The Tokyo Zodiac Murders (15 page)

We sat down in a coffee shop and passed the time sipping fruit juice slowly—very slowly. When it was almost five, Kiyoshi suddenly stood up and went to a payphone. He talked for a while, and then came back.

“I got it!” was all he said. I grabbed my things and followed him out of the door.

The street was getting crowded with people finishing work. Kiyoshi walked straight through the crowd, crossing the bridge over the Kamo River.

“So where does he live?”

“In Neyagawa, on the way to Osaka. We can take the Keihan Line train from over there.”

The station was straight ahead of us.

From the platform we could see the river slowly changing colour as evening approached.

We got off at Korien Station. The Chinese characters of the name meant “garden in a fragrant village”, so I had imagined a pleasant wooded area. The place was anything but that. From what I could see, it consisted mostly of small bars and nightclubs with gaudy neon signs that had just been turned on to attract the first customers of the evening. Some office workers who had clearly started drinking early came weaving
down the street, and several hostesses with heavy make-up passed us on their way to work.

It was completely dark by the time we located the address Okawa had given us. The manager of the block was out, so we went upstairs and started knocking on doors again. A middle-aged woman said she’d never heard of anyone named Yasukawa.

We were luckier with another tenant. “Someone moved out just the other day,” he said. “I think his name was Yasukawa. We never spoke to each other, so I don’t know where he moved to. Why don’t you ask the manager?”

Kiyoshi couldn’t hide his disappointment. But we tried the manager’s office again and, to our surprise, we found he’d just come back from an errand.

“I don’t know where the family moved to,” he said, trying to be cooperative. “It seemed they didn’t want to tell anyone, and I didn’t push the matter. They must have been depressed, because the grandfather had just died.”

“Died?!” Kiyoshi and I exclaimed at the same time.

“You mean Tamio Yasukawa?” Kiyoshi asked.

“Tamio? Oh, right, it was something like that.”

So Yasukawa had died here in Osaka. I felt demoralized. Now there was no way of learning what his life had been like. He had lived in Tokyo, he had been in the war, and he had moved to Osaka. And his life had ended in this old apartment with its cracked walls.

Unexpectedly, the manager was able to provide us with some new information. He told us that Yasukawa had not lived alone. He had a daughter, who was probably in her thirties. She was married to a carpenter and they had two children.

The light bulb in the corridor flickered, and the manager gave it a hateful glance every time the light dimmed.

My heart had sunk into a bitter sadness. I felt like a kid who had been caught misbehaving. We were on the trail of a poor guy who couldn’t have had a happy life and had just expired. This wasn’t an adventure any more. It seemed somehow profane to be poking around in this old man’s personal history—a profanity against all humanity.

Kiyoshi seemed to be lost in thought, too.

“If you really want to know where they went,” the manager volunteered, “you could ask the freight company. They were here just last month, so I remember their name—Neyagawa Freight. They’re located right in front of Neyagawa Station.”

We thanked him and left.

“What time is it?” Kiyoshi asked.

“Ten to eight.”

“Then we can still make it,” he said, apparently cheered. “Let’s go to Neyagawa Freight!”

We walked back to the station and took the train to Neyagawa.

It was easy to find the company, but too late to talk to anyone. From a sign that read “
MOVING? CALL US!
” Kiyoshi took down the company’s phone number. He would call the next morning. Then we headed back to Emoto’s apartment.

And so ended Friday, 6th April.

The next morning I was awakened by the sound of Kiyoshi’s voice; he was talking with someone on the phone. It was late enough for Emoto to have left for work already. I got up, put the futon away in the wardrobe, and went to the kitchen for some coffee.

When I entered the living room to offer Kiyoshi a cup, he was just finishing his call. He ripped off a memo from his pad and said, “Yasukawa’s daughter is in Higashi-yodogawa in Osaka. I couldn’t get her exact address, but the freight company guy said it was close to the bus station at Toyosato-cho, down an alley, and near a pancake shop called Omichi-ya. Her husband’s name is Kato. Let’s get going!”

When we arrived at Toyosato-cho, we could see in the distance the iron bridge across the Yodo River. The area was undeveloped. Old tyres were scattered over stretches of vacant land overgrown with weeds. The road, however, seemed newly paved. We went down an alley between a cluster of shacks and soon found the pancake shop. There were several modest apartment complexes beyond. From the names on the postboxes, we soon located the Katos’ apartment.

We climbed the wooden stairs, and made our way to their apartment, pushing our way through laundry drying in the
passageway. Their window was slightly open, and we could hear the sound of dishes being washed and a baby crying.

Kiyoshi knocked, and shortly afterwards a woman opened the door. She had no make-up on, and her hair was unkempt. It was Yasukawa’s daughter. Kiyoshi began to explain the purpose of our visit, but she interrupted him before he could get very far.

“I have nothing to say about it! My father didn’t do anything. We have been bothered enough. Leave us alone!” She slammed the door, which caused the baby to wail even louder.

Kiyoshi stood in front of the door, unmoving. He looked dismayed.

I had been surprised to hear Yasukawa’s daughter speak in the Kanto dialect; we were deep in the Kansai area, and all I had heard in the last two days was variations of the Kansai dialect.

As we walked away from the apartment building, Kiyoshi said quietly, “I knew that she would refuse to talk to us. Her father would have, too, if he was still alive. I just wanted to see Yasukawa on behalf of Bunjiro Takegoshi. Oh, let’s forget about Yasukawa and his daughter.”

“What shall we do then?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go back to Kyoto.”

So, with barely a plan in mind, we got on a train.

En route, Kiyoshi, who’d been deep in thought, abruptly said. “Kazumi, now that you’re in Kyoto, why don’t you take the opportunity to do a little sightseeing? I highly recommend Arashiyama, where the cherries should be in full bloom. You can change trains at the next stop, Katsura. Here’s a guidebook.
I want to be alone so I can concentrate. I’ll see you back at Emoto’s apartment.”

I got off the train at Arashiyama and headed towards the river. Kiyoshi was right about one thing: the cherry blossoms there were gorgeous.

A
maiko
—a young girl training to be a geisha—passed by, drawing the attention of everyone. She was in a kimono and walking with a teenage boy whose hair was dyed blond. He had a camera hung from his neck. Her thick-soled wooden sandals made a pleasant, soft sound with each step she took.

I followed the crowds over the Katsura River. The bridge, according to the guidebook, is called Togetsu-kyo, which means “the bridge crossing over the moon”. Supposedly, when the moon is reflected in the surface of the river, you get the feeling that you are indeed floating above the moon.

Nearby was a tiny shrine. But as I approached it, I realized that in fact it was a phone booth in the shape of a shrine. I thought about calling someone from it as a novelty, but no one came to mind.

After lunch, I took a ride on a tram. This simple activity delighted me, as Tokyo no longer has trams. I recalled reading in a mystery novel once that the detective was struck by inspiration while riding a tram. It struck me that today good old mystery novels are just as obsolete as trams!

I had no idea where the tram was going and got off at the last stop. It was Shijo-Omiya. I walked along a busy street and suddenly found myself back at Shijo-Kawaramachi. Did all roads in Kyoto lead to Shijo-Kawaramachi?

From there, I headed to the famous Kiyomizu Temple. I walked up the stone pavement of Sannen-zaka and stopped at a small teahouse for a cup of sweet
amazake
rice wine. Then I wandered on.

In front of a small curio shop, a woman dressed in a kimono was splashing water on the pavement to wash the dust away. She was careful not to splash me, and it occurred to me how much I appreciated her thoughtfulness.

I returned to Shijo-Kawaramachi. I was tired from all this strenuous tourism, and decided to return to Emoto’s apartment.

Emoto was already back from work.

“Oh, you’re back! Did you enjoy your sightseeing?”

“Yes, it was wonderful.”

“What happened to Kiyoshi?”

“We separated on the train… Well, actually, he abandoned me!” Emoto scowled, half-amused, half-sympathetic.

As we were preparing the tempura for dinner, Kiyoshi came back in a daze, as if he was sleepwalking. Other than the barest hello, he said nothing.

Over dinner he was no different. Emoto’s food was excellent, but Kiyoshi didn’t seem to notice it.

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” the chef said to him. “It’s my day off, so how about a drive to northern Kyoto? I know you’re busy, but, according to Kazumi, what you’re doing here is mostly brainwork. Why don’t you come for the ride? You can work in the car.”

Kiyoshi nodded obediently. “All right—as long as you allow me to sit quietly in the back.”

Kiyoshi didn’t utter a word while Emoto was driving us to Sanzen-in, a temple in Ohara, north of Kyoto. He sat in the backseat like a statue of Buddha.

We stopped at a restaurant in Ohara for some fine
kaiseki
Zen cuisine. Even when Emoto was explaining the traditional dishes, Kiyoshi’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.

Emoto and I got on well, and I was pleased to have the opportunity of visiting many places around Kyoto: Doshisha University, Kyoto University, Nijo Castle, Heian Shrine, the Imperial Palace and the Uzumasa film studio.

In the evening, Emoto treated us to a sushi dinner in Kawaramachi and then took us to a very attractive coffee shop that played only classical music.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable day, even though we made no progress on the case.

When I woke up the next morning, Kiyoshi and Emoto had both already gone.

I ate breakfast near the station and then started walking nowhere in particular. I went into a shopping mall, and then crossed a creek into a playground. Several groups of joggers passed by. I tried to bring my focus back to the case.

The case of the Zodiac Murders was no ordinary mystery.
It had achieved such stature that people’s lives had even been ruined by it. One person had sold all his property to finance his research on the case. Another man had gone crazy and killed himself by leaping from a cliff into the Japan Sea. Was I to be sacrificed at the altar of this mystery, too?

I decided to go back to Kawaramachi. I’d been charmed by the coffee shop that played classical music and thought I’d take refuge there. Then maybe I’d stop at a bookshop to buy a book on illustration.

As I waited on the platform for the local train, an express zipped by, causing some loose litter to get blown around. Suddenly, I recalled the view by the river in Toyosato-cho—the vacant land, the weeds, the discarded tyres. I thought about Yasukawa’s daughter. Not being able to talk to her had left a huge hole in our investigation. We needed her story—however much she could tell us. That did it. I stood up, went down the stairs and over to the other side of the tracks. I was going back to see her.

It was slightly after four when I arrived at Toyosato-cho. Not much was going on around the station. There were just some street concessions selling
okonomiyaki
pancakes and
takoyaki
octopus-filled dumplings, both favourite Kansai snacks. I walked towards the bridge over the Yodo River, went down the alley again, located the pancake shop, and started up the stairs of the apartment block. That was when uncertainty set in.

Would she be willing to talk to me at all? The Umezawa murders were not a pleasant thing, but she had to have had at least a slight interest in her father’s involvement in the case.
Maybe I should bring up Takegoshi’s note. Our connection with him surely distinguished us from the hordes of amateur detectives who’d knocked on their door. I could say I was a close friend of Takegoshi’s daughter. It was a lie, but I had to do what I had to do. What I wanted was to get even the slightest clue that Heikichi Umezawa had not died. Also, I had this profound interest in what Yasukawa’s life had been like after the case. If Heikichi had not been murdered, maybe they had stayed in touch?

This time, there was no laundry in the passageway. I knocked on the door. She answered, making no attempt to hide her annoyance at seeing me again.

“I’m very sorry, please excuse me, I mean no disrespect, I’m really very sorry,” I said, bowing and bowing. I was trying to get a few words inside the door before she slammed it in my face. “I came here by myself. I have some new information about the case, and I wanted to tell you about it…”

I probably looked very serious—and maybe a little silly—apologizing so profusely. She smiled, and then she slowly stepped out of the door. “Let’s go to the riverbank,” she said. “My child likes being outside.”

Once there, I started talking, barely pausing for breath. Oddly, she didn’t seem as interested in my story as I expected. She did listen, though, and then she began to talk.

“Well, Mr Ishioka, what can I tell you? I was raised in Tokyo. Our house was near Hasunuma Station on the Ikegami Line, but my mother used to walk to Kamata in order to save money,” she said, smiling cynically. “My parents didn’t tell me about their younger days, so I don’t know how much help I can give you. What I do know is, after the Umezawa murders, my father was
drafted into the army. He was injured in the war; his right arm was paralysed. When he got back to Japan, he met my mother and married her. They were happy in the beginning, but then my father slipped into a rather sleazy lifestyle. We fell into poverty and lived on welfare, while he gambled. He went to the Omori and Oi racetracks every day. My mother was forced to work. Our apartment had just one, six-tatami-mat room. It was too small for the three of us, but there was no choice. My father got drunk and abused my mother daily. Sometimes he hallucinated, insisting that he saw acquaintances who were no longer alive…”

I had to interrupt. “Who were they? Did he mention Heikichi Umezawa?”

“I thought you would ask that. Yes, I heard him mention Umezawa, but how could we trust my father? Mostly, he didn’t make any sense. He was probably high from alcohol or drugs. You see, he used morphine occasionally.”

“If your father really saw Umezawa, then your father would have been a very important witness in the case.”

Excitedly, I told her about my theory: Heikichi had killed his double and disappeared; he murdered Kazue to keep his crimes a secret; only Heikichi had the motivation to commit the Azoth murders…

Mrs Kato’s interest in the case seemed to dwindle further. She bounced her baby up and down on her back, letting the wind blow through her hair.

“Did your father mention anything about Azoth?” I asked.

“Well, he might have said something, but I was small at that time… I think I heard the name Heikichi Umezawa mentioned again recently, but I have no interest in the case or that person.
I still feel disgusted when I hear his name. It only brings back bad memories. Total strangers used to badger us. Once I came home and found a man sitting inside our apartment, waiting for my father, wanting to ask some ridiculous question. We had no privacy, and I lived in embarrassment every day. Even today, I’m angry about it. That’s one of the reasons we moved to Kyoto.”

“I’m very sorry. You have endured so much hardship already, and I’ve only added to it. I’m very sorry I bothered you.”

“Please don’t apologize. I am sorry for the other day. You arrived at a terrible time, and I lost my temper.”

“You’re very kind, and I thank you for talking to me. Is your mother well?”

“She divorced my father. She wanted to take me with her, but he refused. After she left, he was a good father to me. I was sorry that he had to leave a job he liked. We were poor, but many people were very poor then, so I never felt humiliated about our living conditions.”

“Did your father have any close friends?”

“He gambled and drank with different people, but he had only one close friend, Shusai Yoshida. My father had great admiration for him.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes, he is.”

“What does he do?”

“I believe he’s a Chinese-style fortune-teller. He was probably about ten years younger than my father. They met in a bar in Tokyo.”

“In Tokyo?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Was your father interested in fortune-telling, too?”

“I don’t think so. My father liked Mr Yoshida because dollmaking was an interest they had in common.”

“Doll-making?”

“Yes, I think that’s why they became friendly. After Mr Yoshida moved to Kyoto, so did my father.”

“Did you talk about this to the police?”

“To the police? Why should I? No, never.”

“What about all those amateur private detectives? Did you tell them anything about this?”

“No, no. You are the first person.”

“I’d like to ask you two more questions. From what you heard from your father, do you think Heikichi Umezawa is alive? And do you think that he really made Azoth?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t listen to my father seriously. He seemed to believe that Umezawa was still alive, but—let me tell you this again—my father had lost his senses. If you had met him, you would have seen that. Why don’t you meet with Mr Yoshida? He would be much more reliable. My father trusted him completely. I don’t think he would fabricate the truth.”

“Where does he live?”

“I’ve only met him once, and I don’t have his address or phone number. I believe he lives near the Karasuma Garage in Kita Ward, Kyoto. It’s at the end of Karasuma Street. If you ask someone, I’m sure they’ll know where it is.”

I thanked her and said I would be leaving. She walked away, lulling her baby. She didn’t turn back to look at me.

I climbed down the riverbank, and walked into the reeds, following a narrow path towards the water. The reeds were taller than me, giving me the feeling of walking through a tunnel. At the water’s edge, gentle waves lapped at the black soil. I looked
up. The iron bridge cast a shadow onto the river in the fading daylight, and the lights of cars were beginning to glimmer.

Speaking to Yasukawa’s daughter had energized me.

So her father thought that Heikichi hadn’t died… Shusai Yoshida must know something.

It was five past seven on the evening of the 9th. We had three clear days before our deadline. I couldn’t waste any time.

I grabbed a train back to Shijo-Kawaramachi, and then a bus bound for Karasuma Garage. I didn’t know the way at all, and it seemed the bus was taking the most circuitous route. It was almost 10 p.m. when I arrived there. The streets were deserted. I walked along, looking for a house with Yoshida’s name, with no success. I asked for directions at the neighbourhood police box.

Finally, I found the house, but there were no lights on inside. Too late again! I decided I would return the next day. I just hoped he would be home then.

When I got back to Emoto’s apartment, it was quiet. Kiyoshi and Emoto had already gone to bed. Kiyoshi had kindly put out my futon for me—maybe he just didn’t want to be bothered by my knocking around late. Anyway, I appreciated the gesture. I quietly slipped under the blankets, thinking about all that had happened and all that lay ahead. My breath slowed, and I fell into a deep sleep.