Inspector Imanishi Investigates

by Seichō Matsumoto

  He woke up at seven-thirty. The train had just passed Maibara. From the window he could see the morning sun shining on a large expanse of fields. Now and then water glistened beyond the fields. It was Lake Biwa. It had been several years since he had come to this area. As he traveled, he thought about the cases that had brought him here.

  Imanishi bought a box lunch in Kyoto and ate it for breakfast. His neck hurt from sleeping in a strange position. He massaged his neck and shoulders.

  The trip went on and on. He ate lunch at Toyooka at one-eleven. The train stopped at Tottori at two fifty-two, Yonago at four thirty-six. He could see the mountain Daisen out the left-hand window. Yasugi at four fifty-one, Matsue at five-eleven. Imanishi got off at Matsue.

  If he continued straight to Kamedake, it would take another three hours, and by the time he arrived the police authorities would have left for the day. So there was no point in going all the way to Kamedake today. He went to an inn across from the station and asked for the cheapest room. His per diem was limited, so he couldn’t be extravagant.

  After supper, he went out to walk around the town. He saw a long bridge. Lake Shinji spread out into the night. Its shores were dotted by solitary lights. Gazing at the night scene, the lake, and the unfamiliar surroundings, he felt melancholy.

  When he returned to the inn, Imanishi asked for a massage. It was too extravagant for his travel allowance, but he decided to treat himself to it. In his younger days, no matter what he had gone through, he would never have felt this tired. It must be age, he thought.

  Imanishi paid the masseur in advance and said, “I may fall asleep during the massage. If I do, feel free to leave.” He did start to feel sleepy as he was being massaged, his arms and legs stretched out on the bedding. Gradually, Imanishi stopped responding to the masseur’s comments. He had fallen asleep.

  Imanishi woke up once about four in the morning. He rolled over onto his stomach and smoked a cigarette. Then he pulled out his notebook and started thinking. He fell back to sleep as he was trying to compose a poem.

  The next morning, Imanishi took the Kisuki Line at Shinji Station. He had expected something old-fashioned, but it was a diesel train. The landscape along the way, however, fit Imanishi’s vague expectations. The mountains closed in and there were fewer fields. The river appeared and disappeared as the train moved on.

  The passengers were mostly locals. Imanishi listened to them talk to each other. He could hear the rise at the end of phrases. But not the zu-zu accent.

  Imanishi got off at Minari Station in Nita town. The train station was small, but it seemed to be the center of Nita. Descending the gentle slope from the station, he walked along a sleepy street lined with shops selling electric goods, general goods, and clothing. The signs advertising “Yachiyo quality sake” had to be for the locally produced rice wine. He crossed a bridge. The row of houses continued. Some had tiled roofs, but most were thatched. After he passed the post office and the elementary school, he arrived at the Minari police station. The building was so substantial it seemed out of place in such a small town. The mountains pressed in behind the white building.

  He walked into the police station and found only five people sitting at their desks. When Imanishi gave his business card to the uniformed policeman at the reception desk, a plump man in an open-necked shirt stood up from his seat in the rear and came over.

  “You’re from the Tokyo police?” he said, smiling. “I’m the police chief here. Please, come in.”

  He was led to the chief’s desk at the rear of the room.

  “I’ve heard about the case from the prefectural police.” The station chief took out a file from his desk drawer. “I understand you’re here for information on Miki Ken’ichi?”

  Imanishi nodded and said, “Yes. You’ve probably heard something about this, but Miki Ken’ichi was killed in Tokyo. I’ve been investigating this case, and we have found that Miki-san once served at this station as a policeman. That’s why I’ve come to inquire about him.”

  A staff member came over to serve them tea.

  “That was a long time ago,” the station chief said. “It’s over twenty years ago, so no one now at this station knew Miki-san. I did ask around for you.”

  “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule.” Imanishi bowed his head.

  “No bother. But we weren’t able to come up with much. As I said, it was quite a while ago. I don’t know if this will be of any help. Miki Ken’ichi was transferred to Kisuki station in June of 1929, came to Minari station in March of 1933, and worked at Kamedake substation. He was already a police sergeant at that time. In 1936 he was promoted to assistant inspector and became chief of patrol here. He retired in December 1938.”

  This confirmed what Imanishi had learned from the information sent to Tokyo by the Shimane prefectural police.

  “Chief,” Imanishi said, “I noticed from that brief résumé that he was promoted very rapidly.”

  “That’s right. It seems quite unusual,” the station chief nodded. “As I understand it, he was committed to his work, but he was also a very kind person who did all sorts of good deeds.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He was cited twice for outstanding work. Here’s a copy of those commendations. Let me read from them,” the chief dropped his eyes to the file. “The first one was when there was a flood in this area when the river overflowed due to a typhoon.”

  Imanishi recalled the river flowing under the bridge that he had crossed.

  “There was a landslide that caused a number of deaths and injuries. In that instance, Miki-san acted courageously and saved three lives. He saved one child who was swept downstream. The others were a child and an old person that he saved by volunteering to go into a house that had been crushed by the landslide.”

  Imanishi took notes on this.

  “The other commendation was when there was a fire in this area. Miki-san stopped a mother who was trying to go back into her burning house and went in himself to save her baby.”

  Imanishi noted this as well.

  “He was exceptionally well thought of. Everyone who remembers him praises him. They all say that there was no one like him… Imanishi-san, I first heard of him after we got your inquiry. But I can’t understand why such a good man as Miki-san met with such a horrible death in Tokyo.”

  Imanishi had not expected to hear all these good things about Miki Ken’ichi, although he remembered the words that Miki’s adopted son had spoken: that he was a good person, like Buddha.

  “But you probably need more than just my report,” the station chief added. “I know just the person you should talk to. He’s not here, but lives in Kamedake, where Miki-san was stationed. I told him that you would be coming, so he’s expecting you.”

  “Yes, and who is this person?”

  “Kamedake produces high-quality abacuses that are known throughout the country as Izumo abacuses,” the station chief explained. “The person I mentioned is an abacus maker named Kirihara Kojuro. His is the top old-style establishment in Kamedake. Kirihara-san was close to Miki-san at one time. Since you’ve come all the way from Tokyo, I think it’s best if you go and inquire directly.”

  “I’d certainly like to meet Kirihara-san.”

  “Kamedake is a ways from here. There is a bus that goes there, but it doesn’t run very often. I’ve arranged for you to use the station jeep.”

  “I’d like to ask you something that may seem a bit strange,” Imanishi said.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Listening to you talk, I don’t hear any difference from standard Japanese. Forgive my impoliteness, but I can’t hear any of the local accent in your speech.”

  The station chief laughed and answered, “That’s because I’m not using the local dialect on purpose. The younger people these days use the local speech less and less.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The people of this region are ashamed of their countrified accent. That’s why we s
peak standard Japanese when we talk to outsiders. And when we go to Shinji, we tend not to use the local dialect when we get close to town. I guess we have an inferiority complex. The local dialect has a terrible zu-zu accent. Nowadays, only elderly people or those from deep in the mountains speak it.”

  “How about in Kamedake?”

  “Let me see. Kamedake is probably different. Kirihara-san is elderly, so his accent is thicker than mine. But when you go to speak to him, he will probably avoid using the local dialect.”

  Actually, it was the local dialect that Imanishi had come all this way to hear.

  Riding in the jeep the station chief so thoughtfully provided, Imanishi headed for Kamedake.

  Kamedake Station was three miles from Minari Station. The distance from Kamedake Station to Kamedake village, though, was another three miles. When they entered the village, Imanishi saw that old, thatch-roofed houses lined Kamedake’s central section. Some had stones on the roofs as did houses in the north.

  The jeep drove on and stopped in front of the large estate that belonged to Kirihara Kojuro.

  The driver preceded Imanishi through the gate. Imanishi was surprised at the elegant landscaping of the garden attached to the house. As they slid open the front door, a man in his sixties wearing a gauze haori jacket came out to greet them as if he had been waiting for them.

  The policeman introduced him to Imanishi, saying, “This is Kirihara Kojuro-san.”

  “It must have been difficult for you to travel so far in this heat,” Kirihara Kojuro greeted him graciously.

  The old man’s hair was white; he was as thin as a crane; and he had a long face with narrow eyes. “I apologize for the poor condition of my abode but please come in,” he said in heavily accented tones.

  “I’m sorry to impose on you.”

  Imanishi followed the master of the house along the polished hallway that was also the veranda. From this hallway he could see the beautiful rock and water garden. The master led Imanishi into a tearoom. Imanishi was surprised once again-he had not expected to see such an elegant tearoom so deep in the mountains. On his way into the village he had seen only poor farmhouses.

  The master indicated that Imanishi should sit in the guest’s seat and proceeded to whisk a ritual cup of tea. It was the hottest time of day, and the pungently bitter taste of the tea eased some of Imanishi’s fatigue. The tea utensils were of the highest quality. Imanishi, who had little knowledge of Tea Ceremony ritual, was stirred to comment on them.

  “These aren’t really worthy of your praise.” Kirihara bowed formally. “In our countryside, we don’t have much, but the custom of the Tea Ceremony is our heritage from times past. Matsudaira Fumaiko was the lord of Izumo, so the Way of Tea has stayed with us.”

  Imanishi nodded. He now understood why the garden was landscaped in the Kyoto style, even in such a remote place.

  “It’s embarrassing for us to have someone from Tokyo see this – but this is all we have.” Saying this much, Kirihara Kojuro stopped as if something had occurred to him and peered at Imanishi’s face. “Well, I’ve been rambling on. The police chief has asked me to tell you all I know about Miki Ken’ichi-san.”

  Imanishi had been listening closely to Kirihara for some time now and he could detect an accent in the elderly Kirihara’s speech. Though slightly different from the Tohoku dialect, it sounded remarkably similar.

  “I think the police chief must have already told you,” Imanishi began, “Miki Ken’ichi-san recently met with an unfortunate death in Tokyo.”

  “I still can’t believe it!” The old man’s delicate face filled with anger. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that a person like Miki Ken’ichi would have been murdered. I can’t conceive of the kind of hatred that must have caused it. You still haven’t been able to find the killer?”

  “Unfortunately, we haven’t found a likely suspect yet. Knowing that Miki-san had been a policeman, we are determined to find his murderer. That’s why I’ve come to find out about his past from you.”

  Kirihara nodded seriously. “Please avenge his death. A person who would kill such a man is unforgivable.”

  “I understand that in the past you and Miki-san were close.”

  “Miki-san served as a policeman at our substation for about three years. It’s rare to find such an upstanding policeman. Even after he retired and opened up his shop near Tsuyama, we corresponded for quite a while, though in the last few years, we haven’t kept up.”

  Imanishi explained the situation to the old man who listened attentively. “We’ve concluded that, since there didn’t seem to be anyone who hated him in Emi-machi where he was living, the cause might be here, in the distant past when he had been a policeman. You may think that something that occurred twenty years ago couldn’t have any relation to the present, but we don’t have any other leads. I won’t be asking you for anything specific, I would just like you to tell me what you remember about Miki-san.”

  Kirihara’s face relaxed a bit. He was still sitting formally with his legs folded under him. “Miki-san was still young when he came to our police station. Our ages weren’t that far apart, so we became friends. I indulge in a little haiku poetry, and Miki-san joined me, composing some himself.”

  Imanishi’s eyes brightened in spite of himself. “Hm. That’s the first I’ve heard of this. He was a haiku poet, was he?”

  “Well, there has been a lot of haiku written in this area. Every year, haiku poets from Matsue and Yonago, even as far away as Hamada, come all the way to our village meeting. A long time ago, Shikin, a haiku master who was a direct literary descendant of the famous Basho, came to Izumo and stayed for a long time in this house. His stay established Kamedake’s reputation for haiku.”

  “Yes, I see.” Imanishi’s interest was obvious. But he wanted to get beyond his personal interests and hear more about Miki. The old gentleman, however, seemed reluctant to leave this topic and went on.

  “At the time that Shikin was staying here, all the haiku poets in the Chugoku region would gather here in Kamedake. I still have the family heirloom, a box the poets used to put the topics in before they’d draw the one they’d have to write about. It was made by a carpenter named Murakami Kichigoro and built like a puzzle box, which can’t be opened easily unless you know the secret. As you know, Kamedake is the source of Unshu abacuses, and Murakami Kichigoro was the original maker of these abacuses. There, excuse me for wandering from the point.” The elder Kirihara laughed at himself. “We old folks seem to spend a long time talking about other things. I’ll show you the puzzle box later. Anyway, Miki-san came over often for haiku and other reasons, and we were well acquainted. He was like a member of my own family. There aren’t many like him.”

  “Was Miki-san married when he came to Kamedake?”

  “Yes, he was. His wife’s name was Ofumi, if I remember correctly. Unfortunately she died when Miki-san was transferred to Minari. She was also a wonderful person. As a couple, they were like saints. Usually, policemen aren’t popular, but everyone liked Miki-san. I don’t know of anyone who cared so much for others.” The old man closed his eyes, recalling the past.

  There was a splash, perhaps the sound of a carp diving in the pond.

  “Miki-san,” the old man continued, “was a very humble person. Nowadays the police are respectful, but in those days, especially in a police station like this one, there were those who acted high and mighty. Miki-san had no such arrogance, and he took care of everyone. As you probably saw, Kamedake hardly has any fields. All the farmers are poor. They make ends meet by making charcoal, or growing tree mushrooms, or cutting wood. That’s about it. Others may work at the abacus factory, but life isn’t easy.”

  The strong sun beat down on the plants in the garden. No breeze found its way into the room.

  “If they get sick, there’s trouble paying the doctor’s bills. In many households both husband and wife work. Families with children have their own problems. Miki-san saw this and col
lected donations to start a day-care center at the temple. Now we have a welfare commissioner, but there was no system like that in those days, so Miki-san filled that role. You can’t imagine how many people he helped.”

  Imanishi wrote down each point.

  “A policeman’s salary wasn’t high, but from that small amount, Miki-san would secretly pay for medicine for anyone who was sick and too poor to pay. The Mikis had no children, so his only indulgence was to drink a couple of small carafes of sake every evening. Yet sometimes he would even go without that small pleasure in order to help someone else.”

  “I can see what a good person he must have been.”

  “That’s right. People today just aren’t that good. I’m not heaping extra praise on him because he was my friend. He was truly a rare person. To give you an example, once a leper beggar came to this village. Let’s see, when was that?”

  “A beggar?”

  “Yes, a beggar. This beggar came to the village with his son. Miki-san saw them and made a place for the boy in the temple day-care center. You’ve probably heard from the police chief that he rescued a baby from a fire and that he saved someone from drowning during a flood. There are more stories just like that from when he was here in Kamedake. One time a wood cutter fell ill in the mountains behind us. It was too steep and dangerous for the doctor to go up to him, so Miki-san carried the patient down from the mountain to the doctor. If there was any trouble in the village, Miki-san would show up and smooth things over. People went to him for advice on family quarrels, too. When Miki-san was transferred to the Minari station, the whole village tried to keep him here. The reason Miki-san was here for three years was because everyone begged him to stay.”