing and faucets running, doors opening and doors closing, cabinets and drawers, windows wide and fans turning, fountain pens scratching and typewriter keys banging, glancing at the telephone, waiting for it to ring –

  Fuck this, said Harry Sweeney, putting on his jacket, picking up his hat. Susumu, you got anything?

  Nothing, Harry. Body’s up at Tōdai, but the autopsy won’t start till this afternoon. They got every man they have either at Mitsukoshi or Ayase, canvassing.

  Okay then, said Harry Sweeney. Get a car and bring the papers, too. No sense us just staying around here, waiting to play goddamn catch-up. Come on, let’s go –

  * * *

  —

  They drove away from the NYK building. They drove down Avenue B. No Bill Betz and no Ichirō. The new kid Shin at the wheel, Susumu Toda in the back with Harry Sweeney. The two side windows in the front of the car were open, blowing warm, damp air through the car, Harry Sweeney staring out at the road, the cars and the trucks, the motorcycles and the bicycles, the buildings passing by, the buildings passing away, the telegraph poles, the telegraph wires, a tree here and a tree there, the people coming, the people going, in browns and grays, in greens and yellows, Harry Sweeney listening to Susumu Toda translate the news, in black and white –

  Early editions of all the papers still have Shimoyama missing, leading with what Ōnishi the driver said and statements from Railroad HQ and his wife. Nothing we don’t already know, though the Yomiuri has the driver saying they were not tailed and that Shimoyama left his briefcase and lunchbox in the car. The Asahi and Mainichi both have extras out already, both carrying the news of the body being found, some details of the crime scene – the location, the identification, pretty graphic descriptions of the body – the Asahi even claiming “it was said” there’s a bullet hole in the corpse.

  Yeah, asked Harry Sweeney. Said by whom?

  Doesn’t say, said Susumu Toda.

  You got the Stars and Stripes there?

  Wasn’t in yet, not when we left.

  Excuse me, sir, said the driver. We’re here, but…

  Shit, said Susumu Toda. Look, Harry –

  The quiet, shaded street was no longer quiet, the street lined with cars, filled with people. Cars parked two abreast, cars blocking the road, people pushing to get a better view, people straining to see over the walls. Through the hedges, through the branches. Journalists and cameramen, neighbors and spectators. Uniformed officers pushing the crowds away, struggling to keep the crowds at bay –

  Park down the hill, said Susumu Toda, Shin the driver nodding, going down the hill, all the way down the hill, to pull up and then park. Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda got out of the car. They took out their handkerchiefs, they wiped their necks. They put away their handkerchiefs, they put on their hats. And then they walked back up the hill, all the way back up the hill, to the house of grief, this house of mourning, its hedges dark, its trees bowed. They pushed their way through the crowds, they struggled to get to the stone gate. They showed their PSD badges to the uniformed officers, the uniformed officers ushering them through the stone gate, Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda walking through the stone gates, going up the short drive. Hats off their heads, hats in their hands, approaching the door, the door to grief –

  Two late-middle-aged Japanese men were leaving the house, the two men walking toward Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda. One man tall and thin, one man short and fat. Both men in black, both men in mourning. They stared at Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda but did not speak to Harry Sweeney or Susumu Toda. Just staring, walking past. Harry Sweeney turned to watch them go, the tall man turning to look back. Back at Harry Sweeney, staring at Harry Sweeney. Harry Sweeney turned to the officer on the door to the house. The house of grief, this house of mourning. His hat in one hand, his badge in the other, Harry Sweeney asked, Who were those two men?

  The officer sucked in air through his teeth, shook hi
s head, and said, I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know.

  You need to know, officer. From now on, you record the names of any visitor to this house. Understood?

  Yes, sir. I understand, sir.

  Harry Sweeney nodded, then Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda stepped into the house. The house of grief, this house of mourning. The air heavy, the air thin. People in the hallway, people on the stairs. In every doorway, in every room. In black, in mourning. They turned to look at Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda, they turned to stare at Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda. Eyes filled with tears, eyes filled with accusations. That blame all Americans, that blame their Occupation. Susumu Toda was shaking his head, Susumu Toda whispering, Why the fuck are we here, Harry?

  To pay our respects, said Harry Sweeney. And to look and to listen. So look and listen, Susumu. Look and listen.

  Thank you for coming, said a man coming down the stairs. I am Tsuneo, the younger brother of Sadanori.

  Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda both bowed. They both expressed their condolences, they both apologized for the intrusion, and then Harry Sweeney said, May we speak with you for a moment in private, sir?

  Yes, of course, said Tsuneo Shimoyama. He gestured to one of the rooms off the hall, and Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda followed Tsuneo Shimoyama into the room. The four sons of Sadanori Shimoyama were sitting alone in this room. Their heads bowed in silence, their hands in their laps. Tsuneo Shimoyama asked the boys to step outside. They nodded, they stood up, and they left as Tsuneo Shimoyama asked Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda to sit down, asked them if they would like any tea. They declined the tea, and then Harry Sweeney said, We are very sorry to intrude at this difficult time, but we do need to ask you some questions, sir.

  Of course, said Tsuneo Shimoyama. I understand.

  Thank you for understanding, said Harry Sweeney. We’ll try to be as quick as we can. But could you tell us when you were first aware that your brother was missing, sir?

  From the radio, on the news. The five o’clock news. I came here immediately, directly. I arrived about half an hour later. In fact, I was told I had just missed you, Mister Sweeney. And I’ve been here ever since.