“Did you see anything unusual?”
“Not see, heard. Two things. One: I heard the dog next door barking: Miako. He kept it up for a good ten minutes or more. I wouldn’t have noticed, except that he doesn’t usually bark at night.”
“What time was that?”
“Just before midnight.”
“And the second?”
“I heard someone on the point. The person was drinking; I heard the pop of a beer can being opened as I went by. Since I didn’t hear any voices, I concluded that the person was alone.”
“The point?” said Charlotte.
Tanaka beckoned her to the window.
The lawn stretched out to the cliff’s edge, interrupted only by the balustrade that paralleled the cliff’s edge, and beyond the balustrade, the macadam strip of the Cliff Walk.
Tanaka pointed to a rocky peninsula to the right of the lawn, just past the head of the pebbly channel that Charlotte had followed down the cliff on the morning she’d found Okichi-mago’s body. The point and the temple marked the two ends of the crescent beach.
“Teenagers,” said Tanaka. “They like to sit out there and drink beer at night. It’s a dangerous pastime. Several have fallen off. If you could find out who it was, he might be able to help you.”
The phone rang and Hayashi answered it. “It’s for you, Miss Graham.”
It was Lew. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you there. The maid at Briarcote told me where I could find you. We’ve got a suspect in Shawn’s death. Sullivan’s bringing him down to the station now. Want to join us?”
Charlotte said she would and he gave her directions.
After thanking Tanaka for his help, she excused herself and left.
She arrived at the Newport Police Station a few minutes later. It was located in a modern business district just past the Old Colony House, a magnificent two-story colonial brick building dating from the early eighteenth century, which had been the seat of government for the colony of Rhode Island. One of the many portraits of George Washington by Newport’s native son, the painter Gilbert Stuart, hung inside. Like the equally historic buildings around it, it comprised one layer in the many-layered city that was Newport. If the Old Colony House represented one of the bottommost layers, the police station was at the very top: an impersonal institutional building, as devoid of character as a warehouse. A dispatcher showed her into Sullivan’s office. Lew was there, as well as another policeman.
“Did Tanaka tell you anything?” asked Lew.
“Only about the kid or kids on the point.”
“Yeah,” said Sullivan. “He told us about that too. We’ve questioned all the kids we could dig up who were in the vicinity of the Cliff Walk that night, but we haven’t found any who’ll admit to being on the point around midnight.”
“What’s happening?” asked Charlotte.
“One of the sumo wrestlers in Takafuji’s stable—they’re staying at the Treadway—saw a box with a topknot in it among his belongings,” said Lew. “He called Lani about it and Lani called us. One of the men is bringing them both in. Lani’s coming along to translate. They should be here any minute.”
Charlotte thought of what Spalding had said about Takafuji roughing up one of his attendants and kicking a member of his fan club. Anyone with his reputation for meaness would seem to be capable of murder.
“Do you know anything about this guy, Lew?” asked Sullivan. He pronounced the name slowly: “Ta-ka-fu-ji.”
“No, but Miss Graham does,” said Lew.
“Only what I learned about him from Spalding Smith during the sumo tournament.”
“That’s more than I know,” said Sullivan.
“He was Shawn’s rival,” Charlotte replied. “They’ve been on parallel paths during most of their sumo careers, but recently Shawn jumped ahead. Shawn won his last official tournament—he won the Newport tournament too, but that wasn’t an official tournament. If he’d been alive to win the next official tournament, he would have been promoted to grand champion, the highest rank in sumo.”
“Were they friendly rivals or unfriendly?”
“Unfriendly, I gather. Takafuji didn’t like the fact that an American beat him at the national sport.” She proceeded to relate some of the incidents Spalding had told her about. “There’s something else, too.” She continued; “When I visited Shawn, I noticed a topknot sitting on a table. When I asked him about it, he told me that he got one in the mail before every tournament.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Sullivan.
“It was a form of malicious mischief, like sending a retirement card to a boss you hate before he’s ready to retire, only much more vicious than that, of course. Shawn said he suspected Takafuji of being the sender.”
Sullivan nodded.
A second later, the door opened and a policeman entered with Lani and Takafuji. Lani was wearing a voluminous kimono, Takafuji gray sweat pants and a blinding yellow “I love Newport” T-shirt. Takafuji reeked of the sweet-smelling pommade that was used to hold his heavily oiled topknot in place.
Sullivan greeted them and invited them to take a seat in a pair of folding chairs. Next to them, the burly detective-captain looked like a midget.
As the sumo wrestlers settled into their seats—the chairs seemingly incapable of supporting their enormous weight—Sullivan lifted a long, trunklike lacquered wicker box decorated with Japanese characters onto his desk. He used handkerchiefs to avoid getting his fingerprints on the wicker.
“The sumo wrestlers keep their stuff in these wicker trunks,” he explained. “This is Takafuji’s.” He opened the lid and removed a small cardboard box, which he set on his desk. Then he lifted the cover.
Inside lay a dark, glistening topknot. The end that had been closest to the scalp was loose and the tips of the hairs were coated with blood. At the sight of it, tears began to roll down the fleshy, pockmarked cheeks of the sweet-faced Hawaiian. He wiped them away with a fist the size of a small ham.
According to Spalding, Lani was prone to such emotional displays. Although it wasn’t in accordance with the sumo creed, this emotionalism was one aspect of his personality that had endeared him to the Japanese.
“Ask him how it got there,” Sullivan commanded.
Takafuji sat patiently in his chair, the fabric of his T-shirt straining under the pressure of his breasts.
Lani translated the question for Takafuji, who replied with a long answer in Japanese, accompanied by many hand gestures.
“He says he doesn’t know,” Lani replied. “His attendant found it in his room while Takafuji was eating his chanko-nabe.”
“Chanko-nabe?”
Lani explained that it was a hearty fish and vegetable stew that sumo wrestlers eat at their midday meal; on that day, it had been taken communal style in one of the motel’s function rooms.
“Was there anyone else staying in Takafuji’s room?”
Lani translated the question.
Takafuji shook his head. If being questioned as a possible murder suspect upset him, he didn’t show it. His face betrayed no emotion except maybe meanness. Beneath the straight black line of his eyebrows, his high cheekbones reduced his eyes to slits, and his thin, narrow mouth was turned down at the corners.
“Ask him where he was at the time of Hendrickson’s murder,” said Sullivan. “We estimate that he was killed around eleven.”
Again, Lani translated. “He says he was playing Space Invaders from ten until noon,” Lani replied after Takafuji had answered. “He says he likes to play Space Invaders. It helps him to condition his fighting spirit,” he added with an uncharacteristic note of sarcasm in his soft, kindly voice.
So much for the sumo mystique, thought Charlotte. Shawn meditated on death; Takafuji played Space Invaders.
“Where?” asked Sullivan.
“He doesn’t know the name of the place. It’s across America’s Cup Avenue from the Treadway, on that cobblestone street that runs parallel to it. He was there when it ope
ned at ten.”
“Ryan Family Amusements,” said Sullivan. He looked up the number in the phone book and dialed. “This is Detective-Captain Sullivan from the Newport police,” he said. “Did you have a sumo wrestler in there earlier this morning?” He listened for the reply, and then nodded. “What time did he leave?”
One thing about a three hundred and eighteen pound sumo wrestler was that he was easy to pick out in a crowd, especially a crowd of American teenagers playing video games.
“Thanks,” said Sullivan as he hung up the phone. “They say he was there all morning.” He turned to his assistant. “Have the guy at Ryan ID him. Then dust his room for fingerprints. Check with the staff: the desk clerks, the chambermaids. Find out if they saw anyone hanging around the room.”
Takafuji asked a question.
“He wants to know if he’s in the clear,” said Lani.
“Yup,” said Sullivan, giving him the thumbs-up sign.
The giant wrestler leaned back with a grunt of smug satisfaction.
“But he’s not off the hook yet,” Sullivan added. He mentioned Shawn’s receiving the topknot in the mail, and asked Lani to ask Takafuji if he knew anything about it.
Lani asked the question, and Takafuji shook his head. “He says he doesn’t know anything about it,” Lani said.
“Ask him why he thinks someone planted the topknot in his trunk”—he waved an arm at the wicker box—“or whatever you call that thing.”
Lani translated the question and Takafuji’s reply: “He says it must have been because he’s Akanohana’s rival. He thinks someone wanted to make it look as if he committed the murder.”
Sullivan nodded. “Tell him that we’ll have to keep his trunk here to dust it for fingerprints. Tell him that we regret any inconvenience this may cause him and that we thank him for his cooperation.”
Lani translated for Takafuji, who nodded in agreement.
“When are you scheduled to go back to Japan?” asked Sullivan.
“Tonight,” Lani replied.
“I’m sorry to say that you’ll have to stay around a little longer.”
For a few minutes, they discussed arrangements, and then they all left.
“That was a bust,” said Lew as he and Charlotte walked to the parking lot. “I’m sorry I dragged you all the way down here for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing.” She checked her watch; it was five o’clock and she was starved. “Do you want to get something to eat?”
“I’m due home for dinner at six. But I’ll grab a beer with you. Do you want to go to The Ark? They have an oyster bar until seven.”
“I love oysters,” said Charlotte.
“Good. I’ll meet you there.” He gave her directions.
Charlotte picked up the thread of their conversation where she had dropped it. They were sitting at the brass-and-mahogany bar at The Ark, a favorite hangout of the Newport sailing crowd: “All the oysters you can eat until seven for a quarter each.” A quartet in the corner played classic jazz.
“It wasn’t a bust,” she said as she dipped another oyster in cocktail sauce, and then swallowed it whole. “I think Shawn may have been killed because of Takafuji, if not by him.”
“What do you mean?”
She described her meeting with Tanaka and explained about Yoshino Electronics’ sponsorship of Takafuji.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” said Lew. “Tanaka might have had Shawn killed to advance the career of his protégé.”
“Or his right-hand man might have had Shawn killed,” she said. She told him about Hayashi’s “Stop Akanohana” sign.
But despite what she said, she had doubts. She still suspected that Shawn’s death had something to do with Okichi-mago’s; there was simply too much correlation between them.
“But then, why plant the topknot in Takafuji’s trunk?”
“You’re right,” said Charlotte. She took another sip of wine and put her mind to work, her famous black eyebrows knitted in concentration. “We know Shawn was there on the night of Okichi-mago’s murder,” she said. “What if he saw something that someone didn’t want him to see?”
“Why wouldn’t he have said anything to you?”
“Maybe he didn’t know that he saw it.”
A bartender cleared away the empty glasses. “Can I get you a refill?” he asked. Then he looked up. “Hey, it’s Lew Farrell,” he said. He reached a hand over the bar. “How’re ya doin’, old man?”
“Good, good,” Lew replied. “And yourself?”
“Hangin’ in there, I guess,” he said. “Business is slow this year. I fill in here when I get the chance. Make some extra bucks. What can I get you?”
“Another glass of wine for Miss Graham and another beer for me.”
“Coming right up,” said the bartender, disappearing around the other side of the oval bar.
“Do you know everybody in town?” asked Charlotte.
“Just about,” Lew replied, with a broad smile. He was a man who clearly enjoyed his role in local politics.
The bartender returned in a minute with their drinks.
“Hey, I see Bastet’s in town,” said Lew. Lew explained to Charlotte that he and the bartender, whose name was Pete, had often sailed on the Bastet with Billy.
“Yeah,” Pete replied as he dried some glasses and then hung them upside down in the rack that was suspended over the bar. “She’s up here for the classic yacht regatta. But I hear she’s staying.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s up for sale, and Billy says he’s buying her back. Says he’s going to charter her out of Newport in the summer, Tortola in the winter. But you know and I know that what he says he’ll do and what he does aren’t always the same thing. He just left here a few minutes ago. ‘A cat always returns to its favorite keeper,’ he said. But I’ve been hearing that line for years.”
“I know what you mean. What’s he planning to use for money?” asked Lew. “His good looks?”
“Hey, he’s gotten pretty far with his good looks,” said the bartender, with a knowing grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows.
Charlotte assumed he was referring to rich women.
“An inheritance from a rich uncle in California, he says.” The bartender raised his hands. “Hey, it’s none of my business, but if he has enough dough to buy a seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar boat, I wish to hell he’d pay me back the six hundred and fifty bucks I loaned him last month to help him buy a used car.” With that, he left to attend to some other customers.
“Lew, I have an idea,” said Charlotte once the bartender was out of earshot. She looked around at the crowded pub. “Is it safe to talk in here?”
“Not unless you want something to be all over town in five minutes.”
“Then let’s go.”
They finished their drinks and left. Outside, they stood by Lew’s car, which was parked next to The Ark in a spot that appeared to be legal. Charlotte was impressed. Finding a parking spot in downtown Newport at the height of the season was close to impossible. After cruising around for fifteen minutes, she had finally had to pay seven dollars to park in a lot.
“You even know all the parking spaces,” she teased.
“In this town, knowing where the parking spaces are is an essential survival skill. Well, what is it?”
“If Billy was due to inherit that much money from a rich uncle in California, I think I would have heard about it from Connie.”
“Then where do you think he got it?”
“I thought you said Billy was an innocent,” she teased.
“I did. But even I can be wrong.”
“I can think of a couple of possibilities,” she replied in answer to Lew’s question. “A)—which is the most unlikely one: somebody paid Billy to kill Shawn and make it look like Takafuji did it.”
Lew shook his head. “Billy couldn’t plan his next five minutes, much less a murder. To say nothing of the fact that he doesn’t have the guts
for it. Scratch that idea. What’s B?”
“B) Billy was witness to a murder—either Okichi-mago’s or Shawn’s—and is blackmailing the murderer. The only trouble with that theory is that, if it were true, I’d expect him to be more discreet about his newfound money.”
Lew shook his head. “Not Billy. Billy is constitutionally incapable of keeping his mouth shut. But the inheritance story is a good cover-up. People are coming into big inheritances all the time in this town.”
A motorcycle raced around the corner, the noise of its engine temporarily ruling out the possibility of conversation.
“I’m willing to hazard a guess that the blackmail victim is Tanaka,” Charlotte continued once the motorcycle had passed. “He’s got the bucks, and he’s the only likely suspect we have left. Paul also has the bucks, but he was somewhere else at the time. Did the police check that out, by the way?”
“Yeah. Billy was right; he was at the Marriott. A desk clerk who knows him by sight remembered seeing him come in, and he admitted to being there after the police put some pressure on him.” He switched back to the subject of Billy: “But how do we find out if Billy’s really the blackmailer?”
“First we have to find out if he’s telling the truth. From what you say, he has a pretty high bullshit index.”
“This is true,” said Lew.
“One of us could pose as a yacht buyer.”
“One of us would have to be you,” said Lew. “If the color of my, skin alone doesn’t make me suspect as a potential yacht buyer, anyone in town is going to know that I can’t afford to buy a boat for that kind of money.”
“But you know all about boats,” Charlotte protested. “I don’t know the first thing about them.”
“I’ll fill you in.”
Charlotte had nearly forgotten. The Black Ships Festival closing ceremonies were to be held at seven at Perry’s tomb in the Island Cemetery and she was supposed to be there. After saying goodbye to Lew, she drove out to the cemetery, which was fittingly located on Farewell Street.
Murder on the Cliff Page 20
