The Tokyo Zodiac Murders (18 page)

I had seen it myself. Yasukawa and Umeda were in his thrall;
others certainly were, too. What was the secret of his charisma? His ability in fortune-telling? His artistic sensibility?

On the other hand, Umeda seemed like such an easygoing fellow, someone who enjoyed life, that I no longer entertained the possibility he was Umezawa. I asked him about his family.

“Well, I used to be married. It was a long, long time ago, so it’s hard to recall. My wife was killed in an air raid while I was in the army. But even though I was at the front, I didn’t die… I don’t know why. Our duty was to protect women, children and our country, but I lost her anyway. I loved her very much. Since then, I’ve been single, enjoying my freedom. It might be good for some people to wear the ball and chain of married life, but not me.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I changed the subject. “Mr Yoshida was here yesterday, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he visits quite often, maybe once a month. I have the greatest fondness for him, so if I don’t see him for a few weeks, I go to Kyoto to visit him.”

“What was his family background?”

“Neither I nor the other club members know anything about his past,” he said, “but we don’t really care. I heard somebody say that he came from a rich family. He already had his own house and studio when he was young, so it must be true—but who cares? We all love him. He’s like our guru. I feel very relaxed when I see him. He has great knowledge and experience in so many fields. I asked him about my future, and he was very perceptive, very wise. Let me tell you, his gift is something more than fortune-telling. Perhaps he knows everything… Yeah, that’s right, he knows
everything
…”

Umeda was just speaking normally, but his last sentence left me stunned. This carefree, simple soul had understood something I’d missed entirely. The person I was looking for was a killer with supernatural power, knowledge, and intelligence, who was skilled in doll-making and fortune-telling… Could it be Shusai Yoshida?

Suddenly several details seemed to come together. Yoshida could be around eighty, the right age. More important than that, he knew something that the books did not mention: that Heikichi was left-handed. How did he know that? When Yoshida was talking about the life of a fugitive, he seemed to speak with almost first-hand knowledge. He also knew the history and philosophy of doll-making in Japan. It had the ring of something that could easily have been part of Heikichi’s note.

Another question popped into my mind. Certainly Yoshida was a charming, attractive person, but what was the real reason that Tamio Yasukawa had followed him to Kyoto? Excitement surged through me.

Not realizing what was going through my mind, Umeda kept telling me how great his guru was. I waited until he was finished and then asked him about the mysterious mannequin in the post office.

“Oh, yes, I know those mannequins. Mr Yoshida and the Owari Mannequin Company created them… Oh, you already know that?… What? There’s a mystery mannequin? I’ve never heard of it, never… Mr Yoshida doesn’t know where it came from, either? Wow, really?… Hmm, why don’t you ask Mr Murooka, the director of Meiji-Mura? He’s at the main office near the entrance gate.”

I thanked Umeda deeply and left the police station. He’d been so kind and easy, and I felt as if I was leaving a newfound friend. I looked back at him a bit wistfully, thinking I would probably never meet him again. He seemed so comfortable leading his uncomplicated life and wearing his favourite uniform. Almost certainly, however, he was not the man I was looking for.

At the office, I was led to the director’s room. When I asked him about the female mannequin, at first he seemed surprised. Then he laughed, “It’s nothing of a mystery, young man. We originally had male mannequins only, so I talked to the Meitetsu company, and the next day they brought in that female mannequin from their department store.”

If this was an ordinary mystery I was solving, without a deadline looming, I might have followed up on the Meitetsu lead, but this mystery was far from ordinary—and after tomorrow our time was up. So I got back in the car and headed for Kyoto. Besides, I hadn’t spoken to Kiyoshi in days. We needed to compare notes.

As I drove, my mind filled with thoughts about Shusai Yoshida, now the focus of my investigation. He was charismatic and smooth and smart, but anybody can make a slip. He was a man of means without a past. Had a magical trick been performed? Had Heikichi Umezawa been put in a black box and re-emerged as Shusai Yoshida?

The case was getting too big for me. I needed Kiyoshi’s help.

I ran into the evening rush hour, so I parked the car at a rest area and had something to eat in the cafeteria. I gazed at the sunset, still thinking about Yoshida. It would be tough to challenge a mind like that. I would have to pick up on something
that only the culprit could have known. But his friend Yasukawa, who had known Heikichi, was now dead; Yoshida could always claim he had heard it from him. Dead men tell no tales, so I would have no way of determining the truth.

I returned to Emoto’s apartment a little after 10 p.m. Kiyoshi wasn’t back, and Emoto was watching TV alone. I thanked him for the use of his car and gave him a little souvenir from Meiji-Mura. But I was too tired to tell him much about the place. I went into the bedroom, flung the two futons from the wardrobe on to the floor, crawled into mine, and fell once again into a deep sleep.

My sleeping habits seemed to have changed. I awoke early, at exactly the same time as the day before. Shusai Yoshida immediately came to mind. I needed to talk to Kiyoshi. I looked over at his futon, but he was already up and gone.

Such diligence, such commitment to the task!

Upon closer inspection of his futon, however, I realized it hadn't been slept in. Before I passed out the night before, I had thrown his bedding on the floor just like a fisherman tossing a net into the dark sea, and it still lay there in a heap.

Where is he? Has something happened? Is he in danger? And where the hell has he been? Has he found some vital clue?

Today was Thursday the 12th, our last day.

We need to talk. Boy do we need to talk!

My research had been useful, but I had solved nothing. Not yet. I desperately wanted to exchange information with him. Then maybe we could bring our investigation to a fruitful conclusion.

Why doesn't he call?

I tried to stay in bed, but my mind was racing. I got up. Emoto was still asleep. I got dressed quietly and went out for a walk. I paced around on the dew-soaked grass of the park, still thinking furiously.

When I returned, Emoto was brushing his teeth. Kiyoshi hadn't called. I decided I would have to stay put until he did.

Emoto left for work, and just as I heard his footsteps descending the stairs, the telephone rang. I jumped up and grabbed the receiver.

“Kazumi…” groaned a weak voice at the other end. It took me a few seconds to realize it was Kiyoshi.

“What's happened? Where are you? Are you all right?” I blurted out in a high-pitched voice.

“I feel sick,” he said, his voice fading. Then, after a pause, he pleaded, “I think I'm dying… please… come and help me…”

“Where are you? What's going on?”

I couldn't stop myself from asking questions, but I needed to know exactly where he was. I could hear the sound of traffic and children's voices, so I assumed he was calling from a payphone on the street.

“What happened? I can't tell you right now… I'm too weak.”

“OK, just tell me where you are!”

“The Philosopher's Walk… not the Ginkakuji side… the opposite side… at the entrance…”

I was confused. The Philosopher's Walk? What the hell was that? Was Kiyoshi losing his mind?

“What's the address? Can I get there by cab?”

“Yes, the driver will know. Just say the Philosopher's Walk. He'll find it… And please… buy some bread and milk… for me… please.”

“Bread and milk? Sure, but why?”

“To eat, of course… What else can I do with it?”

He could be sarcastic even when he was not feeling well. Pure Kiyoshi.

“Are you injured?”

“No…”

“All right, I'm on my way. Stay where you are!”

I bolted out of the apartment and ran to the station. At Shijo-Kawaramachi, I bought some sandwiches and a couple of cartons of milk. I hailed a taxi. Kiyoshi was right—the driver knew where to take me.

I was clueless about what was going on. Kiyoshi sounded like he was on his last legs. Was he really dying? Was this another neurotic episode? Was he pulling my leg? Sometimes Kiyoshi could be totally obnoxious, but still he was my only true friend.

The driver dropped me at the bottom of a small slope and pointed me to the top. There was a small park, and, sure enough, a sign that said “The Philosopher's Walk”. There was no one around.

I followed the path along a canal. Not far along, I came across a black dog wagging its tail and sniffing around a homeless man lying on a bench. It was Kiyoshi!

I called his name. He mumbled something and tried to sit up. He was so weak that I had to help him. Since I had last seen him, a few days before, he had undergone a radical change. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks were hollowed out and he needed a shave. He didn't look good at all. In fact, he looked very sick.

“Did you bring some food like I asked?” he said. I handed a sandwich to him, and he ripped the package open. “Ah, what a nuisance eating is! If we didn't have to eat, we could save so much time…” he mumbled, and then proceeded to wolf down the food.

I was relieved to see him eat, but still perplexed. He was clearly in distress, and although he still had some spark it was flickering dangerously. I was worried about his state of mind. I didn't want to think he'd fallen into manic depression.

“When did you last eat?” I asked him.

“I don't know… Maybe yesterday, maybe the day before… I forget…”

I waited while he ate, telling him not to eat so fast. When he was done, he seemed to have regained some of his energy.

“Have you made any progress with the case?” I asked gently.

“Squeeze an orange, and you'll get garbage!” he spat out angrily, standing up and waving his arms. “Kazumi, we are born to be deceived! Look at me. After running all over the place without sleep for days, I'm no better off than a dying grasshopper. One or two days of fasting is a good thing; it sharpens our senses. Oh, I can see it now. A vast field of rape flowers in bloom! The city is made of history and mystery! I see roofs, countless roofs, looking like half-open books. And I hear cars screeching everywhere! Aren't they sickening?… No, those were not rape flowers, they were cosmos! I used to be strong enough to walk through fields of cosmos. I could cut them down with a machete. Now, I can't even remember how I did that… Ah, where did I leave my machete? It must be getting rusty! I've got to find it. I've got to keep digging like a mole! Time is running out. It's now or never!”

This was insanity; Kiyoshi was going insane. I felt my whole body become numb. “No, no, no, Kiyoshi. You're exhausted. Calm down, calm down!” I repeated the same words over and over again. I grabbed his shoulders, and then slowly pushed him back down onto the stone bench.

He finally settled down, and I began to breathe a little easier. I was struck by the bitter irony of the situation: exhaustion and pressure had driven him insane, but they didn't seemed to have helped our investigation at all. I realized I shouldn't have let him get involved in the whole thing; I knew his mental health hadn't been good. But he was the one who had launched into the challenge with Takegoshi Jr. Now the result was clear: Kiyoshi would suffer in defeat. It was hopeless. Takegoshi Jr had to do nothing but wait for us to come bowing and scraping and apologizing like pathetic fools. The mystery had been unsolved for forty years; we were crazy to think we could solve it in a week. But I still held out the hope that Shusai Yoshida was really Heikichi Umezawa incarnated. It was only a glimmer of hope, but for some reason I felt confident. In his state, however, Kiyoshi could not be talked to rationally. I had to take immediate action, alone, even if I had to leave poor Kiyoshi alone on the brink of insanity. There were only a few hours left. I needed to catch Yoshida, for the sake of both of us.

It was now past 10 a.m. I was about to call Emoto for help, when Kiyoshi started talking again.

“I shouldn't have spoken ill of Sherlock Holmes. You were right, Kazumi, I should have known my place. I thought it would be easy for me, and in fact, I was almost there. God, it's all so simple—like dominoes. I just need to know where to hit them to start them falling. Just one tile—that's all I need—and then everything will fall into place! Shit! I've concentrated all my efforts on this, and now I'm losing it. I need inspiration. I need something, a little bit of something to inspire me.” He held his head in his hands. “Ouch! This is great. You told me I would suffer for my pride, and now I can feel my lips swelling
up. I can barely move them. How can I talk like this? I've lost my pace; it's hopeless. You, at least, seem to be doing very well. Tell me what you've discovered.”

This brief flirtation with sanity—and uncharacteristic modesty—were very welcome, but his stability and clarity were another matter. This guy—my best friend—had had a nervous breakdown. And now he was going to have to eat crow in front of that arrogant detective. I couldn't abide the thought. Even if I had to do the job alone, I was determined I was going to make the effort to meet the challenge.

“C'mon, tell me what you've found out,” Kiyoshi said again.

So, with measured sentences, I explained to Kiyoshi all the things I'd done: the return visit to Yasukawa's daughter; the meeting with Shusai Yoshida; the trip to Meiji-Mura to see the mannequin Yasukawa had talked about; and the conversation with Hachiro Umeda, whom Yasukawa had thought was Heikichi.

As I spoke, Kiyoshi lay on the bench, his arm under his head, looking up into the sky with vacant eyes, showing not the slightest interest. Either he really was insane or he had given up the pursuit. I was terribly disappointed.

Suddenly, he sat up straight. “It's about time for Nyakuoji to open…” he said in a sleepy voice.

“Nyakuoji? What's that? A temple?”

“It's a shrine… no, that isn't what I mean! I mean, that building over there…”

He pointed to the top of a small, Western-style clock tower.

“That's where I want to go! Forget about the shrine!”

From the Philosopher's Walk, we went down a slope and then climbed down some stone steps.

“What's that tower?”

“A coffee shop. What did you think? I need a hot drink.” Kiyoshi was coming back to life.

The coffee shop was in the courtyard of a famous actor's house. There was a Spanish-style well and several statues. Despite Kiyoshi's condition and the fact that time was running out, it was refreshing to be seated at a table in the morning sun. We were the only customers there, and the quiet made me feel more relaxed.

“Nice place,” I said to Kiyoshi.

He nodded vaguely. “Yeah…”

“I think I'm going to see Yoshida now. Do you want to come with me?”

“Well, yes, I'd be happy to…”

“Come on, then!” I said, encouraged. “We have a deadline to meet…”

I stood up, grabbing the bill off the table. I had nothing smaller than a ten-thousand-yen bill, and as it was early in the day, the cashier took some time getting me my change. Kiyoshi was waiting for me outside. As we climbed the stone steps back to the Philosopher's Walk, I arranged the nine one-thousand-yen bills so that they would all be facing the same direction—it's an old habit of mine. One of the bills had been torn and taped back together. Making small talk, I showed the repaired bill to Kiyoshi.

“Tape? It's not opaque tape, is it?” he said, taking the bill in hand and studying it. “No, they used transparent tape. That's all right.”

“What's wrong with opaque tape?”

“It's used for forgery, but usually with ten-thousand-yen bills. None of this cheap stuff.”

“Why do they use opaque tape?”

“Because… Oh, it's too hard to explain. I need a pen and a piece of paper to show you. Anyway, forgery may be not the correct word. It's more like… maybe… cheating… perhaps…” His voice was fading. It sometimes happened. Usually, it signalled the onset of a deep depression. This was getting sad.

I turned to face Kiyoshi, who had come to a stop. I was astonished. His bloodshot eyes were open unnaturally wide. His mouth was wide open, too. He clenched his fists and started to scream: “AAAAAHHHHHH!”

A couple of tourists stopped in their tracks. The black dog stared at him.

I had often complained about Kiyoshi's oddity, but I never doubted his talent, his intelligence, his knowledge and his powers of intuition. Those were the good things about him. But they lingered just on the other side of catastrophe.

It's all over!

Kiyoshi had obviously passed through the gate of madness.

“Calm down!” I said. I grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to shake him.

His worn-out face was right in front of me. But he was not the one who was dumbstruck—I was. Kiyoshi looked like a lion—starved and weak, but still full of dignity. He had stopped screaming. Suddenly he shook off my hands and began to run.

What's he doing now? Hallucinating?

He headed straight towards the canal.

Is he going to leap in? Save a drowning kid?

I took off after him, but he was fast. After a hundred-metre dash, he stopped, turned around and ran back to me. Several passing tourists backed off. The black dog watched the madman from a distance.

Kiyoshi squatted down, his hands on his head, breathing heavily. Then he looked up at me and smiled. “Oh, Kazumi! Where have you been?”

“OK, so you're a very fast runner,” I mumbled.

“I've been so stupid!” Kiyoshi yelled, not quite as loudly this time. “What have I been doing? I've been searching for the pair of glasses that are perched on top of my head! Damn! I should have put all my effort into it from the beginning! Thank God, I didn't victimize anyone with my negligence. We've been very lucky!”