Not likely.
The smokestacks of industrial Tokyo gradually gave way to city streets crowded with purposeful people in sharp dark suits. The taxi driver said something in Japanese with a man-to-man chuckle recognizable in any tongue and pointed to a lighted sign in English saying Soapland.
“Massage parlor?” hazarded Diamond.
“You want?”
“No, no. Sumo.”
He was doing his best to get his bearings from the odd assortment of English words on signboards. They passed through an area thick with cinemas, theaters, and restaurants, and eventually came to the Kuramae subway station. Almost beside it was a sign for the Kuramae-Kokugikan Sumo Hall, of which all that was visible was a long stretch of white wall and a vast, pyramid-shaped roof.
“Is this it?”
It was not. They crossed a bridge over the Sumida River into a district signposted as Ryoguku. The heya, a building of much older design than the Sumo Hall, proved to be only a three-minute drive away.
The driver kindly left his cab and showed Diamond the door to use. He offered a five-dollar tip-not possessing any yen -but it was refused. This was certainly another civilization.
A bunch of teenage girls, evidently groupies-or whatever they called them in the sumo jargon-stood near the entrance and regarded him speculatively, but with reserve. He was big enough to join the ranks, but other factors ruled him out. The place he entered had a table just inside the door manned by a young fellow in a striped kimono with the oiled black topknot.
Diamond bowed self-consciously and said, “Visiting Mr. Yamagata.”
“You are?”
“Peter Diamond.”
“You wait, please.” He picked up a phone.
There was nowhere to sit, so he interested himself in a poster for a forthcoming basho, trying to decide whether the exorbitant rear of the figure in the foreground belonged to his patron.
The place was extremely clean, with strips of wood horizontally around the walls, not unlike the reception area of an upscale health club. He looked down and noticed a rip in his bulging carrier bag; he wasn’t adding much to the ambience.
Another hefty young lad in a kimono appeared from a door and approached Diamond. They exchanged the obligatory bow and he said in good English, “Welcome to our stable, Mr. Diamond. I am Nodo. I have the honor to escort you to Yamagata-Zeki.”
Nodo’s thong-sandals scraped the wooden floor as he led Diamond through a place where wrestling practice was in progress in a rope-edged ring with a clay floor on which sand had been shoveled. Observed by a dozen wrestlers, two masses of living flesh shaped up to each other, encouraged by a silver-haired trainer with a bamboo stick that he wasn’t hesitating to use on the exposed rumps. Nobody turned to look at the Occidental dressed in a suit who was being escorted past.
“These are lesser ranks,” Nodo explained with lordly confidence that none of the lesser ranks spoke English.
At the far end, on a shelf above a radiator, was a kind of altarpiece with candlesticks. Nodo clapped and bowed his head briefly as they passed it. Before opening the door, he confided, “Shinto shrine. We call it kamidana.”
“Ah,” responded Diamond, doing his best to sound enlightened.
“Now you will meet the Yamagata-Zeki. He is printing the tegata. You will see.”
They entered another large room where Diamond immediately recognized his famous patron. If it were possible, Mr. Yamagata looked mightier than he had in London, barrel-chested, with his broad face resting in folds of flesh indistinguishable as chin or neck. He was seated cross-legged between two acolytes. In front of him was a stack of large blank cards and he was making palm prints by pressing his hand repeatedly onto a red inkpad and then banging it down onto the stack, from which each print was adroitly removed by the man to his left The great wrestler made eye contact briefly and dipped his head in a perfunctory bow which Diamond returned. Some Japanese was spoken.
Nodo explained that Yamagata-Zeki had many fans and sponsors, who liked to receive tegata, or handprints, as personal souvenirs. They sent the cards to the heya with a small cash donation, and the rikishi obliged by printing up to a thousand in batches. With Diamond’s indulgence, the printing would continue while they talked.
Nodo added, “He invites you to be seated.”
Chairs aren’t provided in sumo stables; they wouldn’t last long if they were. Diamond wasn’t equal to the cross-legged position, but he showed willing by lowering himself to the floor and sitting in front of Yamagata with his knees bent Up to this minute he’d felt like a detached observer, but the feeling wasn’t going to survive the pressure of the floorboards against his backside. He was now emphatically part of the scene.
The rhythmic thump of the palm-printing distracted him at first, but with perseverance and the help of Nodo he succeeded in bringing Yamagata up to date on the hunt for Naomi. He was thorough, treating it as the sort of briefing he would have given to the murder squad in the old days.
Another burst of Japanese was uttered without interruption to the printing.
Nodo translated, “He says you should go to Yokohama as soon as possible. This is where the answers to these mysteries will be found.”
“I agree,” said Diamond, privately thinking that he hadn’t needed to come here to be told that. “How do I get there?”
“Better by train than taxi at this time of day.”
“The Bullet?” he asked, airing his fragmentary knowledge of Japanese life.
“No. The Yokosuka line is faster. I am to call a taxi to take you to the Central Station. Do you need money?”
He was answering when one of the apprentice wrestlers came in with a portable phone and handed it to Yamagata. Without hesitating, the wrestler grasped it with his inky right hand. Apparently a call was on the line. He listened, grunted some response, and handed a red-smeared instrument back to the unfortunate who had brought it in. Then he spoke to his helpers. It seemed that the printing session was over, because the blank cards were hastily taken aside. With a rocking motion, Yamagata prepared to get up. He pressed his clean hand against the floor, leaned on it and rose. Then he spoke to Nodo.
When translated, the news was ominous. “That was a call from Immigration at Narita Airport. The officer who saw you has been checking to see if anyone has a recollection of the small girl and the American passing through yesterday. It seems they were noticed, and they were not alone. Two other Americans traveled with them, male, in their twenties, six foot plus, names Lanzi and Frizzoni.”
“I get the picture,” said Diamond gravely. “He’s got minders.” “They were under surveillance by Customs and their luggage was inspected, but they were clean.”
‘They can get guns here. They’ll have contacts. I thought at one stage he was acting independently, but I was naive. The stakes are too big. This is bad.”
“Yamagata-Zeki agrees with you. He is going with you to Yokohama.”
This was hard to credit. “He’s planning to come with me?”
“He says you can’t handle this alone.”
Diamond gave a low whistle as he tried to imagine it. “I’m grateful, but doesn’t he think he’s rather conspicuous? I mean well known,” he corrected himself.
“I don’t think it would be wise to question his decision,” said Nodo.
“Are you coming too?”
“Oh, no.”
“Why not? We need a translator.”
“It isn’t necessary. You are in Japan.”
Events moved on with the positiveness of a basho. In a matter of minutes, Yamagata, dressed only in a bright-patterned kimono and flip-flop sandals, was squeezing into the back of a taxi. There was no question of Diamond’s sharing the seat, so he traveled with the driver. At intervals along the route to the station, whenever the taxi was forced to slow for lights, people reacted with double takes to the sight of the passenger in the back. Whatever the benefits of having a famous sumo in support, secrecy could be forgotten.
The problem was worse at the station. A crowd gathered almost immediately and stayed with them all the way from the ticket booths to the train. Yamagata accepted the attention as his lot in life. He wore a frown that seemed calculated to keep people from actually asking for autographs or striking up a conversation. They chatted excitedly among themselves, but they didn’t trouble him, apart from staring and generally obstructing the view. When he moved, no one was unwise enough to stand in the way for long.
The up side of travel with a sumo hero was that seats were instantly offered on a crowded train, a double for each of them. Once settled, Yamagata closed his eyes as if to shut out the attention. Someone spoke something in Japanese to Diamond, so he followed Yamagata’s example. There was no risk of falling asleep because the announcements over the public address system came every few moments with a staccato ferocity that would have woken the dead.
In thirty minutes they reached Yokohama station and changed trains. Yamagata led the way, still oblivious of all the attention he was getting. It was fast becoming apparent to Diamond that he would never have fathomed the intricacies of the railway system without help.
Two stations along, they got out again and went for a taxi. Other people were waiting for cabs, but the front of the queue melted away when Yamagata arrived with his entourage of the starstruck and the starers.
They climbed into the first one on the rank and Yamagata gave the driver his instruction.
Next stop, the University, unless I’ve been totally misled, thought Diamond.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Yokohama University was little different from Tokyo Central Station in the way people reacted to having a sumo celebrity among them. The administrative staff flocked into the reception hall to stare at the illustrious guest, who conducted himself in the same imperious manner, staring into the mid-distance as if to show disdain for an opponent. At the desk, however, he became animated and explained the purpose of the visit in fast, forceful Japanese. Confused and overcome, the young woman on duty didn’t appear to take in what he was saying, so he repeated it. There was an embarrassing hiatus until one of the staff, a demure, blushing girl with wide, intelligent eyes and a tiny mouth exquisitely defined in brilliant lipstick, took Diamond aside and asked if he was American.
“English. Is there a problem?”
“We are not accustomed to visits from sumotori.”
“I can understand.”
“Of course we are honored. We wish we could have made preparations, arranged a proper tour.”
“We don’t want a tour, thanks. We just want to speak to someone in the biochemistry departmenta research scientist It’s very urgent.”
“He said something about a missing child.”
“That’s right. We want to speak to the mother, Dr. Yuko Masuda. Could you find out whether she’s on the campus today?”
“I’ll ask them.”
She came back without an answer, but with an instruction: “Please, they say you should proceed to the science building and to the department of biochemistry.”
“What’s your name?”
She looked slightly dismayed to have been asked. “Miss Yamamoto.”
Diamond tried repeating it exactly as she had spoken. He wasn’t being familiar just because she was pretty. “Can you come with us and translate for me?” She lowered her head decorously. “That would be an honor, sir.”
“Excellent And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“It would not be wise to let Dr. Masuda know who her visitors are. We don’t want to alarm her.”
“I shall tell them.”
They were escorted through a labyrinth of cloisters to the science blocks, modern precast structures several stories high. The news had traveled. Faces were at most of the windows and there was a garnering of interested students at the entrance, some taking photographs and some ready with pens and paper, but no one went so far as to ask for an autograph. Yamagata’s look wasn’t inviting.
Biochemistry was on the second floor. Diamond had doubts about sharing the elevator with so much poundage, but their guide didn’t hesitate and the machinery survived the test.
As the doors parted, a silver-haired man in a white lab coat stepped forward and greeted them in the traditional Japanese manner.
“This is Dr. Hitomi, principal lecturer in postgraduate studies,” the indispensable Miss Yamamoto explained.
They were taken to the departmental office and offered seats. Yamagata looked dubiously at the plastic chair mat was expected to support him and shook his head, so Diamond tactfully remained standing also. Anyway, he expected to meet Dr. Masuda shortly, which would mean hoisting himself upright again.
A crushing disappointment followed. It emerged that Naomi’s mother was not based at this campus after all. She had last worked here some seven years ago, researching into a drug for the treatment of comas.
“Jantac?” said Diamond when this had been translated.
Dr. Hitomi nodded.
“But we heard that she is still carrying out research here, with a grant from Manflex Pharmaceuticals,” Diamond said.
This created some uncertainty.
“He repeats that Dr. Masuda is not working here,” Miss Yamamoto told him. “Her research here terminated in 1985.”
‘Terminated? Definitely terminated?”
“Definitely.”
Dr. Hitomi spoke some more.
“He says he knew Dr. Masuda personally. She was a good scientist. Her work came to an end when Manflex took a decision to stop further experimentation with Jantac.”
“Why? Why was it stopped?”
When this was put to Dr. Hitomi, he shrugged before giving his answer.
“He says Dr. Masuda had worked with Jantac for more than two years and was getting good results in reversing coma symptoms, but about this time she detected side effects from the drag.”
“Side effects?” Diamond’s antennae were out.
Dr. Hitomi had taken a Japanese/English dictionary from the shelf behind him. He pointed out a word.
“Cirrhosis?” said Diamond. “Liver disease?” His brain darted through the implications.
After another explanation, Miss Yamamoto translated, “The side effect of this drug was difficult to detect, because the coma patients were alcoholic and alcoholism is a major cause of what is that word?”
“Cirrhosis.”
“He says alcoholism causes cirrhosis anyway. However, Dr. Masuda discovered that Jantac also caused an increase in liver enzymes, producing cirrhosis. A small side effect is acceptable, but this was too much. When she reported her findings to Manflex, they terminated the program.”
Dr. Hitomi added something.
“He says Mr. Manny Rexner, is that correct?”
“Manny Flexner, yes.”
“Manny Flexner himself took the decision to stop working with Jantac. Mr. Rexner always put the safety of patients first.”
Diamond gave a nod while he wrestled with the implications. What he had just heard conflicted with the computer records he’d seen at Manflex headquarters in New York, yet confirmed and expanded on the information he’d seen on the record card in the basement. Jantac had proved to be a dangerous drug and as a result Yuko Masuda’s research had been axed.
“Would you ask Dr. Hitomi if the department has copies of any correspondence dealing with this matter?”
This, it seemed, was doubtful. Dr. Hitomi picked up a phone.
It emerged that the correspondence had been returned to Manflex some months ago at their request.
Suspicious.
“This year?”
“Yes.”
Someone in New York had gone to unusual lengths in covering tracks. Diamond sighed and folded his arms. It was a strange situation, being surrounded by a group of people so willing to help and watching him intently, but without understanding the problem. It was down to him, and he was far from certain what to suggest next.
“Does the Unive
rsity possess copies of the papers Dr. Masuda published?”
Almost certainly they did, in the library.
“In English as well as Japanese?”
It was likely.
The entire circus struck tents and removed to the library, where the by now predictable excitement and confusion prevented anything useful happening for several minutes. At length, Diamond was presented with copy in English of Yuko Masuda’s research paper on the treatment of alcoholic coma presented to the Japanese Pharmacological Conference in Tokyo in 1983. He sat down to see what he could discover in it, while everyone waited.
Inwardly he groaned. The text was way beyond his comprehension. He stared at the first page for some time before turning to see how many pages like this there were. Thirteen.
Then his attention focused on a paragraph toward the end of the last page:
“The research continues. Present studies are concentrated on a compound patented by Manflex Pharmaceuticals and given the proprietary name Jantac, and early results are encouraging.”
He looked for the footnote and found that it gave a chemical formula.
Ideas rarely come as inspirations. More usually they develop in levels of the brain just above the subconscious, over hours, days or years, and most of them never come to anything. He had kept a vague idea on hold ever since he had stood in the basement of the Manflex building with Molly Docherty and looked at Yuko Masuda’s record card.
“May 1 use a phone? I want to call New York.”
They took him into the chief librarian’s office. Fortunately he could remember the number he wanted.
“Police,” said a weary American voice.
“Is this the Twenty-sixth Precinct? Lieutenant Eastland, please.”
“Who is this?”
“Peter Diamond, Superintendent Diamond, speaking from Yokohama.”
“Lieutenant Eastland isn’t here just now, sir.”
“In that case, would you give me his home number. It’s extremely urgent.”
“We can’t disturb him right now, sir. Do you know what time it is here?”
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