EQMM, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "We thought,” said Mrs. Phipps carefully, winding up her tale, “that you with your greater experience—"

  "Experience, dammit! I don't—” But he quietened down almost at once. It would strain belief if he denied ever having had contacts with adultery. “But of course it's sometimes known. When I was in India there were cases of officers’ wives with subalterns, even with one of the dusky-faced johnnies, damn them. And during the war, with couples separated, and many women becoming widows ... Stuff happens that it's better not to talk about."

  "Oh, we do agree!” said Miss Rumbold. “We are so uncertain that we couldn't put a name to what he is."

  "What who is?"

  "Simon. We finally fixed on the word ‘gigolo,’ but it doesn't seem quite right."

  "No, it doesn't. Some of the young chaps in the mess had a word for it—toyboy. But that doesn't seem quite right either. Seems a serious young man, this Simon."

  "It's the uncertainty that makes it so troubling,” said Mrs. Forrest. “There might be other explanations."

  "The question is, even if it were certain, would it be for us to judge?” asked Major Catchpole, whose military career had left him with a life's motto: Anything for a quiet life.

  "But if we knew, and did nothing, and it got out around the town!” said Mrs. Phipps. “The reputation of all of us would be at rock bottom! We have a certain reputation because the Princes has a certain reputation. The townspeople respect us, the spa patients and their relatives respect us. We have a position in the community out of all proportion to the rent we pay."

  Major Catchpole was quick to placate Mrs. Phipps.

  "Of course, of course. I'd be the last one to throw that away. But the thing is, we must be sure. We must think up a plan of campaign and when we are sure, and only then, we can decide on a strategy, think up a course of action and stick to it."

  Major Catchpole was not the only person who was decisive in theory but inconsistent in practice. That same evening he invited Mr. Somervell to have a beer with him in the King's Head, and in a corner of the saloon bar he confided in him the gist of the two ladies’ story. From that moment, the battle for secrecy was lost.

  When everyone in the Princes except Mrs. Hocking knew what was suspected of the Webbers they became grateful for the afternoon excursions of Mrs. Webber and Simon (they were no longer referred to as mother and son). That was when the rest could talk the situation over. The thing that was most difficult for most of them was the injunction that, until they were sure, no change should come over their behaviour to the pair.

  "I just hate having to talk to them,” said Mrs. Matthews, a roly-poly widow with strong opinions. “Just smiling and pretending it's all right."

  "It's the same for all of us,” said Mr. Somervell.

  "Oh, I know, but I just have this strong feeling, this thing. After all, this has always been a respectable spa town—not like Harrogate, where all sorts of things were going on. Pixton has always had genuine invalids, not people sneaking away from their families in order to have a dirty time. And an older woman, much older, and a very young man. My blood freezes—it really does. I can hardly stop shivering."

  The atmosphere had definitely changed, but subtly at first. The moment of transition was symbolised for Mrs. Webber in the spa's conservatory—a glass attachment to the theatre, depleted by war and the terrible winter but still a gracious and heartwarming place to be as the summer sun streamed in. It was here that Cynthia Webber, strolling through on her own (Simon was at his books) and looking at plant labels and descriptions, was cut by Mrs. Phipps and Mrs. Forrest. She had seen them coming from the next room and prepared herself (for she was far from unobservant, and had seen how things were going) for a frosty nod or a distant “Good morning.” In fact, the two ladies, faces set firmly ahead, their steps proceeding to the tea room, ignored her entirely and did not even look away but stared straight through her. Mrs. Webber did not enjoy the experience but she joked about it to herself. When, that evening, she told Simon he said, “Vicious old cows,” and, “It's time we moved on.” She did not disagree with him.

  It was two mornings after this, at breakfast, that the next change began. Mrs. Hocking brought in the post when it was nearly nine and Simon had already gone on a long walk “to think things over,” he said, and was heard to say. The Webber package included a bulky, official-looking envelope which Mrs. Webber opened. It was addressed to Simon, but she knew what it must be.

  "Oh good,” she said brightly (she hardly ever spoke now at meals, and never initiated a conversation). “It's Simon's passport."

  There was immediate silence, and Mrs. Forrest got up. She had been feeling guilty about the brutal cutting of her fellow guest, because she was not a vicious woman.

  "Oh, what a good likeness,” she said, looking at the first page of the stiff blue booklet with the royal arms on the cover.

  "Yes, a friend took it, and we insisted the main thing was the likeness. Travelling in Europe is pretty problematic still, and Simon still isn't sure where he wants to go. Ah—they've got everything right: ‘Webber, Simon Marius, born 11th March, 1928.'” She looked up at her fellow lodgers. “All absolutely correct. Simon will be pleased."

  Mrs. Forrest retreated, feeling somehow ashamed. Later, when she knew Cynthia (as she now again called her) had gone out, she talked the matter through with Major Catchpole and Miss Rumbold.

  "It's the fact that it's a passport,” she said. “A ration book or a driving licence wouldn't be at all the same. There wouldn't be a photograph for a start, and they're easily forged or transferred. But a passport. Everyone knows they don't make mistakes with those. It's as clear as clear, he is her son."

  "They're very careful about passports,” agreed Miss Rumbold, “as they have to be. All those Poles staying on after the war, and all those displaced persons coming from Central Europe. The riffraff of the world wants to come here. The authorities need to be careful, and they are."

  Miss Rumbold's radicalism, if it ever existed, did not run to showing the hand of friendship to foreigners. She even distrusted the Welsh.

  "And when it comes down to it, the ‘evidence’ was very thin,” conceded Major Catchpole, who had always exercised a restraining influence. “The woman could have had a migraine, and the boy was getting her aspirins."

  "Oh dear,” said Mrs. Forrest. “I've been very foolish."

  "Not at all, not at all. But I think, on the whole, Mrs. Phipps would have done better to hold her tongue. But we should have thought that older women with lovers—"

  "Let's say men friends."

  "—with men friends half their age and less are not frequent, not in this country. I believe such ... liaisons were common in France between the wars, and very probably are still common today. We do things differently here."

  And so opinion swung round. Mrs. Forrest was crucial, since she had been the first one Mrs. Phipps confided in. Everyone agreed it was a storm in a teacup. Mrs. Phipps, however, was wistful about the change and said she was never going to be quite sure.

  The change in atmosphere did not alter the decision of Mrs. Webber, who had not at all liked the days of ostracism after her weeks of preeminence. She went to Mrs. Hocking and said they would be leaving the next day, though they had paid up to the end of the week.

  "I have no idea what silly story was put around,” she told the temporary manager, “and I don't want to know. But I do know that for nearly a week we couldn't get a civil word out of anyone. I'm not used to such foolishness, and the fact that they've had second thoughts does not change my mind one little bit. I'm not used to mixing with people so feeble-minded that they alter with every change of wind. Ah—my ration book—” and indeed Mrs. Hocking was handing it to her with a wistful expression, clearly wondering when next she was going to be able to let the suite. “Please don't think I have anything to complain about with you. You may put any story about you like."

  So the next day, while Simon was stacking the suitcases in the
car, the story was going round that Cynthia's father-in-law, who had never recovered from his son's death, was very poorly indeed, and they were anxious to see him one more time before...

  On their way down towards Derby, where they had booked two single rooms, there was, for a time, silence in the car.

  "I was not deceived for one moment by the little party waving us fond fare-wells,” said Cynthia eventually, knowing Simon was thinking of the same things. “One or two of the wavers must have been the ones that started it all off."

  "Of course they did. I couldn't stand the atmosphere at the place, whether they were with us or against us."

  "They were a poor lot,” agreed Cynthia. “Sheep led by donkeys. With hindsight we were bound to find the company unsuitable: Narrow people with attitudes stuck in the Victorian age gravitate to little one-horse towns like Pixton."

  "They certainly could be vicious, though,” said Simon.

  "Ignorance is always vicious. I certainly didn't go through the business of doing away with your father to be treated by them as a scarlet woman."

  Simon laughed.

  "They never even made up their minds, though—never took a line and stuck to it. One minute we were mother and son, next minute a middle-aged woman and her much younger lover."

  Cynthia laughed merrily.

  "Typically provincial,” she said. “It never occurred to them that we could be both."

  Copyright © 2010 Robert Barnard

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Passport to Crime: HEARD AT ONE REMOVE by Nagaoka Hiroki

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Translated from the Japanese by Beth Cary

  The following story by Nagaoka Hiroki was the winner of the 2008 Mystery Writers of JapanAward. One of the judges for the award commented that it could be classifiedas a mystery, a “family story,” or a “humanist story"—for the personal life of the female police detective and her relationship with her daughter figure centrally in the tale.

  * * * *

  1.

  As she exited the ticket wicket and passed by some already shuttered kiosks, she could see several cardboard shelters come into view at the edge of the concourse.

  There were five in all. One had been added about a week ago.

  Sunken cheeks and unshaved chin. Age just shy of sixty. A rather tidy appearance...

  Hazumi Keiko hurried along as she imagined what the new homeless man must look like.

  She passed by a businessman at the exit from the concourse. He held a small mobile phone to his ear. It being the mid 1990s, more and more people carried these devices.

  Maybe I should get a mobile phone. No, I don't need to pay for one myself; the department will eventually provide one. Then I won't need my pager anymore....

  With such thoughts filling her mind, she walked for several minutes. She was nearly at her house when she noticed a disturbance.

  A police van was parked in front of the old house on the alley, where there were few street lamps. It belonged to the crime-scene investigation unit. There was also a sedan, an unmarked patrol car belonging to the burglary section.

  Some seven or eight bystanders stood at a distance, watching as the crime-scene investigators busied themselves.

  It was Hazumi Fusano's house.

  Identifying herself to the uniformed police officer on guard, Keiko stepped toward the entryway. At the sound of her footsteps, the investigator dusting the front door with aluminum powder turned around. She didn't recall his name, but recognized his face.

  He stood up and raised his hand to the brim of his cap. “Detective, why are you here?"

  "My house is nearby, right behind this one."

  "Is it? ... Oh, the name here is also Hazumi, isn't it?” he said, pointing at the ground. “Is it a relative of yours?"

  Keiko shook her head. “It's a common name from way back in this area. What happened here?"

  "It's a B and E with resident."

  His mouth seemed to be stiff from the cold. It took her awhile to realize what he had said.

  Again? Just a few days ago, an elderly person's house had been burglarized in this district west of the station.

  "What was stolen was cash. Just over one hundred thousand yen ($1,000). She had it inside a cupboard."

  "How about eyewitnesses? Are there any?"

  She couldn't stick her neck much further into this investigation; she was in a different section. But this was her neighborhood. She wanted to obtain as much information as she could.

  "A neighbor saw someone suspicious just around the time of the burglary."

  "What kind of suspicious person would that be?” As she asked, Keiko turned her eyes to the front door.

  The lock button stuck out like a protruding belly button from the center of the doorknob. It was a cheap, simple lock, one of the least protective against break-ins.

  "I don't know the details. But he may have had a large scar below his eye ... The detectives were saying something like that."

  Could it be Nekozaki?

  The person who came to Keiko's mind was someone she had handcuffed in the past. A large scar beneath his eye. Within the Kinesaka precinct, the only criminal who looked like that was Soichi Yokozaki—nicknamed Nekozaki, for cat. But his criminal record consisted of stalking and assaulting his ex-wife. He had no burglary conviction. If Yokozaki was in this neighborhood...

  "Detective, how is that murder case coming along?"

  "No developments,” she replied curtly.

  Looking at her watch, she saw that it was after ten o'clock. Should she drop in on Fusano, or should she take her leave? She wavered as she thought of Natsuki.

  In the end, she said, “Excuse me,” in a small voice, and stepped inside the house.

  Fusano was seated with her legs tucked under her in the living room off the entryway. She was being questioned by the detective from the burglary section as she sat with her back to the paper shoji sliding doors, whose holes had been repaired with pieces of newspaper. The stooped shoulders of the eighty-some-year-old woman trembled beneath the dim light.

  Keiko waited until the questioning was over, shifting her position to stay out of the way of the crime-scene investigator.

  * * * *

  2.

  When Keiko returned to her home, Natsuki was at the dining table. Her arithmetic textbook and notebook were spread open in front of her.

  She'll probably hand over a note with “Welcome home” written in pencil. As she thought this, Keiko spoke. “I'm home."

  "Welcome home,” Natsuki answered aloud. Her head, topped with a short haircut, remained facing the table.

  "...That's a suprise,” Keiko said.

  "Oh? What are you surprised about?"

  "It's been awhile since I heard your voice."

  "I'm not angry anymore.” Natsuki pointed the tip of her pencil toward the kitchen. “I made supper. It's mapo tofu. It's in the microwave. Eat it when you want to."

  "Thanks."

  With this, the current mother-daughter standoff was over.

  When Natsuki had suddenly stopped speaking to her four mornings ago, Keiko was annoyed, though this happened often. She had no idea what had set Natsuki off. It turned out that it was because Keiko had missed her turn to clean up the kitchen. But it was only yesterday, when she found a postcard in the mailbox, that she learned that this was the cause of her daughter's ire.

  "Don't you think it's disgusting to have cobwebs in the kitchen?” Natsuki's handwriting had covered the entire surface of the back of the postcard.

  Feeling the tension at her neck ease a little, Keiko entered the tatami-mat room and put her palms together in front of the Buddhist altar there.

  It's been four years already...

  That much time had passed—and so quickly—since her husband, a senior detective in the violent-crimes section, had been run over by an automobile and died.

  Natsuki is well and doing fine.

  After reporting this to her
husband's photograph, Keiko tried to think of other things to report about Natsuki during the past few days. He had so looked forward to seeing his daughter grow up. But she couldn't come up with anything. All she could do was repeat what she had said the day before.

  She still has her childish moments.

  Her refusal to speak and her note-writing. These behaviors seemed childish to Keiko. Natsuki would be entering middle school next year, and Keiko wished she would stop this infantile imitation of her father.

  It's your fault.

  "If something upsets you, try writing it down on paper. You'll feel much calmer. I do that sometimes,” Natsuki's father had told his daughter. Natsuki had been quick to anger from birth, and once angry, she wouldn't speak. Keiko often recalled her husband teaching this way of dealing with her feelings to Natsuki.

  Next she reported on her work day and told him of the case at Fusano's house, which she had happened upon on her way home.

  She had finally made eye contact with Fusano after several minutes of standing in her entryway.

  The elderly woman got up and came toward her and bowed her head quietly. She seemed to have regained a bit of energy, seeing all the support that had come. Fusano knew that Keiko's occupation was that of detective. But she wasn't aware that Keiko was in the violent-crimes section, not the burglary section.

  I'll take some money to her later, Keiko thought. Using newspaper instead of shoji paper to mend her doors. Living like that, she could hardly have any savings. Her only income must be her old-age pension....

  As these thoughts occupied the surface of her mind, Keiko was subconsciously counting. Three times. No, it might be four times this year, she had gone to the scene of elderly people living alone who had killed themselves. In each case, it was clear that the subject had been overwhelmed by poverty and, above all, by a sense of loneliness.