The Case of the Sharaku Murders (29 page)

Ryohei wasn't that convinced.

That night Ryohei telephoned Yosuke.

“So you think the sketchbook's genuine?”

“Well, I…” Ryohei faltered. When asked point blank, he wasn't prepared to go that far. After all, both Minegishi and Kato thought it was a forgery, and
they
were the experts. “I'm pretty sure the illustrations are genuine, but the other two say the inscription was probably added later.”

“Does Minegishi agree about the illustrations?”

“More or less.”

“Well, he's the leading expert on Kiyochika in Japan. If
he
is convinced they're genuine, what's the problem? I mean, why would someone have felt the need to forge the inscription if the sketchbook was the real deal?”

“According to Kato, originally the sketchbook probably contained more pages but someone broke it up and rebound them into several smaller volumes. Since those were unsigned, the forged inscription and signature were added.”

“Hmm… a clever theory. I suppose it's possible. Not having seen the inscription I can't say, but if it
is
genuine then the dates in Sato's catalogue must be wrong.”

“Precisely. And what does
that
mean?” asked Ryohei, wondering what Yosuke might make of it all.

“What does it mean? Well, Kiyochika might have remembered the dates incorrectly or it could be a misprint… or maybe…”

“What?”

“Well, maybe the preface itself is a forgery.”

Ryohei sighed. The same thought had occurred to him.

“It's pretty unlikely,” said Yosuke, “that Kiyochika made a mistake. He's always very specific when it comes to dates. He probably looked it up in his diary. As for a misprint, that's unlikely too—there's not much text in the catalogue to begin with. One can't rule it out entirely, of course, but the chances the editor happened to screw up the dates seem pretty slim.”

Ryohei said nothing.

“So if the sketchbook and the inscription are genuine, then Kiyochika's preface must be a forgery,” concluded Yosuke.

Ryohei broke into a cold sweat. “But why in the world would someone want to forge it?” he countered. “Someone somewhere must have had something to gain from it. Behind every forgery there's a profit motive. In this case, however, no one's profited so far except us.”

“And Yoshimura. He's moving up in the world!” laughed Yosuke.

“Assuming the catalogue was published with the intention of increasing the value of Shoei's work,” said Ryohei, “then by now his name should be more widely known. “But it's not. He's still a nobody. No one had even
seen
the catalogue up until now, not even experts on Western-style painting, let alone ukiyo-e scholars. Very few copies must have been published. So who profited?”

“Yeah,” agreed Yosuke. “If anything, unscrupulous art dealers would have
removed
Shoei's signature before selling his paintings,” observed Yosuke.

“Right. So if Kiyochika's preface was forged, it seems the forgery was a failure.”

“I agree with you entirely,” Yosuke said to Ryohei's surprise. “So what does it all mean?” he asked puzzled.

“I suppose it means the inscription in the sketchbook
is
a forgery after all,” replied Ryohei.

“I guess that's the only possible conclusion based on what you've said… Anyway, until I've seen the sketchbook I can't say either way. By the way, what has Minegishi done with it?”

“Well, since the illustrations appear to be genuine, he's gone ahead and taken it home,” said Ryohei.

“So it's in Tokyo. Good. I'll contact him and ask to see it—I met him at Mr. Saga's house a number of times.”

“Thanks, Yosuke. I appreciate it.”

“Don't mention it. I'm curious to see it too. Oh, by the way, I wonder if you could send me a copy of Sato's catalogue?”

“Of course. The whole thing?”

“Yes. The front and back cover, too, if you don't mind.”

“Got it. I'll also send you a copy of the postcard.”

“What postcard?”

Ryohei explained. Would Yosuke mind looking up the address in Yokohama for him, he asked. Now that he'd begun to have his doubts about the catalogue, Ryohei said he didn't want to leave any stone unturned. Yosuke was intrigued. “I wish you'd shown it to me earlier,” he said reproachfully.

“I forgot all about it until now.”

“Well, anyway, it's probably nothing.”

Yosuke hung up the phone with a laugh.

January 29

YOSUKE was walking through Tsurumi ward, an old quarter of Yokohama.

In his hand he held a photocopy of a small-scale prewar map. He had circled one area on the map in red. He knew Tsurumi had been bombed heavily during the war and most of its houses destroyed, but as he walked he noticed the layout of the streets had changed very little. As he approached his destination, what he saw matched almost exactly what was on the map. This neighborhood seemed to have been spared the bombing.
What luck
,
he thought.

It must be just about here
…

Yosuke came to a stop and looked around. It was a hilly neighborhood. He was breathing heavily.

He walked from house to house peering at the nameplates on each one. Being broad daylight, he felt a bit uncomfortable. Passersby, who took him for a door-to-door salesman, steered clear.

“Ah-hah!”

He came to a nameplate that read “Matsushita.” It was an old house. Yosuke double-checked his map. No mistake about it—the house corresponded to the address on his map. He couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed at how easy it was to find. He had felt sure the house would have been destroyed long ago.

Mustering his resolve, Yosuke slid open the glass-paned wooden door. A bell sounded automatically.

A voice called out, “Who is it?”

An elderly woman appeared from inside the house and peered suspiciously at Yosuke, but she seemed to relax once she had taken in his appearance. She politely asked what he wanted. Yosuke explained the reason for his visit.

“Yes, we
have
lived here since before the war,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“I was looking for a Mr. Matsushita Yuji…”

“That would be my grandfather… He's no longer alive, of course.”

From his pocket Yosuke removed a copy of the postcard Ryohei had sent him from Morioka and unfolded it. It was addressed to
Matsushita Yuji, Tsurumi, Yokohama
,
followed by the house number. He showed it to the woman.

“My! This was sent to my grandfather. Where did you get it?”

“It was inside an old book I came across while doing some research.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you for taking the trouble to show it to me.” The woman seemed to have mistaken Yosuke for a public servant. She didn't bother to ask him what his “research” entailed. Yosuke decided to say nothing. “But that book has nothing to do with him,” she added. “I gave this postcard away after my grandfather died.”

“Gave away?”

“Everything of any sentimental value that belonged to him I gave away to friends and family. Now, let's see… Who was it I give all those postcards to? Some of them were quite rare. I seem to recall putting them together and giving them to someone.”

The woman asked Yosuke to wait a moment and disappeared into the house. Yosuke waited anxiously.

“I found it.”

The woman returned carrying an old notebook. Apparently she kept a record of everything of her grandfather's she had given away.

“Ah, that's right. I gave them to one of my nephews. His hobby was collecting stamps at the time and he begged me to let him have them.”

“When was that?” asked Yosuke.

“Let's see. Grandfather died six years ago…”

“That recently?”

“I wouldn't call that recent. My nephew's in college now.”

Yosuke was dumbfounded. Because the postcard was very old, he'd been assuming all this must have happened long ago.

The young man's name was Matsushita Yoshitake. After getting his address and telephone number, Yosuke left.

The address the woman had given him was somewhere in Gotanda in Tokyo, which happened to be on his way home. He called the number from a pay phone at Tsurumi station. Despite being a Saturday, the nephew was at home.

“Yes, this is Yoshitake…” the young man said, a note of caution creeping into his voice when he realized the call was from a total stranger. But as Yosuke explained his business he could hear the young man's tone relax.

“Oh, no!” he said, “So my aunt knows!” He laughed unapologetically.

At Yosuke's request, Yoshitake readily agreed to meet at a café outside Gotanda Station in one hour so Yosuke could ask him some more questions. Yosuke told the young man he would be able to recognize him by his green Burberry trench coat.

“Shall I wear a red carnation in my lapel?” Yoshitake responded with a laugh.

“He's just finished making a phone call. Now he's buying a ticket. Okay… Talk to you later.”

The man hurriedly hung up the phone and, trying hard to look innocent, began tailing Yosuke. He followed him to the station and upstairs to the train platform.

It was the young detective Onodera had met at the restaurant near the temple on the day of Professor Nishijima's funeral.

“Mr. Kokufu?” a young man sporting a pompadour called out to Yosuke as he entered the café. He was not very tall.

“You must be Yoshitake,” replied Yosuke.

The young man nodded, sucking on a straw. He wore a black leather jacket and baggy black trousers, with only a tee-shirt underneath his jacket. He was drinking a cream soda.

“Thanks for meeting me,” began Yosuke, sitting down across the table from Yoshitake.

“No problem. Gave me an excuse to get out of the house.”

“Meaning?”

“My mom… she's a real hard-ass. Told me I was grounded today,” laughed Yoshitake. “I crashed my friend's wheels the other day. When you called I was sure it was the cops.”

Yoshitake scratched his head in embarrassment.

“Let's see now,” said Yoshitake, searching his memory in response to Yosuke's question. “Sometime last spring, I think it was. I was in desperate need of cash so I sold the postcards along with my stamp collection. It was really traumatic—I'd slaved to scrape together that collection since I was in elementary school.”

Yosuke had trouble picturing someone like Yoshitake pouring over a beloved stamp collection day after day.

“What with one thing and another, I only got about a hundred thousand for the whole lot.”

“A hundred thousand yen—that's incredible!”

“You gotta be kidding. The retail value of the stamps
alone
was well over
seven
hundred grand,” said Yoshitake. “But the old man who ran the shop was giving me a lot of grief about them being in bad condition. It pissed me off but I was in a hurry to get my hands on the dough, so… I still get mad just thinking about it,” he grumbled.

“How many postcards were there?”

“About three hundred.”

“Wow, impressive.”

“People would give them to me when they heard I was collecting stamps. None of them was all that rare or anything, but in a shop they'd still fetch about three hundred yen each. Even at a hundred a pop, conservatively speaking, that comes to thirty thousand yen. And that jerk only gave me five thousand… What a slime ball,” complained Yoshitake as he ordered a glass of tomato juice from the waitress. “Anyway, now I'm screwed—it was supposed to be a secret. I never thought my aunt would find out.”

“I'm sorry. It just came up in the course of something I've been investigating.”

“Smells like foul play if you ask me,” joked Yoshitake.

Yosuke laughed. “By the way,” he asked. “Do you remember the name of the shop where you sold them?”

Yoshitake gave him the name of a place in Shinjuku. Yosuke knew it. It was small but advertised extensively in collector's magazines.

“Just mention my name—they'll know me. I've bought a lot of stuff from them over the years,” Yoshitake added as Yosuke was leaving.

All in all, a decent young man
,
thought Yosuke.

Yoshitake remained behind in the café, saying he was going to meet some friends.

It was getting on for six o'clock when Yosuke walked out of Shinjuku Station. He'd left his office at twelve—over five hours ago—and his stomach was growling, but he wanted to wind up his investigation as quickly as possible. The stamp shop Yoshitake had mentioned was on a back street behind the Mitsukoshi department store. Yosuke quickened his pace.