“So you went there?” He handed the scrap of paper back to Tanikawa.
“Of course I did. And it was marvelous. You should have seen how she performed! And like a bloody fool, I thought she was interested in me! Why, she even refused a tip! She just said, ‘Please come again.’ So I went back the next day, but she was gone.” He screwed the slip of paper into a ball and hurled it onto the floor of the car.
“What kind of a woman was she?”
“Oh, she was nice! And how she gazed at me with her large eyes with their double lids! It was enough to make you swoon!”
“Big eyes; double eyelids. Was that all? Was there nothing else special about her? So that you could recognize her again, I mean.”
“Oh yes, she had a big mole at the base of her nose. It was really sexy! Could you really find her for me?” he cried in a maudlin fashion and then slumped over Shinji’s knees and began to snore.
Shinji picked the ball of paper up off the floor and slipped it into his pocket. The car turned off the Koshu Kaido and into the Suido-doro.
Who could that woman have been? She had stood drinks to a stranger in a bar; although a Turkish bath girl, she turned down a tip. And then she vanished into thin air. Why? What had she been up to?
Ahead, the road, illuminated in the headlights of the car, seemed to rush toward him. He had better report this to the old man as quickly as possible. The car swung left down the edge of Inokashira Natural Park, whose thick groves were the last remains of the forests that had once covered Tokyo, and then turned down a gravel path that ran along the edge of the Mitaka Brook. Soon he would be there.
He would drop the drunk off, and then go to the apartment of Sada, the cosmetics salesman.
It was on his way, anyhow.
5
The coffee shop, Dakko, was located at the end of a shopping arcade. It was a tiny place built on the corner of the row, having no more than two box seats; five customers would be enough to fill it, and tonight it was overfull with men wearing clogs and light cotton kimonos who seemed to have nowhere in particular to go. A glance at the towels and soap containers that they all were holding revealed that they were all on their way back home from the public bath. Amongst this group, one man stood out, for he was wearing a summer suit and was tall for a Japanese—at least five feet seven. When Shinji entered, he spotted him immediately, for he seemed to be talking to himself, moving his large limbs in an exaggerated manner the while. He seemed to be rehearsing a sales pitch, and his soft, well-modulated voice betrayed him for what he was—a cosmetics salesman who made his living from women. The moment Shinji opened the door, their eyes met. Sada came over to Shinji, glancing at him shrewdly, and they sat down together in a seat that had just become vacant. Sada bowed slightly.
“Hello. Sorry, but I forget your name.”
Shinji handed him a reporter’s card. “I went to your apartment, but your wife told me you would be here, so…”
“Yes, she phoned me and told me.” Sada proffered his card, his face set with his business smile.
“Thanks for coming,” he went on. “As you can see, I’m ready for business twenty-four hours a day.” He oozed politeness.
“Well, to be honest, it isn’t that. I came in search of facts on blood donation. Have you given recently?”
“Well, there’s been no call for it for quite some time. Rather a waste really—I’m a full-blooded fellow and have more than I need.” Sada laughed at his weak joke.
“What about the fifteenth of January last?” he said, mentioning the date of Mitsuko Kosugi’s murder. But Sada assured him that he had not given blood for at least a year. It seemed that Shinji’s visit was wasted, and he decided to leave. However, having come so far, perhaps he should question Sada a little on his private life. It seemed that Sada was a man who liked to talk, and he was awaiting Shinji’s further questions, moistening his underlip the while.
“The nature of your business must bring you into contact with all sorts of people. Have you got any interesting stories to tell me?”
“Not really. My life is pretty dull, really.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes. The life of a cosmetics salesman consists of wearing down shoe leather, no more. I know there are a lot of stories about us, but they are not true, at least not in my experience.”
“What about the jewelry business, then?” Shinji only said this in a spirit of light sarcasm, but it struck home. Sada’s slimy eyes, which bulged as if he suffered from Basedow’s disease, suddenly ceased their motion. He lowered his voice and leaned toward Shinji, plainly anxious not to be overheard.
“Detective, are you? I know what you are talking about, but we can’t speak here, so let’s move on somewhere else. There’s a sushi shop called ‘Kawagen’ a few doors up; go and wait for me there.” His tone was friendly but insistent.
Shinji decided to fall in with his plans. Leaving his coffee more or less untasted, he went out of Dakko.
He was sitting at the counter of Kawagen, wiping his hands with a cold flannel, when Sada came in. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He gave a few orders to the cook behind the counter and turned to Shinji again. “I had quite a difficult time with the lady, and it really wasn’t my fault,” he began.
“Go on,” said Shinji, his curiosity aroused.
“Well, she rang me at home—must have got my number from another customer, I suppose. Anyway, she said she wanted to see some jewelry. Well, it’s only a side business of mine, you understand, but anything to oblige… Anyway, she said she wanted to see some jewelry and asked me to meet her at a coffee shop downtown. So, as I said, what the customer wants is always right, and I went to see a fellow I know who lets me have stock on consignment when I need it.”
At this point, he broke off and ordered a tuna sushi, offering one to Shinji, too.
“Well, I went to the coffee shop, but on the way I had second thoughts. I mean, I was carrying a small fortune in gems, and I didn’t know the woman from Adam. What if I was drugged and robbed? So I put my briefcase in a station locker and just took two pieces with me—the cheapest diamond in the batch and an opal. Why did I go at all in that case, you may ask. Well, there was something suggestive in the woman’s manner that attracted me. Anyway, I got to the coffee shop in Yurakucho and there she was, waiting for me, wearing a kimono. Quite a beauty, and immaculately turned out.
“I was going to show her the jewelry, but she said the coffee shop was too public. We ought to go somewhere very private, she said to me archly, and I began to feel I wouldn’t mind being cheated out of my jewelry if she would first give me a little bit of pleasure in return. As I say, she was beautiful. Anyway, we went to an inn in Sendagaya by taxi. When we got there, it was still before noon, but there were several other couples there already. It seems that those places have business twenty-four hours a day, you know. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
He paused to wolf down two sushi; looking at him, Shinji reflected that here was a man whose mouth never stopped moving, either in eating or in speech.
“So we went into a bedroom and she asked to see the jewelry. She said she liked both pieces and asked how much they were. Well, I was a little confused, so I quoted her a good price and she bought them both on the spot—and paid cash there and then, too.” He laughed hollowly. “Well, we’d paid for the room for two hours, and it seemed a waste not to use it, if you see what I mean, and she was willing, it seemed. So we drank a little beer, and undressed, and then…”
“Yes?”
“And then nothing. I woke up and was lying on the bed all by myself. I called the front desk on the phone and they told me the lady had left an hour and a half before. That put the wind up in me, and I checked to see if anything was missing, but nothing was. Even the eighty thousand yen she had paid me for the jewelry was still there. It was just as if I had been possessed by a fairy or a ghost. But my head was strangely heavy and my throat dry, so I went back home and slept it off. Beer doesn’t normally affect
me like that; if you ask me, it was drugged. Anyway, that wasn’t the end of it. The next day, when I returned the remainder of the jewelry to my friend, I discovered that the diamond I had sold her was a fake. Look, it’s only a sideline of mine, and I’m no expert. I assure you that I had no intention of cheating her. Please believe me.” He paused for a drink.
“Oh, yes, the money is quite intact—I’ve kept it in an envelope so as to give it back to her in due course. I’ve tried to track her down, but to no avail.” The story was at an end, and he rounded it off with a laugh that seemed to Shinji to be extremely studied.
Was he telling the truth? Perhaps he had seen the incident as a small, illicit affair with a married woman and had taken the money without any qualms. But perhaps the fraud had been deliberate, and he was now making up this story to cover up his deceit. In either case, how could this bizarre tale be related to the case of Ichiro Honda?
“And when did this take place?”
“Let me see—I can tell you exactly.” The salesman took a small notebook out of his breast pocket and examined it. “January fourteenth,” he said.
The day before Mitsuko Kosugi was killed… but could there be any connection? Surely not. Feeling disappointed, Shinji poured himself a mug of green tea to take the taste of sushi out of his mouth. He prepared to leave, but the salesman began to speak again.
“Look, as I’ve told you, I’ll give the money back. And to make amends, I’ll give her some of the new cream I’ve got that covers up spots, freckles, and even moles. It contains ingredients imported from France and is rather expensive, but I will give her a jar for nothing.”
Shinji listened in stunned silence.
“You know, that mole she has on the side of her nose.”
Shinji absently picked up a small pebble that was lying on the counter and hurled it somewhere without particularly caring. It struck something, rattling hollowly.
“Yes, she was concealing it behind a handkerchief, you know, but of course that attracts more attention than if you are open about it. A mole isn’t such a defect that you have to hide it; indeed, if displayed openly, it has a charm of its own. But this new makeup will take care of it.” Sada chatted on, but Shinji sensed behind the self-confident charm of the salesman a deep concern about the money and the jewelry.
“What will happen as a result of all this?” Sada asked.
“Depending on how it turns out, you may have to give evidence in court. However, I don’t think there’s any way you will get into trouble over this. For the time being, hang on to the money.”
“Court? Do you mean a divorce court?”
“Something like that.” He got up to leave and made as if to pay, but Sada restrained him, laying an oily hand, sticky with sweat, on his wrist. Shinji allowed him to pay, thanked him and left.
He set off on foot for Asagaya Station. What did it all mean? How could he organize the jumble of facts into a coherent picture? Everything seemed so disconnected. In the damp heat of the evening, he couldn’t think straight. If only Hatanaka was with him; the old man would soon put the pieces of the jigsaw together.
After all, he thought, he was just a reporter collecting facts and incidents for his master. He could almost see the old lawyer’s heavy-lidded face, smell his fragrant cigar.
He reached Asagaya Station and bought a ticket to Shinjuku. Now for the last name on his list. He must go and talk to a boy in a homosexual bar.
He felt like going home to sleep instead but overcame the urge, as does a gambler who is determined to stay up all night.
6
The distance from Shinjuku Station to Hanazono-cho, which was where the gay bar was located, was quite far on foot. As Shinji headed in that direction, the majority of people were coming the other way. He collided with a hostess who was obviously in a rush to catch the last train, and she cursed him raucously.
Finally he came to Toden Avenue; crossing this broad thoroughfare and making his way toward the Hanazono Shrine, he finally came upon a maze of streets laid out like a gridiron behind the shrine, formerly an area licensed for prostitution. Turning into a narrow alleyway at the second intersection, he found himself in a jungle of tiny bars, each of them with a frontage no more than a few feet wide, and each advertising itself with a similar neon sign. There were also paper lanterns and painted boards; which, amongst these myriad establishments, could be his destination?
It was late, and the street was deserted. No voices of drunkards singing arose to assail his ears, as he might have expected. No heavily made-up woman tried to tug him into a doorway, as might normally be expected in such an area. He poked his head into a tiny bar occupied by a middle-aged woman in an apron and asked her how he could find his destination.
“I’ve no idea,” she said. “Give up and have a drink here instead. I’ll introduce you to a nice girl.” She sat warming her feet over a charcoal brazier, which seemed to double as an ashtray, so full was it of cigarette ends and broken chopsticks. He declined her offer and made his escape; after a few moments he looked back, but there was no sign of her following him. It seemed that she was resigned to her lot and no longer hustled for business.
Only one place showed any sign of life: a tiny restaurant that had obviously once been a bar. From it wafted delicious smells of fish on the grill and fermented bean soup. Shinji suddenly realized that he had hardly eaten that night and went in. Five customers would fill it; there were three—a waiter off-duty, identifiable by his bow tie, and two tarts. They looked up as he entered but betrayed no interest, soon returning to their chopsticks and their bowls.
Behind the counter, an honest-looking couple in their early fifties were working diligently; he took them to be husband and wife. He glanced at the menu and ordered a bowl of rice and salmon doused in hot tea. While it was being prepared, he smoked a cigarette and reflected. The faces of the four men that he had interviewed floated before his eyes. The medical intern, the day laborer, the salaryman at the film laboratory, the salesman of cosmetics… each face rose before him in turn.
Of these four, two had nothing to tell him that he could see was of any significance. The other two had both spoken of the strange woman. And none of them had recently given blood. Did that mean that they had no connection with blood? If so, why had the person who had spoken to the blood banks on the telephone been so interested in AB Rh-negative? Surely he or she wanted to obtain some? Shinji was totally confused.
The cook brought his food, and he savored the perfumes of seaweed and sesame seed.
Just one more to go, he thought as he ate. The boy in the gay bar; was he the last stud card? Had he been turning up the wrong cards so far? It was almost like playing poker, he decided.
He ate the last mouthful and found it full of horseradish, which almost choked him. He gulped down some tea hurriedly and then asked the master the way to Bar B.
“It’s right here—one floor up.” The neon sign with the big letter B was under the eaves, he now realized, and he had not noticed it. He paid his bill, went out and began to climb the narrow staircase, which was so steep and contorted that he nearly fell halfway up. But upstairs turned out to be more spacious than he had expected; the room was occupied by four or five customers, all of them looking like pederasts. He flopped into a bar stool and hunched his shoulders. A boy with softly waved curls down his forehead came up to him.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“Beer,” said Shinji.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir, please wait a moment,” said the boy coquettishly and minced away.
Behind the counter were three other young men, all dressed identically in shirts with broad vertical stripes and narrow ties. They leaned on the counter flirting with the customers, occasionally stepping back and shaking their bodies sensuously in time to the music. They all wore tight jeans that were sculpted over their bottoms. And which of them could be Nobuya Mikami? Shinji had no idea, for although the detective agency had provided photographs of the other four men, they
had omitted to do so in this case. Either the researcher was embarrassed to ask the precious young man for a photograph, or else he had presumed that Shinji would make contact by phone rather than visit the bar.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, Shinji reflected as he sipped his beer; certainly his motives would be misunderstood. He put a cigarette in his mouth, and immediately the boy who had served him produced a light. There was a golden initial A embroidered on his tie.
“My name is Akiko,” said the boy, pointing to the A on his tie. “How do you do?”
So they all had their initials on their ties, thought Shinji, and indeed it was so. Each boy had an initial on his tie, but none of them sported an N. Nobuya Mikami must be out with a customer. If he waited, would he be back?
“Is Nobu off tonight?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s Nobu you want, is it? Sorry—he’s out with a customer, taking a cup of tea together, if you see what I mean. Well, if you know him, you know how self-centered he is; he’ll do anything, he says, if there’s money in it for him!”
“Really,” said Shinji. “A real pro, you mean?”
The boy giggled, but an epicene little man sitting at the counter next to Shinji turned to him, peered at him through his glasses and lisped, “Oh, my! I’m terribly sorry! Are you interested in Nobu, too? But do be careful—he’s an awful tease, and quite cold-hearted. Why, once he went to a hotel to meet a strange man who phoned in, and the man gave him ten thousand yen, and still Nobu only spent an hour with him!”
“Wow!” said another customer. “What a boy! When was that?” Shinji found this intervention most convenient.
“Six months ago—on his birthday. You know, his best patron came and said, ‘Let’s celebrate in the grand manner. Tonight, everything is on me!’ But as soon as that telephone call came, Nobu just walked out on us. ‘An engagement,’ he said, ‘comes first.’ Even Mama-san was disgusted with him that night! He came back after an hour and said, ‘I had a steak in a hotel restaurant as I dissipated my energy.’ What lies! Everyone knows hotel restaurants aren’t open at that hour. Typical showing off! As if he’d buy a steak—he’s too mean to give anyone even a sheet of tissue paper!”
The Lady Killer Page 13
