Inspector Imanishi Investigates

SIX The Distribution Of Dialects

Imanishi couldn’t put the Tohoku dialect and the word “Kameda” out of his mind. It was possible that the witnesses had mistaken the accent, but he didn’t think so.

He went out and bought a map of Okayama Prefecture. Miki Ken’ichi had lived in Emi-machi. Starting from there, Imanishi searched the map for Kameda. At first he looked for place names starting with the character “Kame.” The name Kamenoko jumped out at him, but Kameda and Kamenoko didn’t sound similar. He searched further, but could find no other locations beginning with “Kame.” He felt teased by Kamenoko. It had leapt from the map to mock his frustration. He folded the map up. It was time for him to head to work.

The train was crowded. Imanishi was pushed up against the backs of the other commuters. He gazed absently at the posters in the train. One poster was fluttering in the draft from an open window. It was an advertisement for a magazine. He read the words “Trip’s Design” and wondered if trips really have designs. Recent advertisements were so strangely worded that it was impossible to figure out what they meant. Imanishi got off the train at Shinjuku Station and changed to the subway. He saw the same advertisement there. He suddenly thought of something completely unrelated to the posters.

When he arrived at police headquarters, Imanishi went straight to the Public Information Department, which served as headquarters’ public relations arm. Because various pamphlets were published here, this office had a collection of reference books. The section chief was also Imanishi’s former supervisor.

“Hey, it’s unusual to see you here.” The Public Information section chief smiled at Imanishi, who bowed. “I didn’t think I’d see you in a place like this.” Then he joked, “Oh, I know. You’re looking for a book on haiku, right?”

“No, but I’d like to ask you something, if I may,” Imanishi said, a bit stiffly.

“What do you need?” the section chief asked.

“Well, I came to you, sir, because I know you are an expert on many things.”

“I’m not really much of an expert.” The section chief grinned. “But if it’s something I know, I’d be glad to help you.”

“It’s about the Tohoku dialect,” Imanishi began.

“The Tohoku dialect?” The chief scratched his head. “Sorry, but I was born in Kyushu, in the south. I don’t know much about the Tohoku dialect.”

“What I’d like to know is if there are other places in Japan besides the Tohoku region where the Tohoku dialect is spoken.”

“Hmm.” The section chief cocked his head. “You mean if they speak it in a certain locale, not if one individual might speak it. You mean if the population of a certain area speaks that dialect, right?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“I wonder if that’s a possibility.” The section chief thought it over as he puffed on his cigarette, but he looked doubtful. “I think the Tohoku dialect is unique to the northeastern region. But I have something that might tell you more.”

He stood up and took from the bookshelf behind him a volume from a set of encyclopedias. He hoisted the heavy volume onto his desk and turned the pages. Finding an article, he skimmed through it.

“Read this part here,” he said, pushing the book toward Imanishi.

Imanishi read the article covering different theories on the distribution of dialects. It was of no help.

“You don’t look very happy,” the Public Information chief commented. “Weren’t you satisfied with the article?”

“It’s not that. I wanted to confirm something about dialects to see if I had a usable clue or not.”

“And what would satisfy you would be to find out that the Tohoku dialect is used in some other region. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Imanishi nodded. “But from reading this, I’m convinced that there’s no possibility.”

“Hold on a minute,” the Public Information chief said, thinking of something. “This encyclopedia only gives summaries. It might be better for you to take a look at a more specialized book.” He drummed on the edge of his desk. “A university classmate of mine is a Japanese language specialist at the Ministry of Education. He might be able to give you some information. I’ll call him right now.”

After talking to his friend on the telephone he turned to Imanishi. “He wants you to go to his office and talk to him directly. I’ll write you an introduction if you want to see him.”

“Yes, I’d like to talk to him,” Imanishi said.

Imanishi got off the train at Hitotsubashi and walked toward the Imperial Palace moat until he came to a weathered white building. It was a small structure with a sign at the entrance identifying it as the National Language Research Center.

He gave his name card to the receptionist. A thin man in his forties came down the stairs, Kuwahara, the Ministry of Education specialist who was the Public Information chief’s classmate.

“So you’re wondering if the Tohoku dialect is used in some other region?” Kuwahara said.

“Yes. I’ve come to ask you if there is a region like that.”

“1 wonder,” the specialist cocked his head. “There are a few instances of the Tohoku dialect being used in areas settled by people from Tohoku. For example, there is an area in Hokkaido that was settled by aa entire village from the Tohoku area, and so the dialect is spoken there. But I haven’t heard of any places on the main island of Honshu. Just what is it that you are checking on? I assume that it’s related to a case.”

Imanishi described the case briefly.

The specialist thought for a while and asked, “Was it really the Tohoku dialect?”

“The witnesses said it sounded like it. The victim and his companion had only a short conversation, so we can’t be certain, but all five witnesses said it seemed to be Tohoku dialect.”

“Is that so? And yet they were not from the Tohoku region?” the specialist asked.

“We discovered later that one of the men-the victim-was not from that area at all. He was from Okayama Prefecture, in the opposite direction.”

“What? Okayama Prefecture?” The specialist muttered to himself. He thought hard for a moment, and said, “Please wait a minute,” and stood up.

He walked over to a bookcase and pulled out a volume. He stood there reading for a while. When he walked back over to where Imanishi sat waiting, he was smiling.

“This book is about the dialects in the Chugoku region.” The specialist handed the thick volume to Imanishi. “Here, why don’t you read this section?”

From the look on the specialist’s face, Imanishi could guess what he had discovered. He eagerly read the passage indicated.

The Chugoku dialect refers to the spoken language of the Sanyo and San’in routes composed of the five prefectures of Okayama, Hiroshima, Yamaguchi, Tottori, and Shimane. The dialect is subdivided into two groups. One is named Unho dialect from the three areas of Izumo, Oki, and Hoki; and the other, used in other areas, we shall term Chugoku main dialect.

Examples of Unho dialect include the existence of the labial sound in the “h’s”; the faintness of the sounds “ie.” “shisu,” and “chitsu”; the existence of the sound “kwo”; and the dominance of the “shye” sound. This has caused scholars to expound various theories to explain the similarities in phonemic phenomena between two widely separated regions. One theory is that the Japan Sea coast region once was in a single phonemic unit that was invaded by the Kyoto area dialect, splitting the linguistic region… The phonemics of Izumo are similar to those of the Tohoku dialect.

When Imanishi had read this far, his heart started pounding. There was another region where the Tohoku dialect was spoken.

Kuwahara had found another source for Imanishi. This was called Map of Japanese Dialects.

“This map illustrates that hypothesis.” Kuwahara pointed.

The map used different colors to indicate the dialect regions. The Tohoku area was colored yellow. The Chugoku region was blue. But within the Chugoku region, one section of Izumo was colored yellow.

“It’s amazing,” Imanishi said, letting out a big sigh.

“This is the first that I’ve heard of it. Thanks to your question, I’ve learned something myself,” the specialist said.

“Thank you very much,” Imanishi said and stood up.

“Has this been helpful?”

“Yes, it’s been very helpful. Thank you for your time.”

It had been worth it to come all this way. Indeed, the results exceeded his expectations. Miki Ken’ichi was from Okayama Prefecture, which was right next to the Izumo area.

Before catching the streetcar, Imanishi stepped into a nearby bookstore and bought a map of Shimane Prefecture. Unable to wait until he reached headquarters, he went into the coffee shop next door to the bookstore. He ordered an ice cream that he didn’t even want and spread the map out on the table. Now he was searching the Izumo area for the syllables “Kame.” The map was full of tiny characters that looked like small insects. It was difficult for him to read each name. Going to the window he searched methodically from the right-hand edge of the map. All of a sudden he found it. There was a town beginning with “Kame.”

Kamedake was west of Yonago, near Shinji. Deep in the hinterlands of Izumo, Kamedake was right in the middle of the zu-zu accent region he’d seen at the Language Research Center. It appeared from the map that Kamedake was a small area bounded on three sides by mountains with the only opening toward the Shinji side. Kameda and Kamedake sounded very much alike. The evidence was finally coming together.

Imanishi hadn’t forgotten that Miki’s adopted son had said, “Father had been a policeman.” Had he been a policeman in Shimane Prefecture? He felt he was on the right track now. He felt a surge of excitement flow through him. When he reached headquarters, he hurried to his section chief. Showing him the map, he explained the linguistic theory in detail from the notes he had taken.

“You’ve made quite a discovery.” The section chief’s eyes glowed. “I think you’re right. So what are you going to do about it?”

“I thought,” Imanishi responded, forcing himself to remain calm, “that since Miki’s son told us that his father had been a policeman before he opened his general store, it’s possible that Miki was stationed in this Kamedake. I’d guess that Miki and the man with him in that bar had known each other when he was stationed there. Perhaps the other man had once lived in Kamedake.”

The section chief took a deep breath and said, “You may be right. Let’s ask the Shimane Prefecture police to find out whether a Miki Ken’ichi ever served as a policeman there. That’s the next step.”

“I’d be grateful if you’d do that,” Imanishi said.

Three days later they received a response from the Shimane prefec-tural police. The section chief showed Imanishi the report as soon as he came in that morning.

As a result of the investigation concerning Miki Ken’ichi, we have discovered that said person served as a policeman in the Shimane Prefecture Police Department from 1928 until 1938. Said person’s record was as follows:

February 1928: officially appointed as Shimane Prefecture policeman, assigned to Matsue station. June 1929: transferred to Kisuki station, Ohara county; January 1933: promoted to chief of police; March 1933: transferred to Minari station, Nita town, Nita county, assigned to Kamedake substation. 1936: promoted to assistant inspector, became chief of patrol at Minari police station. December 1, 1938: retirement at own request.

Imanishi sighed involuntarily.

“It’s just what you thought, isn’t it?” the section chief said, still at his side. “Miki was a policeman in the hinterlands of Izumo for a long time.”

“That’s right.” Imanishi felt as if he were half dreaming. This time, there was no mistake. For the first time, he felt that he could see the light at the end of a dark maze. He immediately took the map out of his pocket. Kisuki station and Minari station were both in the area where the Izumo dialect was spoken. Miki had spent ten years as a policeman there. No wonder he spoke with a zu-zu accent.

According to Imanishi’s research at the language center, the people of this area swallowed the ends of words. What the witnesses had heard as Kameda had actually been Kamedake.

Imanishi boarded the Izumo limited express at Tokyo Station. It was scheduled to depart at ten-thirty p.m. Usually he traveled with someone, but this time he was alone. For a change, Yoshiko came to the station to see him off.

“What time will you get in?” she asked as they walked along the platform.

“Tomorrow night about eight, I think.”

“That’s over twenty hours. It’s a long way away, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a long way.”

“I’m sorry that you’ll have to be on the train for so long,” Yoshiko said sympathetically.

Yoshiko waved good-bye as the train pulled out of the platform. Imanishi leaned out the window and waved back.

The train was rather empty. Imanishi pulled out the small bottle of whiskey that Yoshiko had given him and took a few sips. In front of him sat a middle-aged woman and a child. She was already leaning against the back of the seat asleep. For a while he read the newspaper, but soon he, too, felt sleepy. There was no one sitting beside him, so he lay across the seat and folded his arms. He used the arm rest as a pillow for a while, but the back of his head started to hurt. He shifted around, but he still felt cramped. Eventually he fell asleep. In his sleep he heard them announce Nagoya Station. He shifted around again.

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 speak 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 collected 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.”

The old gentleman’s long account ended. Imanishi couldn’t help but be disappointed. The more he heard, the more upright Miki seemed. Imanishi felt a secret professional pride that there had been such a policeman in this hinterland. But along with gratification, he felt a sense of futility. He had come convinced that something in Miki’s days as a policeman must have been the cause of his death, but Kirihara’s discourse yielded not even a glimpse of a reason. Imanishi thanked Kirihara, but his expression was sad.

“I’d like to ask you one last question,” Imanishi said. “Is there anyone from Kamedake who lives in Tokyo now?”

“Let me see,” the old man cocked his head. “This is such a small village, quite a few have left for the city. Their relatives get letters, so I would naturally hear if someone were in Tokyo. I can’t recall hearing about anyone moving to Tokyo.”

“A young man about thirty years old? Is there someone that age who has moved to Tokyo?”

“I haven’t heard of anyone. I’m one of the old ones here and I run this shop, so I hear most things.”

“Is that so? Well, you must excuse me.” Imanishi started to stand up.

“Since you’ve come such a long way, please stay a little longer. I don’t have anything more to add about Miki-san, but I’d like to show you the box for the haiku themes. Do you compose haiku?”

“I’m very interested in haiku.”

“In that case, you must stay. I’ll have the box brought out to show you. There’s no one now who can even pretend to do similar work. Since you’ve come all this way, you have to take a look.”

Kirihara clapped his hands together to call for a servant.

Imanishi spent some two hours at the old gentleman’s house. Before he left, he had been shown the poetry theme box and the poems written on stiff-backed paper left by the haiku poets of old. The poems, too, were stored as family treasures.

Imanishi enjoyed seeing them and would normally have lost track of time, but he was troubled. The victim had been too fine a man.

He was driven back in the same jeep. When they reached the outskirts of the village, he saw the police substation. Imanishi asked to stop. Looking into the substation, he saw a young policeman at a desk, writing. In the adjoining living area, a blue rattan blind swung in the breeze. This was the substation where Miki had been posted. It looked as if it had remained unchanged from Miki’s day. Imanishi felt as if he were visiting a memorial.

Imanishi had come back from Kameda in Akita Prefecture with something like a lead. But Kamedake yielded nothing.