Inspector Imanishi Investigates

by Seichō Matsumoto

  “Oh, really? So there were no deaths after all.”

  “It seems not. This man was taken to the hospital, but he wasn’t that badly injured.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Yoshiko took the paper and skimmed the article.

  “Do you know anything about him?” Imanishi asked, turning over on his stomach to smoke a cigarette.

  “Just his name. Sometimes his picture appears in the women’s magazines I read.”

  “Really?” Imanishi found out once more how uninformed he was.

  “There was a photo essay featuring him with his fiancée, a pretty sculptor. Her father is a former cabinet minister.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Imanishi responded. “You know, I’ve seen this guy.”

  “You have? In connection with a case?” Yoshiko asked.

  “No, it wasn’t. You remember, I went to Akita Prefecture a while ago? When we got to the station, he was there. I didn’t know who he was. Yoshimura had to tell me.”

  “I wonder why he went to a place like that?”

  “We were in a town called Iwaki. He and some others were on the way back from visiting a rocket research center near there. Several local newspapermen were asking them questions,” Imanishi said. “This fellow was one of them, too.” Imanishi flipped through the pages of the newspaper and showed her Sekigawa’s photograph. “They’re quite something. They’re even popular in the countryside.”

  “Their names are in the magazines all the time.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  Imanishi continued to smoke. His wife left to cook breakfast. He looked at his watch. It was nearly time to get up.

  Waga Eiryo’s private room at the hospital was filled with flowers, baskets of fruit, and boxes of candy. The accommodations were luxurious and included a television set.

  Waga sat on the bed in his pajamas. A newspaper reporter was interviewing him. A cameraman took photographs of Waga from various angles.

  “By the way,” the reporter asked, looking around carefully, “isn’t Tadokoro Sachiko-san here today?”

  “She called a while ago. She should be here soon.”

  “I should leave quickly, then. Can we get one more shot of you with all these flowers in the foreground?”

  “That’s fine, go ahead.”

  The photographer clicked away.

  After they left, there was a knock at the door. A tall man wearing a beret entered.

  “Hi.” He raised a hand holding a bouquet. “How’s it going?” It was the painter Katazawa Mutsuo. He wore his usual black shirt. Katazawa sat on the chair next to the bed and crossed his long legs. “You were involved in quite a disaster.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  The young artist looked around at the luxurious room. “It doesn’t seem like a hospital room at all. It must be really expensive.” Katazawa slapped his leg. “I get it. You’re not paying for it. I bet Sachiko-san’s father is paying for this,” he said, grinning.

  Waga frowned. “I have some pride. I’m not letting him pay for everything.”

  “Why not? Let the rich pay.” Katazawa filled his pipe and asked, “All right if I smoke?”

  “Sure. It’s not as if I’m sick.” Waga continued, “I’m not depending on the bourgeoisie. You never know when something might happen to them. After all, the present-day capitalist system is rushing toward collapse. Do you think young artists like us can survive if we rely on such a system?”

  “I agree with you. But I get discouraged at times. Critics say some nice things about my paintings. But when penniless critics say they like my paintings, it doesn’t lead to the sale of a single canvas. You know I don’t approve of Picasso, but I am envious that his paintings sell for so much money.”

  “I’d expect you to feel that way,” Waga said. “By the way, how is everyone doing?”

  “They all seem to be very busy. Have you heard that Takebe is going to France?”

  “Really? He is?” Waga looked surprised.

  “It was decided a while ago. Then he’s planning to travel around northern Europe. You know how he’s always saying that northern European plays need to be reevaluated. He wants to study Strindberg and Ibsen. He wants to create a new direction for Japanese theater.”

  “You think along the same lines as he does. You admire northern European painters. You say that the current fad for mere abstraction is over, that we should return to northern European realism as a new starting point. Who were those artists that you admire? Oh, yes, Van Dyck and Breughel, right?”

  “But I can’t ever hope to go abroad no matter how hard I work.”

  “It’s not set, so I haven’t told anyone yet, but I may be going to America this fall,” Waga admitted. “A music critic over there has heard about my music and has asked me to go to America to perform.”

  “Really?” Katazawa looked surprised.

  “It isn’t sure yet, so I haven’t told anyone.”

  “You’re lucky.” The artist slapped the patient’s shoulder. “Will you be taking Tadokoro Sachiko with you on this trip to America?”

  “I don’t know yet. Like I said, nothing has been settled.”

  “Don’t be so cautious. You’re telling me about it, so your trip must be certain. I’m envious. That’ll probably be your honeymoon. It looks like both you and Takebe are going abroad. It makes me feel that we’re getting close to the artistic revolution in Japan that the Nouveau group wants.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Waga cautioned him. Lowering his voice, he continued, “Just between us, if Sekigawa hears about my trip to America, who knows how he might react? Hey, how is he doing?”

  “Sekigawa?” Katazawa responded. “He’s doing quite well. He’s written reviews for two big newspapers.”

  “Yeah, I read those,” Waga said in a bored voice. “They were typical Sekigawa.”

  “It seems that there’s a Sekigawa boom these days. He has several long pieces in magazines as well.”

  “That’s why some people put us down,” Waga said, spitting out his words. “We’re contemptuous of the popular media, but nobody is exploiting it as much as Sekigawa. He’s always alluding to his contempt for publicity, yet he’s the one who’s making the most of it. Then we’re criticized for Sekigawa’s behavior.”

  The young artist nodded in agreement. “You’re right. He’s beginning to act cocky. His recent political opinions sound presumptuous to me.”

  “Right. That statement he gave a little while ago, remember? He acted like he was our representative and collected our signatures to present somewhere. That’s typical of the kind of gestures he makes. You could see right through him. His real intention was to get his name in the papers.”

  “Others agree with you,” Katazawa said. “Some even walked out of that meeting in protest.”

  Waga nodded. “He acts like he’s the leader of the Nouveau group.”

  They heard a knock on the door. It opened slowly. A young woman looked into the room.

  “Oh, do you have a guest?” The bouquet she held wavered as the flowers brushed against her chin.

  “It’s all right, please come in.” Waga’s eyes lit up as he spoke to his new guest.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she entered.

  The young woman wore a pink spring suit. Her face was round and she had dimples. It was Waga’s fiancée, Tadokoro Sachiko.

  Katazawa hurriedly pushed back his chair and stood up. “I hope I haven’t overstayed my welcome,” he said, as he bowed to her in foreign fashion.

  “No, of course not.” Sachiko smiled at him. Her teeth were beautiful and straight. “Thank you very much for coming to visit him.”

  “I was relieved to discover that his injury is slight.”

  “There’s no need for you to thank him so formally, since this fellow took his time in coming to see me,” Waga said.

  “My, my,” Sachiko smiled, and gave the bouquet of flowers to Waga.

  “These are very pretty,” Waga said, sniffin
g the flowers. “They smell wonderful. Thank you.”

  As Waga tried to find a place near his pillow to put the bouquet, Katazawa reached for it. He pushed aside a bouquet in order to place Sachiko’s flowers in the center of the room.

  “What lovely flowers,” Sachiko said looking at the bouquet that was swept aside. “I wonder who sent those.”

  “They’re from Murakami Junko. She pushed her way in here a while ago and insisted on leaving them. She’s been after me for a while, asking me to compose a song for her. So it probably has to do with that. She must be naive. She seems to think that I would write a piece for a singer like her,” Waga said.

  Sachiko stifled a laugh.

  “It’s not just Murakami Junko,” Katazawa put in. “All kinds of strange people are trying to use us. There are so many second-rate artists around who just don’t know their limits. All they think about is how to use other people.”

  “Is that so?” Sachiko asked demurely.

  “Yes, it is. They think about how they can use people in order to improve their own reputations. You’d better be careful, too.”

  “I don’t think anyone thinks that I’m worth using,” Sachiko said.

  “Quite the contrary,” Katazawa waved his hands exaggeratedly. “If you’re not careful, you might find yourself in a terrible situation. Your father is a special person, and your art is new…”

  “You mean to say that because I come from a well-known family…” Sachiko said.

  Katazawa became flustered. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. Since I’ve known you, I’ve never been conscious of your background.”

  “I used to be concerned about that. It was very painful for me because I felt that as an artist I was burdened by my family background. But now it’s different. Waga-san is very disdainful of family pride, and I’ve learned from him. I feel that my eyes have been opened.”

  “I can understand that,” the artist agreed wholeheartedly. “Waga’s correct. We must constantly reexamine established concepts. We can’t continue to reinforce present-day systems.” Katazawa’s voice rose.

  There was a knock at the door. A gentleman entered, led by a nurse. The nurse handed Waga the man’s card, which indicated the magazine he represented.

  “Please accept my sympathies for your recent accident.” He had brought a basket of fruit.

  “Thank you.” Waga turned to face his new guest.

  Katazawa stepped aside. Sachiko helped Waga move to a chair.

  “I’ve come about the matter we arranged before your injury. We would be happy with just some informal comments. Could I trouble you for ten or twenty minutes? I’m sorry to have come while you are still recovering, but our deadline is pressing.”

  The topic was “On New Art.” The editor took down what Waga said, nodding and making agreeable responses. Finally, he stood up and bowed to Waga.

  “Thank you very much. We also include brief biographical sketches of our contributors. Could I ask you for yours as well? An abbreviated one is fine. It will appear in small type at the end of the piece.”

  “Place of origin: Ebisu-cho, 2-120, Naniwa-ku, Osaka City. Present address: Denenchofu, 6-867, Ota-ku, Tokyo. Date of birth: October 2, 1933. Graduated from a Kyoto Prefectural High School. After coming to Tokyo, studied under Professor Karasumaru Takashige of Tokyo University of the Arts. Will that do?” Waga asked.

  “Yes, that’s fine. Could I ask why you went to a high school in Kyoto?”

  “Well,” Waga said, laughing slightly, “I was sick about the time I was to go to high school and was sent to some business friends of my father’s in Kyoto to rest. I stayed on in Kyoto and went to high school there.”

  “So that’s the connection. I understand.” The editor nodded in comprehension.

  Katazawa had been sitting in a chair reading a book. When he heard this, he looked over at Waga.

  “Thank you very much.” The editor thanked both Waga and Sachiko and stood up. His attitude toward Sachiko was particularly deferential.

  “I’ll be going, too,” Katazawa said and stood up.

  “Can’t you stay longer?” Sachiko asked.

  “No, I have an appointment.”

  “That’s just the kind of guy you are. You were just killing time here until your date,” Waga said, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “Is that so, Katazawa-san?” Sachiko’s voice brightened and she smiled coyly at the artist.

  “No, it’s not like that. I’m meeting some artist friends.”

  “You don’t have to hide anything from us. We’d be happy for you,” she said.

  “It’s not that at all.” He walked to the door, then he turned around to face his friend. “Waga, take care of yourself.”

  “See you.” Waga raised his hand.

  At this moment the telephone on the table rang.

  Sachiko attempted to answer it, but Waga said, “It’s all right. I’ll get it,” and answered the phone.

  “Yes, this is Waga,” he said. “No, I can’t really.”

  Sachiko stared into space listening to Waga’s voice. On the wall was an oil painting of some flowers.

  “I don’t think I can make the initial deadline, but I’ll make sure that I have it ready in time for the performance.” Waga put down the receiver and turned toward Sachiko.

  “Something about work?” Sachiko was smiling.

  “Yes. I’ve been asked to compose something for the Avant-Garde Theater. They’re planning to use my music in a dramatic production. I agreed to it before the accident, so I can’t refuse them now. They were asking about that. I took it on because Takebe asked me to.”

  “Do you have a concept yet?”

  “Yes, I have something vague in mind. But it hasn’t progressed beyond that. That’s the problem.”

  “Couldn’t you refuse, since it’s Takebe-san?”

  “No, just the opposite. If a friend asks me to do something, it’s harder for me to refuse.”

  “I see. But if it’s a composition for a theater piece, wouldn’t you have to do a lot of compromising?”

  “Takebe told me to do something daring, but I probably can’t go all out. And the theater group is poor, so my work will basically be donated.”

  “I think you should refuse that kind of work. You should be concentrating on the work for your trip to America.”

  “You’re right, of course. Having my compositions recognized and played in America, that’s my big chance.”

  “I told Father about it. He was delighted. And he said he’s willing to fund your trip.”

  Waga’s eyes shone. “Really? That would be a big help. Please tell your father that I am counting on him. I think they’ll be impressed with my work in America.”

  “When do you think you might be going?”

  “I’d like to leave in November.”

  As Katazawa Mutsuo left the hospital for the parking lot, a taxi came through the hospital gates. It stopped beside him. He looked up in surprise to see Takebe Toyoichiro waving his hand out the window. Another man sat beside Takebe.

  “Hi.” Katazawa raised his hand and smiled.

  “Are you on your way back from seeing Waga?” Takebe asked, sticking his head out of the taxi.

  “Yeah. Are you just going?” Katazawa approached the taxi.

  “I thought I’d go see how he’s doing.”

  Katazawa shook his head. “You’d better not go just now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Tadokoro Sachiko is there. She came when I was talking to Waga, so I took pity on them and left. You’d better wait a while or you’ll interrupt them.”

  Takebe opened the door and got out of the taxi. His companion got out, too. Katazawa didn’t recognize him. He was slim and wore a beret.

  “Let me introduce you,” Takebe said. “This is Miyata Kunio, an actor affiliated with Avant-Garde Theater.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” The actor bowed to Katazawa.

  “I’m Katazawa. I paint.”

&n
bsp; “I’ve heard your name. Takebe-sensei and Waga-sensei have talked about you.”

  “You know Waga?”

  “I introduced them. Sekigawa was with us, too,” Takebe put in. “It’s no use just standing here. Shall we have some coffee somewhere nearby?”

  Takebe looked around. There was a small coffee shop directly across the street. The three of them crossed the street and entered the shop. In the middle of the day the shop was practically empty.

  “How’s Waga doing?” Takebe asked, wiping his face with the moistened hand towel the waitress had brought him.

  “It seems he hit his chest on the back of the front seat in the crash, but it doesn’t seem to be too serious. He looked fine.”

  “Waga has his own car. Why was he in a cab?” Takebe asked, drinking his coffee.

  “You’re right.” Katazawa thought for a bit and casually said, “Maybe his car needed repairs.”

  “Maybe that was it. Or maybe his license was suspended due to traffic violations. He does speed,” Takebe said. Thinking of something, he asked, “Where was the accident?”

  “They say in front of Sugamo Station.”

  “Why was he going through a place like that?” Takebe asked.

  “I didn’t ask. You’re right, though, I wonder why he was passing through an area like that.”

  “Was Waga alone in the taxi?”

  “It seems so. It would have been interesting if he had been with Tadokoro Sachiko.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. If Tadokoro Sachiko was riding in the cab, it would have been natural. It would be much more interesting if a different woman had been with him.”

  “And if that woman had also been injured, Waga’s engagement to Tadokoro Sachiko would most likely have been broken off. That really would make things interesting. Too bad he was alone in the taxi.”

  The two of them laughed. Glancing at the actor by his side, Katazawa saw that he seemed deep in thought. Noticing Katazawa’s glance, Miyata smiled.

  Takebe motioned toward the actor and said, “You’d better be careful. This fellow is quite popular with women.”

  “Please don’t make fun of me,” Miyata said, grimacing.

  Although his coloring was dark, he was handsome and his manner pleasant.