The result was impressive. Just under twenty minutes later, a fax came through from Yokohama. All school photographers had been told to check their records. Another fax would be transmitted as soon as more information was supplied.
“I like that better man ���if and when,’ ” Diamond remarked to no one in particular. Sergeant Stein had long since gone off duty.
Just before two A.M., the first positive news came humming through the fax machine:
Police Headquarters, Yokohama
To: Detective Superintendent Diamond, NYPD
Reference your fax, PD/2, inquiries among Yokohama photographers reveal that thirty-five children, nineteen male, sixteen female, at nine different junior schools, were issued with school photographs, serial number 212, during the last two years. Kindly advise if further information is required.
“You bet it is,” he said, reaching for a pen.
26th Precinct, NYPD
To: Police Headquarters, Yokohama
Immensely grateful for your attention to my inquiry. It is vital to discover whether any of the female children is at present missing and has been absent from school for the past six weeks. Please include special schools for the mentally handicapped. Your urgent attention to this matter will be deeply appreciated.
A woman detective who had recently come on duty told him he was looking pooped, and he couldn’t deny it. She offered to check the incoming faxes regularly while he caught up with some sleep on one of the cots used by officers forced to take off-duty naps in the station house.
Police Headquarters, Yokohama
To: Detective Superintendent Diamond, NYPD
Further inquiries reveal that among the female children listed as 212 in photographers’ records, none are reported as missing from school. Two were absent for periods of two weeks and ten days respectively with minor illnesses, but are now back at school. One left the city three months ago to live in Nagoya. All others accounted for.
He looked at his watch. 5:20 A.M. He ached in every muscle. “Thanks.”
She said, “You want coffee?”
“I must reply to this first.”
26th Precinct, NYPD
To: Police Headquarters, Yokohama
Many thanks. Kindly send details as soon as possible of the girl who moved to Nagoya. Could you double-check whether the family live there?
Maybe it was the time of day, but he was inclined to believe that the night had been wasted-a night he could have passed in a comfortable hotel instead of an iron and canvas cot He decided to go for an early breakfast.
Police Headquarters, Yokohama
To: Detective Superintendent Diamond, NYPD
A search made of Nagoya school computer records has been unsuccessful in the case of the child you asked us to trace. We therefore transmit information from previous school records:
Noriko Masuda, aged 9, born 20 December 1983. Last known address: care of Dr. Yuko Masuda, M. Sc, Ph. D., (mother), 4-7-9, Umeda-cho, Naka-ku, J227 Yokohama. Father, Jiro Masuda, occupational therapist, died in automobile accident, January 1985. Mother engaged in postgraduate research in Yokohama University Department of Biochemistry until 1985. Child attended Noge Special School, Yokohama, September 1987 until March of this year. Diagnosed autistic, 1987. School progress: slow, hampered by muteness. Above average skill in drawing. Temperament: good. Conduct good. IQ rating (nonverbal): 129.
He read it a second time, dazzled by this treasure hoard of information after the weeks of guesswork and despair. To have so much confirmed was beyond expectation, beyond anything he had dared to hope when the faxes had started coming. There were more than enough indications that the child was Naomi. Or, rather that the child he knew as Naomi was actually Noriko. For her to be anyone else would be stretching coincidence to a ridiculous degree.
Noriko.
A simple name for a Westerner to get his tongue around. Personally, however, he was going to find it impossible not to continue to think of her as Naomi, so he’d have to stay with it. He justified the decision by telling himself it would avoid confusion in dealing with the police in New York.
They weren’t very adaptable.
The autism, then, was confirmed. As a corrective to the elation he was experiencing, he tightened inwardly upon seeing the word. Against all the evidence, he’d cherished the hope that something could be done to unlock the little girl’s mind.
By fleshing out the report with a few reasonable assumptions, he pictured Yuko Masuda, the mother, a bright young woman who had given up her studies to marry, devastated by the death of her young husband, struggling to raise this difficult child who refused to respond in the way other women’s children did. A problem she probably didn’t understand until Naomi was three or four.
Was the poor mother under so much strain, Diamond pondered, that Mrs. Tanaka, who worked in the university, had offered to take the child on a visit to Europe and America? A temporary reprieve for Dr. Masuda from the stress of raising an autistic child?
How could such an act of kindness have led to murder and kidnap?
He shook his head, sighed and scribbled a note of thanks to Yokohama and, as a personal touch, added the one word of Japanese he knew: Sayonara. Then tore it up. Damn it, he wasn’t functioning properly yet. This wasn’t the time to sign off with Japan. It might be late over there, but the case had just opened up.
26th Precinct, NYPD
To: Police Headquarters, Yokohama
Your cooperation is appreciated. The details tally with the missing child. Request that you trace the mother, Dr. Masuda, as a matter of urgency. We need to know the circumstances in which the child traveled to London prior to September this year. She was believed to be in the company of Mrs. Mirtori Tanaka, 36, former secretary in Yokohama University. Request fullest possible information about these two women.
When he’d fed this into the machine, he left the station house and walked to his new hotel to get a shower and a shave. He’d managed three hours’ sleep at most, but this morning he felt like a billion yen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The first person he spoke to in Columbia University Library said with a sense of discovery, “You must be from England!”
He said tamely, “How right you are!” Each time this happened-and here in New York it was commonplace-he felt that simply admitting his Englishness didn’t come up to expectations. Something extra seemed to be expected of him: a burst of “God Save the Queen,” or a hitch of the trousers to reveal Union Jack socks. He couldn’t manage either.
He introduced himself, claiming that he was a detective attached to the New York Police Department, a slight distortion of the facts, but he’d never had a conscience about embroidering the truth in the cause of justice.
The senior librarian he was addressing, a strange, thin man with the peculiar fixed smile seen usually on the faces of politicians and the earliest Greek statues, said that he just adored the British police, and was he at the library on official business, or personal?
Diamond explained that he hoped to consult an international data bank of postgraduate research projects, if the library possessed one.
He already knew it did.
En route to the computer suite, the librarian confided that his knowledge of Scotland Yard owed much to the British film industry. “Did you know mat the late Lord Olivier once played a lowly English bobby in a movie?”
Diamond undermined this promising conversation by saying, “The Magic Box.” It happened that he’d seen the film quite recently on TV one afternoon when it was too wet to go walking in Holland Park.
“Oh, you saw it. The story of the man who invented cinematography.”
“Friese-Greene.”
“You’re so right!” the librarian said admiringly.
“But Friese-Green wasn’t the inventor of cinematography.”
“Wasn’t he?” The smile began to look strained.
“My understanding is that several people in different countries, including yo
urs, made the significant discoveries. Friese-Greene was a minor figure.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Check the facts, if you like. We’re in the right place.”
“No need, Mr. Diamond, I’ll take your word for it, of course.”
“The film was a flag-waving exercise,” Diamond went on without much tact. “Britain needed cheering up at the time. As a nation we’re unequaled at making heroes out of nobodies.”
After a pause, the librarian said staunchly, “This doesn’t affect what I was about to say about the movie. The acting was superb. Do you recall the scene?” Without pausing for response, he added, “Just a cameo performance by Laurence Olivier as the bobby invited in to look at the images being projected, but one of his greatest, in my opinion. If he’d done nothing else, you’d have known from that scene that the man was a genius. Hardly a word spoken.”
Diamond nodded. “Pity it wasn’t true.”
“Ah, but remember the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’: ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”
“Not in my job,” said Diamond. He’d never believed in mixing poetry and police work.
They entered the computer suite, a place, he reflected, that a more cultured policeman might have observed had a hum like a hedge of lavender on an August morning. Ranks of display units stretched far back. The librarian showed Diamond to a vacant position and demonstrated how to access information. “It was a directory of scientific research you required?”
“The International Directory of Research Projects in Biochemistry. I’d like to know what a certain Japanese graduate was working on a few years ago.”
“We should be able to locate it” He tapped something into the controls. “Maybe I should leave you to find your own way to the information. It’s straightforward now. You just follow the instructions when they come up in highlighted text”
“I’d rather you stayed,” Diamond admitted without shame. “My brain goes dead when I sit in front of one of these things.”
“That’s reassuring to hear. From some of the things you’ve been saying, I thought you were information-oriented, and nothing else. Do we have the researcher’s name?”
“YukoMasuda.”
The librarian keyed in an instruction. “I hope you weren’t serious-about not being able to appreciate the film because it wasn’t strictly true.”
“Don’t let it depress you,” Diamond told him. “It’s the way I was trained.”
“Too much left hemisphere.”
“Too much what?”
“Of the brain. The left side of the brain marshals facts. I’ve always thought the police would do well to recognize that they have a right hemisphere as well, with a capacity for intuition.”
“How, exactly?”
“Not ‘exacdy’ at all, Mr. Diamond. I’m suggesting you clear your mind of all those facts you collect and allow it to be receptive to psychic forces.”
“You mean tea leaves and Tarot cards?”
“No, no, I’m being serious. I think you detectives might benefit by tapping into your sixth sense occasionally.”
“Don’t give me that That’s how the wrong people get stitched up,” said Diamond. “A detective who thinks he knows the truth in advance of the evidence is a dangerous man. I’ve met a few in my time.”
“Isn’t this a hunch-4ooking up a research student?”
“No, this is desperation. I know damn all about this woman. I’ve got to start somewhere.”
“And I think we’ve found her,” said the librarian, who had been scrolling the text as they talked.
Diamond stared at the screen and saw, midway down:
Masuda, Yuko, Ph. D., Yokohama Univ. “An insult to the brain: coma and its characteristics.” 1979381. S. Manflex. “Narcosis and coma states.” (American Journal of Biochemistry, May 1981.) “The treatment of alcoholic coma.” Paper presented to Japanese Pharmacological Conference, Tokyo, 1983. “Drug-and alcohol-induced comas.” 1983. S. Manflex.
“Talk about an insult to the brain,” he said. “My brain cells turn their back and walk away when I’m faced with stuff like this. S. Manflex. Narcosis. Can you understand any of it?”
“That phrase, an insult to the brain, is faintly familiar,” the librarian said. “Where have I heard it? Give me a moment.” Given a moment, he said suddenly, “I’ve got it. That wonderful poet from your country, Dylan Thomas.”
“Not my country,” Diamond interjected. “From Wales.”
“Isn’t that the same thing? Anyway, they wrote ‘an insult to the brain’ on Dylan Thomas’s death certificate. Seemed appropriate-a kind of irony, considering he imbibed so much alcohol. I thought the doctor must have had poetic leanings himself. I didn’t know it was a medical term.”
“I was talking about these other words,” Diamond said, becoming impatient with the frequent digressions.
“Hold on.” The librarian tapped some keys on the console and an insert appeared above the text explaining the abbreviations. “S stands for sponsor, right? The research was sponsored by Manflex. I figure that must be the pharmaceuticals giant. You’ve heard of Manflex?”
“Vaguely.”
“If you buy something for a headache in this country, it’s a fair bet it’s made by Manflex.”
“And what’s the other thing?”
“I have no idea. Science isn’t my area at all.”
“Nor mine. Tell me about Manflex. Is it a Japanese company, by any chance?”
“You mean Japanese-owned? I doubt it”
“It sponsors Japanese research.”
“That doesn’t make it a Japanese company.”
He accepted the correction. He’d been thinking aloud, trying to make connections that didn’t exist, but should.
“You could be right,” the librarian conceded. “They have their base in America, certainly, but, who knows who owns it? The Japanese have taken over large slices of Manhattan. Even Rockefeller Plaza. Would you like the address?”
This time it wasn’t displayed on a screen. Diamond was handed the Manhattan telephone directory. In a few minutes he was phoning the Manflex Corporation on West Broadway, or trying to, because the number was busy. After ten minutes of dialing and swearing, he got through to a telephonist who, if anything, was in a more irritated state man he: “Who is this?”
“Am I through to the Manflex Corporation?”
“Uh huh.”
“My name is Diamond and I’d like to speak to the managing director.”
“Sorry. No chance. Are you press?”
“No I am not”
“Mr. Flexner is unavailable.”
“When do you expect him to be available?”
“No comment”
“Listen, I don’t know who you think I am. I’d simply like to speak to somebody in authority. Is there anyone else?”
“You people are so persistent,” the voice said accusingly. “A statement will be issued in due course.”
“About what? I just want to make an inquiry-”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just too busy to prolong this.”
And she cut the call.
He could tell that the rudeness wasn’t personal. She was clearly under intense pressure.
“Can anyone tell me why a pharmaceuticals firm called Manflex should be under siege by the press?” he appealed to the librarians at me desk nearby.
There was some shrugging and head-shaking before one of them piped up, “I heard something about Manflex. Their price is rocketing on the stock exchange, that’s what happening. They slumped badly and now they bounced back, only more so.”
If Manflex was currently reversing a fall on the New York stock market, people were making money. And if Manflex had been the sponsor of Naomi’s mother’s postgraduate research, then perhaps there was some reason why Naomi had been kidnapped just as the company’s stock was soaring.
He tried phoning again, but the line was busy.<
br />
There was plenty to occupy him in the library. He located some reference books on medical science that were written in English he could follow, so he made a determined effort to interpret the gobbledygook he’d copied from the computer. Yuko Masuda’s research papers were all concerned with the treatment of comas induced by alcohol and drugs. All comas were attributed to some kind of insult to the brain, as it was so evocatively expressed. Dr. Masuda specialized in comas induced by poisoning of the brain, rather than by injury, pressure, infection or lack of sugar.
The half hour’s concentrated study may not have turned Peter Diamond into a neurological specialist, but he reckoned he was better equipped to talk to the people at Manflex.
He pressed out the number again. No one was answering.
Instead, he left the library and went to look for a taxi.
The Manflex Building was one of the older landmarks on West Broadway, tall by most standards, yet dwarfed by the twin towers of the World Trade Center nearby. When Diamond got close, he saw that the two sets of revolving doors to the entrance hall appeared to be locked. Armed security guards were preventing anyone from using the doors at the side. Two young women with the look of secretaries quite junior in the firm came out and were routinely approached by press people with microphones. They said with equal casualness that they were making no comment. It had the look of a ritual that had been going on for some while.
He ambled across to one of the reporters, a woman in an oversize suede coat and white boots. “Excuse me, could you tell me what’s going on here? Is someone famous in there?” He added in excuse for ignorance, “I’m from England.”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “This is the Manflex Building.”
“Should I have heard of it?”
“Pharmaceuticals.”
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