Inspector Imanishi Investigates

FOUR Unsolved

The investigation had reached an impasse. Even with eight full-time investigators on loan from the Homicide Division of the Metropolitan Police Force helping fifteen local precinct investigators, not one concrete lead had turned up. Morale at headquarters hit bottom.

The two dozen investigators assigned to the Kamata case were all gathered in the gym room of the local precinct station. The chief of detectives of the Metropolitan Police, who was nominally in charge, did not appear at this meeting. The deputy chief, who was head of the Homicide Division, and the local precinct chief were there in his stead.

At each place was a cup filled with sake. Plates of snacks were scattered about the table. The detectives sat around looking depressed. When a case was solved, the final party to disband the investigation team was a happy occasion. But when the case was closed unsolved, the party became a wake.

The head of Homicide stood up.

“I want to thank each of you for all you’ve done during this long investigation,” he began in a discouraged voice. “A month has passed since this investigation headquarters was established. Your efforts during that time have been extraordinary. Unfortunately, with no strong leads to follow, we must now close this headquarters. This is truly regrettable.” He looked around at the assembled men who listened with downcast eyes. “However, this does not mean that all investigation into this case must cease. We will continue to investigate on a voluntary basis. When I look back on this case, I think that we may have been too optimistic at the beginning. Because there was so much evidence at the scene of the crime, we felt sure of an early solution. Although the identity of the victim was unknown, I think we were too sure that, with so much evidence available, we would soon learn who he was. We found the murder weapon as well as witnesses who had seen the victim and the probable murderer. But despite your unstinting efforts, we have had no further results. Now it seems necessary to reevaluate our initial assessment.”

Imanishi Eitaro listened to the speech with his eyes on the floor. The division head was speaking forcefully, as if he were trying to encourage them. But after all, it was a speech about failure.

Imanishi felt more responsible than the other investigators. Now he even wondered if, as first suspected, “Kameda” was a person’s name after all. After going all the way to Kameda in Akita Prefecture, it seemed that “the strange man” had nothing to do with the case. When an investigation folded, every uncertainty hounded the detectives. But there was no use going all over it again.

The main speech ended and the local police station chief said a few words. After that the detectives drank the sake in their teacups and broke into conversation. The talk was unenthusiastic. The dismal gathering soon broke up.

Imanishi started for home alone. He would no longer be coming to this station every day. As of tomorrow, he would return to headquarters. Imanishi walked toward Kamata Station. The street lights were on. Clear blue twilight lingered in the sky as the evening turned to night.

“Imanishi-san.”

He heard a voice calling him. He turned around and saw Yoshimura.

“Hey, it’s you, is it?” Imanishi stopped.

“Since we’re going in the same direction, I wondered if we could go together.”

“Sure.”

Side by side, they walked toward the station. The platform was crowded, as was the train. It was the middle of rush hour, and they couldn’t stand together inside the train. Still, Yoshimura managed to grab a hand strap not far from Imanishi. From the window they could see the city of Tokyo below them. Neon lights were starting to shine across the stark cityscape.

“Yoshimura,” Imanishi yelled across the crowded car when they reached Shibuya Station. “Let’s get off here.”

Imanishi had pushed his way off the train and to the top of the stairs by the time Yoshimura caught up with him.

“What happened to you all of a sudden?” Yoshimura asked.

“I just wanted to talk to you some more. Let’s have a drink somewhere nearby,” Imanishi said as they struggled down the crowded stairs. “I hope that’s all right.”

“It’s fine with me,” Yoshimura said and smiled. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you some more, too.”

“That’s perfect. I just can’t go straight home the way I feel now. It was like a funeral at headquarters. Let’s go drown this bitter aftertaste in some beer.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The two men crossed the square in front of the station and turned down a narrow side street. This area was full of small bars with red lanterns hanging from their eaves.

They entered a narrow bar that served steaming hot oden, vegetables and dumplings simmered in a flavorful broth. It was early in the evening and there were few customers. They took two seats in the corner.

“Could we have some beer?”

The owner of the bar, who was tending the simmering pot with a pair of long chopsticks, nodded her head and said, “Coming right up.”

The two men toasted each other with glasses nearly overflowing with foam.

“That’s better,” Imanishi said, drinking half the glass in one gulp. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“I was thinking the same. We won’t be working together anymore, so this is good-bye, Imanishi-san.”

“Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“No, no, I’m the one who should thank you.”

“Why don’t we order something?”

“I’d like some skewered maruten, please.”

“You like maruten, too?” Imanishi smiled. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Imanishi finished his beer and let out a big sigh; Yoshimura looked over at him. They weren’t supposed to discuss their cases in public, but inevitably their conversation drifted back to it.

“You’ll be at central headquarters starting tomorrow, won’t you?” Yoshimura asked, tossing off his beer.

“Yes, I’ll be going back to my home base,” Imanishi said, as he nibbled at the skewered maruten.

“You’ll probably be assigned to another case right away, no?”

“Probably. One case after another, the work keeps coming. But even though you’re assigned to something else, this kind of case stays on your mind. I’ve been a detective now for a long time, and I’ve been involved with three or four cases that were never solved. They’re old cases, but they’re always in a corner of my mind. Every now and then they pop up. It’s strange. I don’t remember anything about the cases that were solved, but I can recall clearly the faces of each of the victims of the unsolved cases. Well, now there’s one more to give me bad dreams.”

“Imanishi-san,” Yoshimura put his hand on Imanishi’s arm. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Today is our farewell to working together. Let’s drink to that.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You know, I have fonder memories of the time we went out of town together than of all those times we trudged around this city. It was the first time I’d ever seen the Tohoku area. I really liked the color of the sea.”

Imanishi smiled. “It would be a good place to visit again just for pleasure after I retire.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“What are you talking about? You’re still young.”

“I’d like to walk around Kameda alone, without a care, with no worries.” Yoshimura’s expression turned nostalgic, as if he were seeing the scenery again in his mind. “That’s right, Imanishi-san, you showed me three haiku that you wrote then. Have you come up with any more since that time?”

“Hmm, well, I did write a few more, about ten, maybe…”

“I’d like to hear them.”

“No.” Imanishi shook his head. “Listening to lousy poetry would ruin the taste of this beer. I’ll recite them for you another time. Well, shall we order one more beer before we go?”

By this time the bar was full and noisy. This made it easier for the two men to talk privately.

“Imanishi-san,” Yoshimura turned and leaned toward Imanishi. “About the Kamata case…”

“Hm,” Imanishi glanced quickly right and left. No one seemed to be paying attention to them.

“Your theory that the suspect’s hideout is not too far away… I think that must be right.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do. The murderer had to have been covered with blood. So he couldn’t have gone far. I think his hideout has to be somewhere nearby.”

“I’ve looked around with that in mind,” Imanishi muttered.

“The murderer couldn’t take a taxi looking like that,” Yoshimura continued. “The witnesses said he wasn’t dressed well. In fact, you can tell he wasn’t well off by the fact that he was drinking cheap whiskey in an out of the way place like Kamata. He wouldn’t have the money to own a car.”

“Probably not.”

“Then, if he couldn’t take a cab, he must have walked home. The streets would have been dark, so he could have walked without being noticed. If he could walk home, he had to live within a certain distance of Kamata.”

“That’s true. Even if he walked till dawn, he still couldn’t have gone very far. At most maybe five or six miles.”

“Here’s what I think: If he went home looking like that, he would have to be living alone.”

“I see.” Imanishi poured Yoshimura some more beer and filled his own glass as well. “That’s a new idea.”

“Imanishi-san, you thought that the man lived somewhere else, and used a hideout after committing the crime, right?”

“I’m not confident about my deductions anymore.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. If there was a hideout, it would most likely be his mistress’s or a close friend’s place. Since he isn’t well off, I could go along with the friend theory; I can’t see that he could afford a mistress.”

Imanishi said good-bye to Yoshimura and went home alone. His house was on a bus route in Takinogawa, and it shook every time a bus went by. His wife was tired of the noise and wanted to move, but they couldn’t find anything they could afford. In the ten years they had lived there, the area had changed completely. Large new buildings had been built where old houses had been destroyed, and apartment houses now filled the empty lots. One of these apartment buildings had been built nearby, and because of it Imanishi’s house had not gotten any sunlight for the last three years. When he turned down the narrow street to his house, he could see a moving van in front of the apartment building.

Imanishi tugged open his sliding front door, which tended to stick.

“I’m home,” he announced as he took off his shoes.

“Welcome home. You’re very early today.” Yoshiko came to the entryway with a welcoming smile.

Silent, Imanishi walked to the back of the small house. In the tiny garden were miniature bonsai trees he had bought at outdoor markets.

“Hey,” Imanishi said to his wife as she folded his clothes to put away, “I don’t have to go to Kamata tomorrow. I’m back at police headquarters.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“I’ll probably be home early from now on.”

Noticing his flushed face, Yoshiko asked, “Did you stop off somewhere for a drink?”

“I stopped off at Shibuya with Yoshimura and had some beer.”

“That’s nice.”

“Where’s the boy?”

“My mother came by and took him home with her. Tomorrow is a holiday, so she’ll bring him back before bedtime.”

Tying his obi around the kimono he wore at home, Imanishi went to sit on the veranda. He could hear the neighborhood children playing outdoors.

Imanishi asked, suddenly remembering, “Did someone new move into that apartment building?”

“Yes, did you see something?”

“A truck was parked out front.”

His wife came and stood next to him. “I heard the neighbors saying that the person who moved in is an actress.”

“That’s an unusual type for this place.”

“You’re right. I don’t know who heard about it, but it’s quite the talk around here.”

“If she’s moving into that apartment, she can’t be much of an actress,” Imanishi said, pounding his shoulder to get the kinks out.

“They say she’s not a movie actress. She acts in plays. That’s why she doesn’t earn much.”

When they had finished supper, Imanishi suddenly asked his wife, “What’s the date today?”

“June fourteenth.”

“It’s a day with a four in it, so it’s the day of the temple fair at Togenuki Jizo in Sugamo. Shall we go, for a change?”

“Yes, let’s.” Yoshiko started to get ready to go out. “I suppose you’re going to buy another bonsai plant?”

“I don’t know if I will or not.”

“We don’t have any space to put any more plants in the garden. Please don’t buy any more.”

“All right, I won’t.”

Imanishi intended to buy a plant if he saw one that he particularly liked. It might help put the case out of his mind.

At Sugamo they got off the streetcar, crossed the large square, and walked down a street lined with shops. Outdoor stalls were set up along the narrow street to the temple. Though it was late and many people were heading home, it was still crowded. The glare of bare light bulbs brightened the stalls, shining on people who had gathered to scoop for goldfish, or to buy cotton candy, bags, games, toys, or herbal medicines.

The Imanishis walked to the Jizo temple to offer a prayer. Then they took their time inspecting the festival activities.

There were several nurseries displaying a variety of potted plants. Imanishi stood in front of one of the stalls. His wife pulled at his sleeve, but the bonsai lover in him wouldn’t let him leave. He squatted down in front of a row of plants. There were many interesting trees for sale. Remembering his promise to his wife, he chose only one. Yoshiko laughed as he walked over to her, carrying his plant in one hand.

“The garden is too crowded already,” she said on the way home. “We can’t line them all up unless we move to a house with a larger yard.”

“Don’t complain so much.”

They had been out for only an hour, but they had had a pleasant time. When they reached the main street, they saw a group of people milling around staring at something near the edge of the road. It was easy to see that there had been a traffic accident. An automobile had plunged onto the sidewalk. Its rear end was smashed. A taxi was stopped ten to twelve yards behind the car. Half a dozen policemen were already there investigating the accident, shining their flashlights around on the ground. One of them drew several circles on the street with chalk.

“They’ve done it again,” Imanishi said, as he took in the scene.

“My, how dangerous.” Yoshiko grimaced as she looked.

Imanishi peered inside the car on the sidewalk. It was empty. When he looked in the taxi, he saw neither the driver nor his fare.

“It looks like they were all taken to the hospital,” Imanishi said. “They must really have been hurt.”

“I hope no one was killed,” Yoshiko said, frowning.

Imanishi handed his plant to his wife and searched for a familiar face among the policemen. He walked over to one of them. “Hello, you have quite a problem, don’t you?”

The policeman, recognizing him, bowed respectfully. Imanishi had been involved in solving a case at the Sugamo police station.

“It’s quite a mess, isn’t it?” Imanishi asked.

“It’s terrible.” The traffic policeman, who had been jotting down the main points in his notebook, pointed to the battered car. “This one’s a total wreck.”

“What happened?”

“The driver was speeding. And the taxi driver behind him was looking off to the side. He didn’t even notice that the car in front of him had stopped and slammed into it without slowing down.”

“Any injuries?”

“The taxi driver and his fare were rushed to the hospital. But the people in the rear-ended car had only minor scratches.”

“And how badly injured were the people in the taxi?”

“The driver’s head went through the windshield, so his face was badly injured.”

“And his fare?”

“His chest slammed into the back of the front seat when the taxi hit the car. He lost consciousness temporarily but regained it when he arrived at the hospital.”

“That’s a relief.” Imanishi was glad there had been no worse casualties. “Who was the passenger?”

“I heard that he was some kind of musician,” the policeman answered.

When Imanishi awoke the next morning he was grateful that he’d been liberated from the recent disappointing case. He looked at the clock. It was only seven, he would have plenty of time to get to work even if he got up at eight.

“Could I see the newspaper?” Imanishi called to the kitchen where he could hear noise.

Wiping her hands, Yoshiko brought him the morning paper.

The front page was full of political news. The headlines were bold and the articles were interesting. Still a bit drowsy, Imanishi turned the pages of the newspaper. There was a series of opinion pieces accompanied by small photographs of each commentator. Browsing through the pictures, Imanishi stopped at one. It was a photo of Sekigawa Shigeo.

Imanishi wasn’t interested in Sekigawa’s opinion. What had drawn his attention was his picture. He couldn’t remember if the photograph resembled the face he had seen at Ugo Kameda, but he thought it was the same person. Yoshimura had said that he was a member of the Nouveau group. Seeing his young face among the photos of well-known figures in various fields, Imanishi realized that Sekigawa must be getting a lot of attention. He couldn’t be thirty years old yet, he thought, impressed at such quick success.

Imanishi turned the page, but the sports news didn’t interest him. On the city page, a large headline caught his eye: “Composer Waga Eiryo Injured Last Night in Taxi Rear-end Collision.”

There was a photograph of Waga. Imanishi was startled to recognize another of the men he had seen at Ugo Kameda. He hurriedly read the article. It was about the accident he had come across the night before. Staring at yet another young face, Imanishi felt an odd connection.

Imanishi called to his wife, “Hey, look at this.” He showed her the newspaper article. “There’s something in the paper about last night.”

“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, sniffing 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.”

“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.

Katazawa returned to the former conversation. “Even if it was found out that Waga had been with another woman, I don’t think his engagement to Tadokoro Sachiko would be broken off. On the contrary, the wedding might be speeded up.”

“Why do you say that?” the playwright asked.

“Because Sachiko is in love with Waga. She’s much more infatuated with him than he is with her.”

“Really?”

“When a woman finds out that she has a rival for the man she loves, she becomes even more determined. First she gets angry and jealous. But the point is what she does after that. The woman who breaks off with a man isn’t passionate about him. Women who are madly in love are the ones who want the man even more.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Takebe said. “So, does Sachiko feel that way about Waga? Waga is a lucky guy. After all, behind her is Tadokoro Shigeyoshi. With his influence and financial power, Waga can do anything he wants.”

“But Sachiko herself says that Waga holds her father in contempt.”

“Sachiko is a bit naive. He’s just saying that. Waga is depending on her father’s backing.”

The actor in the beret listened silently.

Takebe looked at his watch. “You think it’s all right to go visit him now?”

“It’s been a while since I left, so it should be all right.”

The two grinned at each other.

“See you, then.”

“See you.”

The actor in the beret also stood up. “It was nice to meet you,” he said to the artist.

The three men went out to the sunlit road. Katazawa returned to the parking lot and walked to his car.

The playwright and the young actor walked through the parklike hospital garden and headed for the patients’ wing. They walked down the hallway and stood in front of a private room. Checking the number, Takebe knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Takebe knocked again. There was still no answer. Takebe and Miyata looked at each other. At last the door opened.

“Yes?” Sachiko peeked out. Her face was flushed. Some of her lipstick had come off. Recognizing Takebe, she smiled and said, “Oh, please come in.”