The Decagon House Murders (19 page)

Shimada Kiyoshi’s face appeared in his mind.

He wasn’t just some curiosity seeker. Morisu was of the opinion Shimada had a sharp mind. But his insensitive inquisitiveness, which Shimada seemed to think was acceptable, was something Morisu just couldn’t stand.

Of course it was normal to be intrigued by those curious letters. And, considering Shimada’s love of detective fiction, it was also natural he would dig into that case that happened last year.

Still, Morisu could only regret he himself had suggested a visit to Yoshikawa Sei’ichi’s wife. He had made the suggestion without thinking it through. What must Yoshikawa Masako have thought, when she was suddenly visited by strangers asking her this and that about her missing husband—who was also suspected of murder?

Morisu had proposed the “Nakamura Seiji is alive” theory after the duo’s report but, realistically speaking, it was impossible for Nakamura Seiji to still be alive. It was just a hypothesis he had posed to put an end to a silly detective game by a couple of detective story fans. But then Shimada had turned his attention to the motive behind the Tsunojima incident. He’d focused on the relationship between Kazue and Kōjirō and even suggested that Chiori might have been Kōjirō’s daughter. What’s more, he was planning to confront Kōjirō himself with that theory.

The smoke in his throat almost hurt. With a gloomy feeling, Morisu took another sip of his bitter coffee.

Thirty minutes had gone by and, just as Morisu was about to leave, a car stopped in front of Kawaminami’s building. It was a red Familia. Recognising the silhouette of the person who got out, Morisu stood up.

‘Kawaminami.’

He stepped out of the shop and yelled, and Kawaminami waved to him.

‘So it was you. I thought the bike looked familiar. There’s nobody in my building with anything off-road like that.’ Kawaminami was looking at the dirty, mud-covered motorbike—a Yamaha XT250—parked by the side of the road. ‘You came all the way to visit me?’

‘No, I was just passing by anyway,’ Morisu answered, tapping the knapsack hanging from his shoulder and pointing with his chin at the canvas holder set on the bike’s rear carrier rack.

‘I went to Kunisaki again today. On my way home now.’

‘How’s the painting going?’

‘I think tomorrow will be the last day. Come and see it when it’s finished.’

‘Hello, Morisu.’

Shimada had emerged from the driver’s seat and was looking at Morisu with a friendly smile. Morisu’s tone suddenly became solemn.

‘Good evening. Where did you go to today?’

‘Just a visit to Kō… no, a little drive to Beppu. You know, I’m getting along so well with Conan. We were planning to have some drinks in his room now.’

Morisu and Shimada followed Kawaminami up to his room. He quickly put away the futon mattress which was still lying on the floor, took out his folding table and prepared drinks.

‘Morisu, you too?’

‘No, I’m fine. I’m on my bike, remember?’

Shimada had headed straight for the bookcase and was looking at the spines of the tightly arranged books.

Watching Kawaminami preparing ice in his glass, Morisu asked:

‘And how’s the case going?’

‘Hmm.’ Kawaminami answered with a long face. ‘We went to S—Town yesterday, but we were only able to see Tsunojima from the beach and get to hear a couple of ghost stories.’

‘Ghost stories?’

‘The usual rumours, the ghost of Seiji roaming the island, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh. And today? You didn’t just go up there for a drive, I assume?’

A troubled look appeared on Kawaminami’s face and he grimaced.

‘Well actually….’

‘So you did go to see Mr. Kōjirō?’

‘Yes. Sorry for ignoring your warning.’

Kawaminami stopped mixing the whisky and water and looked down. Morisu sighed briefly and leant towards him.

‘And the result?’

‘We know most of what happened last year. Mr. Kōjirō told us. Mr. Shimada, your drink is ready.’

‘You mean you know the truth behind the case?’ Morisu asked in surprise.

Kawaminami nodded and gulped down his whisky and water.

‘And the truth is?’

‘
The incident was basically a forced suicide planned by Seiji
.’

And Kawaminami started to talk.

3

‘I planted that the year Chiori was born,’ said Kōjirō and he shivered slightly.

‘The wisteria?’

Shimada cocked his head, puzzled.

‘But why?’ he started, but then he mumbled ‘I see’ to himself. He turned to Kawaminami, who hadn’t understood any of it.

‘It’s the
Genji Monogatari
[xiv]
, Conan.’

‘The
Genji Monogatari
?’

‘Yes, I’m correct, I think, Kō?’

Shimada asked Kōjirō, who was standing on the veranda.

‘Hikaru Genji, who had been deeply in love with his father’s wife, Lady Fujitsubo, for many years, finally had relations with her for one single night. But she became pregnant and the two of them had to keep on betraying and deceiving their father and husband after that.’

Kōjirō considered his brother’s wife, Kazue, his Lady Fujitsubo.

Chiori, the child born out of sin. The birth had brought the two of them closer, but had also torn them apart. His heart, still longing for Kazue, had made him plant that wisteria. For Fujitsubo meant “wisteria pavilion.” Lady Fujitsubo never forgot about the sin she had committed with Hikaru Genji, nor would she ever forgive herself. And like Lady Fujitsubo, Kōjirō’s lover too would never….

‘You always said you liked
Genji Monogatari
.’

Shimada stood up from the sofa and walked up behind Kōjirō.

‘Seiji found out about you, didn’t he?’

‘No, I think my brother only had suspicions. I think half of him was suspicious and the other half was trying to deny it,’ answered Kōjirō, his eyes still fixed on the garden.

‘My brother had incredible talents, but as a human being, he was lacking something. He loved my sister-in-law passionately, but it was —how to put it—a twisted love, which had been overcome by a longing, a mad desire to keep her all for himself. That’s how I looked at it.

‘I think my brother himself was also aware of that. He knew that he wasn’t a good husband to her. That’s why he was always afraid, always suspecting her. I think he felt something close to fear for Chiori. But part of him still tried to believe, wanted to believe Chiori was his own daughter. That part of him that still believed in his bond with his wife was what kept his mind balanced those twenty years.

‘But then Chiori died. With the sudden death of his daughter—whom he had always tried to believe in, despite his fears—he lost the one bond that tied him to his wife. My brother was thrown back into a sea of suspicion. He suspected his wife didn’t love him, that her heart was elsewhere, that it lay with his own brother. And he brooded, suffered and finally broke… My brother killed her with his own hands.’

Kōjirō, his eyes fixed on the new leaves that had grown on the wisteria pavilion, didn’t move a muscle.

‘What happened on Tsunojima—that was a forced suicide planned by my brother.’

‘A forced suicide?’

‘Yes. That day, on the afternoon of September 19th, I did indeed receive a package from my brother, just as you said. Inside was a bloody left hand, sealed inside a plastic bag. I knew the ring on the ring finger. I instantly realised what had happened.

‘I telephoned the Blue Mansion. My brother answered, as if he had been waiting for me. He said, in a voice that was neither laughing nor crying: “The Kitamura couple and Yoshikawa died for me too. As a farewell gift for the two of us….”

‘He’d gone completely mad. That was all I understood. He didn’t listen to anything I said and was talking about how the two of them were heading for a new stage, something about the blessings of the grand darkness, that I needed to take good care of the present he’d sent me. And after going through all that, he hung up the phone.

‘There’s no way my brother is still alive. Even if the physical evidence says there is a possibility, I say the psychology doesn’t allow for it.
He didn’t die
because
he had killed my sister-in-law. He could not cope with living with her like that anymore, so that’s why he took her with him
.’

‘But Kō—.’

‘Shimada, and you too, Kawaminami. Nakamura Seiji is dead. He committed suicide. The couple of days between him murdering his wife and his own death weren’t for him to send her hand to me for revenge and to have me suffer. They were so he could hold in his arms the body of the wife who had always been too far to reach in life.’

Kōjirō didn’t speak again. Looking at his back, it appeared he had become smaller and older.

This figure staring motionlessly at the garden—what, Kawaminami asked himself, was he projecting upon the wisteria pavilion? The image of the murdered woman he had loved? The face of her murderer, his own brother? Or the image of his daughter who had died in a tragic accident?

It was just as Shimada had said: Kōjirō had been the father of the deceased Chiori.
So the person who should be hating the students who drove her to her death was
….

‘Kō, I want to ask you one more thing.’

Shimada broke the heavy silence.

‘What did you do with Kazue’s hand? Where is it now?’

Kōjirō didn’t say a word.

‘Kō, I….’

‘I know, you just want to know what really happened. You’ll say that you won’t tell the police, right? I know, Shimada.’

And Kōjirō pointed to the wisteria pavilion once again.

‘There. Her hand is buried beneath that tree.’

*

‘It was just as you said, Morisu.’

Kawaminami put away another whisky and water.

‘It may sound rude to Mr. Shimada, but we asked things we should never have asked about, I think. It doesn’t feel right.’

Morisu kept smoking silently.

‘Mr. Kōjirō declared that Nakamura Seiji wasn’t alive. I think that’s the truth. Now the only problem left is with the letters.’

‘What are your thoughts about the whereabouts of Yoshikawa Sei’ichi?’ asked Morisu, also including Shimada in the question.

‘Mr. Shimada seems to be interested in his disappearance too, but as the body hasn’t been found, I think he just fell into the sea and was washed away,’ replied Kawaminami and he looked at Shimada, who was sitting with his back leaning on the wall. He was reading a book he had taken from the bookcase, his glass in one hand. Had he, or had he not, been listening to their discussion?

‘Anyway—.’ Cheeks red from the alcohol, Kawaminami clapped his two hands softly together. ‘This is the end of playing detective. Maybe we’ll find out who wrote those strange letters when the gang returns from the island next Tuesday.’

CHAPTER NINE: THE FIFTH DAY

1

He felt as though he had seen one nightmare after another last night. He couldn’t remember what the dreams were about, but he knew he’d cried out in his sleep.

He’d kicked away his blanket, which lay next to his bed now. His shirt had become wrinkled from his restless sleep: he hadn’t undressed before getting into bed last night. His body was covered in perspiration, but his throat was completely dry. His lips were cracked and painful.

Leroux sat upright and, arms clutched around his torso, rocked his head slowly from side to side.

His headache had calmed somewhat. But in return, his mind appeared to have stopped working. A light mist seemed to be covering his whole consciousness. The distance between his body and the faculties which commanded it felt further than usual. No sense of reality.

The light that leaked through the gap between the shutters told him that the night was over.

Leroux’s heavy arms lifted the blanket up and put it on his lap.

A square screen came down in his foggy head. The four corners were black, the centre white, like an exposed film. On the screen were close-ups of all of the friends with whom he had arrived on the island four days ago.

Ellery, Poe, Carr, Van, Agatha and Orczy. Everyone, seven persons including himself, was enjoying this little adventure, each in his own way. At least, that’s what Leroux had done. Freedom on an uninhabited island. Their interest in a case which had happened in the past. A vague sense of thrill. Even if they came across a bit of trouble, it would prove to be a good stimulant and the week would pass quickly, he’d thought. It had turned out differently though.

Short hair with no thickness. Big, shifty eyes beneath thin but wide eyebrows. Red cheeks with freckles. Her face suddenly became bloated and purple, it trembled, it twisted and finally it went limp. The thin cord wrapped around her neck changed into a poisonous black snake, slithering around.

Oh, Orczy, Orczy, Orczy….

Leroux clenched his fists and hit himself on the head.
I don’t want to remember anything anymore.

But as if another person’s will was at work, the projector started rolling again. The screen wouldn’t go black.

A sardonic laugh, the corners of someone’s lips raised. A badly shaven chin. Hollow eyes, with white between the iris and the lower eyelid. Carr was next. His big-boned body twisted in pain. The shaking table. A chair kicking over. The violent convulsions, the vomit and finally, it was all over.

‘Why?’

He whispered.

‘Why all of this?’

The figure of Ellery falling into the darkness of the underground room. The grim voice of Poe. The pale face of Van. The hysterics of Agatha.

There is a murderer among the surviving friends. Or could someone else be hiding on the island?

Ellery had suggested that Nakamura Seiji might still be alive. Why would a man they’d never met, a man whose face they’d never seen, start trying to kill them?

A black shadow appeared on the screen in his mind. The figure’s outlines were vague, rippling as if under water.

Nakamura Seiji—the man who had built the Decagon House. The man thought to have been burnt in the Blue Mansion in September of last year. If he were still alive, he would be the one behind the murders now.

Nakamura Seiji… Nakamura…Nakamura.

‘Ah.’

A gasp escaped from his mouth.

‘
Nakamura
?’

Slowly, the black shadow started to take form. He searched for a thread tied to his memories within the maze of his blurry, half-sleeping mind and the shadow finally changed into a small, fair-skinned woman.

No, it can’t be
.

Was he still dreaming? Could it really be possible that Nakamura Chiori was the daughter of Nakamura Seiji?

Leroux hit himself with his fists again.

The city at night. The hustle and bustle. The cold wind. The bar of the after-after party. The light reflecting from their glasses. The sound of ice. The smell of alcohol. Cheers. Intoxication. Cacophony. Insanity. And then…from comedy a sudden change to drama. Confusion. The sound of sirens troubling their consciousness. The revolving red lights.

‘It just can’t be,’ he said more loudly.

He wanted to drown out the threatening buzz that became louder and louder in his ears.

But the buzz didn’t become less, only louder until it turned into a furious noise. His restless anxiety and impatience made his whole body perspire. The revolving red lights that symbolised all that had happened screamed and drove nails into his nerves.

Leroux held his head in his hands. He couldn’t handle it anymore, he wanted to cry out.

Suddenly a different scene was projected on the screen. The noise and light disappeared.

What’s this?
thought
Leroux, regarding the scene from afar.

What’s this? Where is this? It’s the sea. He could hear the sound. Close by. The smell of the tide. The rippling water surface. The waves climbing the black rock surface and receding again, leaving behind a white line. This is, this is….

…This happened yesterday
.

Leroux pushed his blanket away. His fear had gone, as if the heavy curtains that covered that part of his mind had been lifted.

He saw this scenery yesterday
. They were all standing on the cliffs near to the Blue Mansion, looking out for boats. It was the rocky area he had seen then, beneath the cliffs. He had climbed down there with Ellery two days ago, too. If he remembered correctly, at that time he also….

He felt like something had taken possession of him.

He knew he was not completely conscious yet.
It’s dangerous to go alone
, he thought for a second, but that thought was quickly engulfed by the fog in his mind.

Leroux slowly stepped out of bed.

*

Agatha carefully opened the door and peeked into the hall.

Nobody there. It didn’t seem as though anyone was up yet.

She’d had a good night’s rest, thanks to Poe’s sleeping tablets. She’d slept like the dead until she woke up moments ago. She didn’t remember having any dreams. It had been a satisfying sleep, almost baffling, considering the dangerous situation they were in.

Her body felt rested. Her nerves had also calmed down.

I should thank Poe
.

Agatha slowly tiptoed into the hall.

Hugging the wall, she quietly made her way to the bathroom. Her eyes scanned the space carefully, her ears alert to any noise.

Even in the morning light, the hall of the Decagon House appeared distorted. Her eyes were held by the strange shadows covering the white walls, not giving her a chance to take a good look around.

It really seemed as though no one was up yet. She could only hear the relentless noise of the waves.

She entered the bathroom and left the door half open, not forgetting to check the toilet and bath unit in the back for any surprises.

She stood in front of the dressing table and stared into the mirror. In the gloomy darkness, she saw herself dressed in a white one-piece dress.

The circles beneath her eyes had become less dark. But since coming to the island, her cheeks had become visibly hollow and she looked pale. That, coupled with her dull, dry hair made her even doubt whether she was really looking at herself.

Agatha sighed as she brushed her hair. Recalling not only the murders but also her own unseemly behaviour the previous night, she sighed again.

She wanted to be beautiful and dignified always. Always, no matter what happened, no matter where she found herself. She had always prided herself on being such a woman.

But the face she had just washed, looking back at her in the mirror….

It wasn’t beautiful. Not a hint of dignity.

Nothing to save her.

I should use some brighter make-up
.

Agatha pondered as she opened her make-up pouch. Abnormal murders, abnormal circumstances, abnormal ideas. This was the only consolation she had within this maddening, abnormal reality.

Today I won’t use my rose-pink lipstick, but the red one
.

She didn’t care anymore for how the others looked at her on this island. All she had on her mind was what she could see in the mirror.

2

Van was woken by the alarm of his wristwatch.

Ten in the morning? Got to get up.

His shoulders were stiff and his joints hurt. He hadn’t had as much sleep as he’d hoped. He put his fingers to the eyelids of his puffy eyes. He felt nausea in his stomach.

Are the others still asleep?

He sat upright and listened for any noise as he lit a cigarette. He felt dizzy when the smoke reached his lungs. He knew both his body and mind were completely drained.

Will I be able to make it back home safely?

He stared aimlessly into nothing as he thought the case over in his mind.

To be honest, he was scared. Incredibly afraid. If possible, he would burst out in tears like a little child and run away back home.

A shudder went through his body, after which Van put his cigarette out and got up.

He went out in the hall and noticed that a door to his left, two rooms away, was half-open. It was the bathroom, one door before the kitchen.

Someone’s up already, he thought.

But even so, I don’t hear anything. Someone probably went to the toilet and forgot to close the door.

The door opened towards the kitchen. Van approached the door from the right, circling round the centre table. He couldn’t hear anything.

He put his left hand on the back of each of the blue chairs that surrounded the table. He could hear the beat of his heart grow louder. As he came closer, he could see more of the bathroom through the half-open door. And then he saw it.

‘Ah!’

Van let out a faint cry, as if he was being strangled. He felt his whole body tremble. He was frozen to the spot.

A white figure was lying beyond the door to the bathroom.

A delicate lace one-piece dress. A thin, lifeless arm extended. Black hair spread across the floor. It was the body of Agatha, totally lifeless.

‘A…A….’

Van stood still, his right hand to his mouth. In the back of his throat, the impulse to yell out and the urge to throw up were competing. His voice wouldn’t follow his command.

He put a hand on a chair, his body bent forward. With shaky legs he desperately made his way to Poe’s room.

*

The violent beating on his door made Poe sit up.

‘What? What’s the matter?’

It only took a moment for him to banish sleep, push his blanket away, roll out of bed and rush to the door.

‘Who is it? What happened?’

There was no answer.

The beating on the door stopped and in its place came a soft whimpering noise. Poe unlocked the door quickly and turned the knob. But something was blocking the door.

‘Hello, who’s there?’

He put his body weight against the door and pushed it open with his shoulders. He managed to squeeze into the hall through the gap he made.

It was Van who was leaning against the door. Both hands were pressed against his mouth and his back trembled pitifully.

‘What’s the matter, Van? You okay?’

Poe placed his hand on Van’s back. Holding one hand to his mouth, Van pointed with the other hand towards the door of the bathroom adjacent to Poe’s room.

‘Hmm?’

The door was half open. He couldn’t see inside from where he was.

‘What’s there?’

‘A-Agatha….’

Van had not even finished what he was trying to say when Poe cried out, removing his hand from Van’s back.

‘Agatha? But Van, are you yourself all right?’

Van nodded, still whimpering painfully. Poe reached the bathroom. He peered inside through the half open door.

‘Ellery! Leroux! Wake up! Get up now!’ Poe bellowed.

*

Ellery was awakened by the violent beating on someone’s door.

It wasn’t his door. He had guessed that something had happened when a deep voice cried out.

‘That’s Poe. That means….’

Ellery quickly got out of bed and grabbed his cardigan. His right ankle wrapped in bandages no longer felt as painful as before.

He could still hear Poe. It seemed as if he were talking to Van. Then he then heard him crying out even louder.

‘Agatha?’