by Ellery Queen
Yoshiko read the report about the double suicide. The bodies had been discovered in the forest in Rinunkyo. The person who had found them was an inspector of the Forestry Bureau. Both bodies were partly decomposed. It was about a month since death and the bodies were partially skeletonized. Their identity was still unknown. The valley, with its crags and deep gorge, was famous as a suicide spot.
Yoshiko folded the paper, lay down, and pulled the quilt up to her chin. She gazed at the ceiling. This apartment was old. The boards in the dark ceiling were on the verge of rotting. Vacantly Yoshiko continued to stare.
In the following day’s paper there was a report on the identity of the dead couple. The man was a 35-year-old guard at the Toyo Department Store in Tokyo; the woman, aged 22, was a clerk at the same store. The man had a wife and children. It was seemingly an ordinary, run-of-the-mill case of double suicide.
Yoshiko raised her eyes from the paper. Her face was devoid of expression—emotionless and at the same time, peaceful.
Three days later she received a postcard from the circulation department of the Koshin paper.
“Your subscription has ended. We hope you will renew your subscription to our paper.”
Yoshiko wrote back: “The novel has lost its interest for me and I do not wish to continue my subscription.”
On her way to the club, where she worked as a hostess, she mailed the postcard. As she walked on, it occurred to her that the author of The Brigands would probably be disappointed. “I shouldn’t have written that,” she thought.
Ryuji Sugimoto read the subscriber’s postcard which had been forwarded to him by the Koshin newspaper and it displeased him considerably.
This subscriber was the same person who had taken the paper because she had found his novel interesting. At that time too the paper had forwarded her letter to him. He was sure he had sent her a note of thanks. But now she was saying that the novel had lost its interest, so she was discontinuing her subscription.
“These women readers—they’re so fickle,” Sugimoto said angrily.
Since The Brigands was written for a mass market, the primary purpose had been pure entertainment; nevertheless, he had taken considerable time and care in writing it, and was confident it was not hackneyed or dull.
Sugimoto laughed bitterly, but gradually he became angry again. He felt as though he were being made a fool of. As a matter of fact, the story was better now than when she had first expressed a desire to read it because it was “interesting.” The plot was now more complicated and the characters were engaged in a series of colorful encounters. Even he was pleased with the way the story had developed. He expected it to be well-received, and that was all the more reason he found this capricious woman so annoying.
This is really unpleasant, he thought, and for two days he couldn’t rid himself of the bad taste in his mouth. On the third day the hurt had faded, but it still remained in his subconscious. Occasionally it would flicker through his mind. Because he had worked so hard on the story, he felt worse than if a professional had criticized him. Besides, even though it might seem exaggerated, he felt he had lost prestige with the paper.
Sugimoto shook his head, stood up from his desk, and went out for a walk.
That woman began to read my novel in the paper midway. Now, where did she first see it?
The Koshin newspaper was sold only in Yamanashi prefecture, not in Tokyo. So she couldn’t have seen it in Tokyo. Therefore, that woman named Yoshiko Shioda, of Tokyo, must have been in Yamanashi at one time.
If that was so, there was no reason why a person who had taken the trouble to subscribe to a paper because she had found the serial interesting would have dropped her subscription after one month. Especially since the novel was undeniably more interesting now than before.
The more he thought about it, the odder it appeared. Obviously the real reason for subscribing to the paper was not to read his novel. She must have used that as an excuse; she was really looking for something else. And because she found it, she no longer needed the paper.
Sugimoto rose from the grass and hurried home. Ideas were whirling through his head.
When he got home, he took the original letter from Yoshiko Shioda out of his file.
“I would like to subscribe to your newspaper. Enclosed is my payment. The serialized novel, The Brigands, in your paper looks interesting and I want to read it. I would like my subscription to begin from the issue of February 19th.”
The handwriting was neat and precise. But that was beside the point. The puzzling thing was why she specified that the subscription should start two days prior to the date of her letter. In quick cases, newspapers carry news of the previous day. The Koshin did not publish an afternoon paper. Therefore, if she wanted to get the paper from the 19th, it meant she was looking for news of something that had happened from the 18th on.
He had copies of the paper which the company sent him daily. He opened them on his desk. Starting with the one dated February 19, he looked carefully through it. He read the local news and, just to be sure, he also looked at the tourist ads.
He decided to limit his search to something which would connect Yamanashi prefecture with Tokyo. He looked at the various items. During the month of February nothing fitted into this category. He started going through the March papers. Up to the 5th there was still nothing.
The same through the 10th. The 13th, the 14th. Then, on the 16th, he found the following story:
“On March 15, at two o’clock, a member of the Forestry Bureau discovered the bodies of a man and woman who had committed suicide. The bodies were partly decomposed and it has been about one month since the time of death. The man was wearing a gray overcoat and navy suit and was approximately 37 years old. The woman had on an overcoat of large brown checks and a suit of the same color and was about 23. The only thing found was a handbag with women’s cosmetics in it. It is assumed that they were from Tokyo because a round-trip ticket from Shinjuku to Kofu was found in the woman’s bag.”
The identity of the couple appeared in the next day’s paper. “The man found at Rinunkyo was a guard at the Toyo Department Store, named Sakitsugu Shoda (35) and the woman was Umeko Fukuda (22), a clerk at the same store. The man was married and had children.”
“This is it.” Sugimoto uttered the words without thinking. There was nothing else to link Tokyo and Yamanashi. On seeing this paper, the issue of March 17th, Yoshiko Shioda had decided to stop her subscription. There was no doubt in Sugimoto’s mind that this was the reason she had started taking the local paper. It was the type of news that would hardly have appeared in the Tokyo metropolitan papers.
“Wait a minute, though,” he thought.
Yoshiko Shioda specified that the paper was to start from February 19th. The bodies were discovered on March 15, approximately one month after the deaths. Therefore, the suicides had occurred around February 18. Time-wise, it tallied. She knew about this double suicide. She subscribed to the paper so she could learn when the bodies were discovered. But why?
Ryuji Sugimoto suddenly found himself becoming deeply interested in Yoshiko Shioda.
He studied her address on the postcard that had been forwarded to him. . .
Three weeks later, Ryuji Sugimoto received an answer to his inquiry from the private detective agency.
Ryuji Sugimoto read the report twice and thought to himself, “When they put their minds to it, they do a remarkable job. They certainly managed to find out a lot, even that Yoshiko Shioda and Sakitsugu Shoda had been having an affair.”
There was now no doubt that Yoshiko Shioda was somehow involved in the double suicide of Sakitsugu Shoda and Umeko Fukuda, and that therefore she knew they had committed suicide in the forest at Rinunkyo. One took the Chuo Line to Kofu to get to Rinunkyo. Where had she seen them off? At Shinjuku station in Tokyo or at Kofu station?
He thumbed through the train schedule. He saw that there were about 20 special express and express trains from the Shinjuku Terminus to
the Kofu district daily.
According to the private investigator’s report, Yoshiko had left her apartment that day at around 11:30, so it was fair to assume that she had got on the one o’clock special express Azusa #3 which reaches Kofu at 2:53. From Kofu station to the scene of the suicide at Rinunkyo, by bus and on foot, would have taken a full hour. Shoda and Umeko, the suicide couple, would have finally reached the fateful spot just as the winter sun was about to set. Before his eyes, Ryuji Sugimoto could visualize the figures of the two in the craggy ravine, surrounded by woods.
Until their decomposed bodies were found approximately a month later, and the news was reported, only Yoshiko had known about them. She had been reading the local papers to learn when the deaths would come to light. Just what was her part in the whole affair?
Once again he went through the February 19th issue of the Koshin paper. Landslide. Dishonesty in the Farmers Cooperative. Election of town officials. There was nothing exceptional. There was a large photo of the local diet member, Minister Sato, in front of Kofu station.
Sugimoto pushed aside the manuscript which was due the next day, and holding his head in his hands, he sat, sinking deeply into thought. He never dreamed that one reader’s rejection of his novel could have involved him in detective work like this. . .
Yoshiko was one of several hostesses at the Bar Rubicon, a club in the Shibuya district. She was busy taking care of customers when one of the girls said to her, “Yoshiko, someone is asking for you.”
Yoshiko stood up. She went to the booth and there sat a plump man of about 42, with long hair. She had never seen him before and he was not a regular of the club.
“You’re Yoshiko Shioda?” he asked with a smile.
Yoshiko had not changed her name on coming to this club, but when the man addressed her by her full name she was surprised. In the dim indirect lighting, even though there was a lamp on the table with a pink shade, she searched his face, but she could not remember having seen it before.
“Yes, I am. And what’s your name?” asked Yoshiko, seating herself beside him.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said, taking a slightly bent name card from his pocket. When she saw the name, Ryuji Sugimoto, printed there she gasped.
Watching her face closely, he said, with a little laugh, “Yes, I’m the fellow who is writing The Brigands which you have been reading. The Koshin paper told me about your subscription and I dropped you a note of thanks. I happened to be in your neighborhood yesterday, so I stopped by your apartment. You were out but I was told you worked here. So tonight I came here—I wanted to thank you in person.”
Yoshiko thought, “Is that all? So he was just curious. I never read his story seriously anyway. What a character to be so pleased by one person’s interest in his story!”
“Oh, how kind of you to take the trouble, sir. I’ve enjoyed your novel so much,” gushed Yoshiko, moving closer to him.
“Don’t mention it,” replied Sugimoto good-naturedly; then, looking around him, he remarked, “This is a nice club.” Next he looked at Yoshiko sheepishly and mumbled, “You’re a beautiful girl.”
With a sidelong glance at him Yoshiko poured beer into his glass and smiled. “Really? I’m so happy you came tonight. You can stay a while, can’t you?”
So he still believed she was reading his novel. He couldn’t be a very popular writer if he made such a fuss about meeting one of his readers. Or maybe he was impressed because she happened to be a woman.
Sugimoto evidently couldn’t drink very much because after one bottle of beer he became quite flushed. Of course, Yoshiko was drinking too, and several of the other hostesses had joined them, so by this time there were half a dozen bottles on the table, as well as some snacks.
The girls kept calling him “sir,” which evidently pleased him, and he stayed for more than an hour.
Just after he left, Yoshiko noticed a brown envelope on the cushion where he had been sitting. She picked it up, and thinking it was his, went to look for him; but he was nowhere in sight.
“He’ll be back. I’ll just keep it for him,” Yoshiko thought and slipped the envelope into the bosom of her kimono, completely forgetting about it.
She became aware of it again after she returned to her apartment. As she undid her obi, the brown envelope fluttered to the floor. Remembering, she picked it up. There was nothing written on the outside of the envelope. It was unsealed and seemed to contain only a newspaper clipping. She decided to look at it.
It was a newspaper clipping about a quarter of a page in size and neatly folded. Yoshiko unfolded it and her eyes widened in surprise. It was the photo of Minister Sato in front of Kofu station, the photo from the Koshin newspaper.
Over the dark crowd were several white banners. The minister could be seen above the heads of the people. It was a scene that Yoshiko had actually witnessed, exactly as it was in the photo.
Yoshiko stared into space. Her hand shook slightly. One of the cords of her kimono still hung loosely from her waist.
Was this just a coincidence? Or had Ryuji Sugimoto intentionally left it in the club for her to see? She became confused. Her feet were tired, so she sat down on the floor. She didn’t even bother to put down her sleeping mat. What did Sugimoto know? She began to feel that he had left the envelope for some special purpose. Her intuition told her so. This was no coincidence. No, it certainly was no coincidence.
Ryuji Sugimoto, whom she had taken to be a pleasant popular novelist, suddenly began to appear in an entirely different light.
Two days later Sugimoto snowed up at the club again and asked for Yoshiko.
“Why, good evening, sir,” she smiled, sitting beside him; but her face felt stiff.
He smiled back and he didn’t look at all like a person with an ulterior or sinister motive.
“You forgot this last time you were here.” Yoshiko took the brown envelope from her handbag. The smile remained on her lips, but her eyes watched his expression closely.
He took the envelope and put it in his pocket. There was no change in his expression, but for a moment his narrowed eyes seemed to glint as he met her gaze. Then he quickly looked away and raised the foaming glass of beer to his lips.
Yoshiko felt restless, nervous, apprehensive.
The relationship between Yoshiko and Sugimoto deepened quickly after that. On the days when he didn’t come to the club, she called to invite him. She also wrote to him, not the usual letters a hostess would write to her customers to solicit their continued patronage, but very personal letters.
Anyone looking at them would assume theirs was an intimate relationship. Considering the actual number of times he came to the Bar Rubicon, the liaison formed swiftly. Proof of how far it had developed was shown one day when Yoshiko approached Sugimoto, saying, “Couldn’t we go away somewhere together? I could take a day off.”
Sugimoto looked delighted. “If it’s with you, I’d love to. Where would you like to go?”
“Wherever it’s nice and quiet. How about some place in Izu? We could leave early in the morning.”
“Izu? That sounds better and better.”
“Look now, I’m only suggesting a short excursion.”
“What do you mean?” he asked in a disappointed tone.
“I don’t want to get too deeply involved—not yet. So let’s just make this a pleasure trip. To make sure there is no misunderstanding, why don’t you invite a girl friend to go with us? I’m sure you have one.”
“I won’t say that I don’t,” Sugimoto said.
“I’d like to get to know her. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?”
Sugimoto frowned.
“You don’t seem very happy.”
“There’s no point in going if I can’t be alone with you.”
“Oh, please. That can be the next time.”
“Do you promise?”
Yoshiko took Sugimoto’s hand in hers and drew her fingernail lightly over his palm.
“Okay. If th
at’s the way you want it, that’s how it’ll be, this time.” Then Sugimoto added, “We might as well decide on the date and time now.”
“What? Oh, all right. Wait a minute.”
Yoshiko went to the office to borrow the train schedule.
Sugimoto arranged for a woman editor he knew to accompany them. He didn’t give her any special reason. Because she knew and trusted him, she accepted the invitation promptly.
Ryuji Sugimoto, Yoshiko Shioda, and Fujiko Sakata, the editor, arrived in Ito on the Izu Peninsula just before noon. The plan was to cross the mountains from there, over to Shuzenji, and return by way of Mishima.
Sugimoto wondered what was about to happen. He knew there was danger and his nerves were tense. It was an effort to look as though he suspected nothing.
Yoshiko appeared composed. She held a plastic-covered parcel in one hand. It probably contained a lunch she had packed. The three of them looked for all the world as if they were off on a happy picnic excursion. The two women seemed to be getting along fine.
The bus left Ito and began to climb the mountains. As they climbed, the town of Ito looked sunken and small, and before them spread Sagami Bay, the water purplish in the late fall and blending with the clouds in the distance.
“It’s absolutely lovely,” commented Fujiko.
Gradually the ocean disappeared from sight as the bus crossed the summit of the Amagi Mountains.
“Let’s get off here,” suggested Yoshiko.
The bus halted at a bus stop deep in the mountains.
Yoshiko suggested that they explore the area and then take either the next bus or the one on to Shuzenji.
“Wouldn’t you like to see where this goes?” asked Yoshiko, pointing to a mountain path leading into the forest. She looked cheerful and her forehead shone with perspiration.
In some places the path was deeply rutted. The shades of green of the different trees were breathtaking. The silence was so intense that it was oppressive.
They came to a thicket of shrubs. Here there was a break in the forest and the sun poured down onto the grass.
