Inspector Imanishi Investigates

“After all, you’re an artist,” the madam said without hesitation. “We would be drowning in our own happiness. That’s the difference. We aren’t able to analyze things the way Waga-sensei does.”

“That’s why we make mistakes,” one of the hostesses said.

“But there’s no denying that you’re happy, is there, Sekigawa-sensei?” The madam turned toward the critic sitting beside her.

“I think it’s best that people immerse themselves completely in the feeling when they’re happy. I don’t think excessive analysis is good,” Sekigawa said.

Waga looked at him, but said nothing.

“So, when is the wedding?”

“Oh, I read about it in a magazine. It’s this fall. Their pictures were in the magazine,” a different hostess said. She was slim and pretty and wore a black silk dress.

“That’s all made up. It’s ridiculous,” Waga said. “I can’t take responsibility for the rumors they print.”

“But if you’re taking her out to nightclubs, it must be quite a close relationship,” Yodogawa put in.

“I can vouch for that,” the madam concurred. “I was watching them dance, and they seemed to be a perfect match.”

“Who are those young men?” the professor asked, turning around to take a look.

“They’re members of the Nouveau group,” explained a hostess who had been watching them.

“I guess I have heard of them,” the elderly professor said. “I think I read about them in the newspaper.”

“See the fellow with the long, messy hair sitting across from the madam? He’s Waga Eiryo, the composer. His intent is to destroy the nature of conventional music,” the assistant professor said.

“You don’t have to explain it all to me. Who’s the one beside him?” the professor asked.

“The one sitting beside him is the stage director Sasamura. He’s trying to start a revolution in the structure of dramatic production.”

“When I was young,” the professor said, “we were excited by the Tsukiji Shogekijo. Is it that kind of movement?”

“It’s a little different,” the assistant professor said with a puzzled look. “How can I describe it? They’re bolder, and more creative.”

“I see. And next?”

“That’s the playwright Takebe, isn’t it?” The assistant professor looked to the hostess for confirmation.

“Yes, that’s Takebe-sensei.”

“Who’s the one with his back to us?”

“That’s the critic Sekigawa-sensei,” the hostess answered.

“And the one next to the girl?”

“The architect Yodogawa-sensei.”

“You call them all sensei, as if they were professors?” The professor let out a sarcastic laugh. “They must be something to be called sensei at such a young age.”

“Anyone is called sensei these days. Even the leaders of underworld gangs,” the assistant professor said.

“What are they laughing about?”

“It must be about Waga-sensei,” the hostess said. She had overheard some of the conversation at the other booth.

“And what’s so special about this Waga?”

“Waga-sensei’s fiancee is Tadokoro Sachiko-san. You know, the sculptor. She’s also famous because her father is Tadokoro Shigeyoshi, the former cabinet minister,” the hostess explained.

“I see.” The history professor seemed to lose interest.

A similar conversation was taking place at the booth where the executives were seated.

“Oh, Tadokoro Shigeyoshi…” The executive did not know the names of the young artists, but his expression suddenly lit up when he heard the name of the former cabinet minister.

The bar gradually filled with customers. Most of those who arrived later came in twos and threes, so the group of young men continued to be the object of attention.

The door opened quietly and an elderly gentleman entered the bar. His hair was long and gray, and he wore thick-framed metal glasses. He started to walk in, but when he saw the young men seated at the large booth, he hesitated. The young men recognized him as well.

“Mita-sensei,” Sekigawa said, standing and greeting the newcomer. Mita Kenzo was a well-known cultural critic who wrote commentaries not only on literature but also on topics related to art and popular culture.

“Good evening,” Mita replied with a tentative smile. “I didn’t realize you fellows came here.”

“Yes, sometimes we do.”

Mita seemed to be at a loss for words and stood there hesitantly.

“Sensei, Mita-sensei, please sit with us,” the architect Yodogawa Ryuta said.

“Thank you. Maybe I’ll join you later.” Mita walked off with a hostess, nodding good-bye to the young men.

“Escaped,” Sekigawa said. His voice was low, but the group let out a burst of loud laughter. Sekigawa had often voiced his scorn of Mita as a low-brow critic. He had secretly given him the nickname “Jack-of-all-trades.”

The young men continued their conversation. The first one to suggest leaving was Waga Eiryo. “I have to meet someone,” he said.

“Oh, Waga-sensei, you seem to be happy about it,” a slim hostess said, clapping her hands.

“I’d better go home, too. I just remembered I have something to do,” Sekigawa said.

Taking this as their cue, they all stood up. The madam, who had been at another table, hurried over and shook their hands. They left the bar.

“Sekigawa,” Takebe asked, “where are you going?”

“In the opposite direction. See you.”

Takebe stood looking after him, but gave up and went off with the architect and the stage director. Waga Eiryo waved to them and started walking toward the main street.

Sekigawa watched him go.

A young girl came up to him. “Mister, how about some flowers?” Sekigawa brushed her aside. He spotted a telephone booth on the street corner, entered it, and without consulting his address book began to dial.

At eleven o’clock exactly Sekigawa got out of a taxi in front of an apartment house in a crowded residential area on a hill in Shibuya. As always, the gate was open. The entryway, lit by a dim lamp, was also left open all night. The hallway was faintly lit and on either side were apartments with locks on the doors.

Sekigawa never came here during the day. A card pasted on the farthest apartment door on the second floor indicated that it was rented to Miura Emiko. Sekigawa tapped lightly, barely grazing the door with his fingertips. The door opened a crack.

“Welcome home,” a young woman said.

Sekigawa entered the room silently. The slim hostess from the Club Bonheur had changed from her black dress into a casual sweater.

“You must be warm. Why don’t you take your jacket off?”

Emiko helped Sekigawa off with his jacket and put it on a hanger.

The small, six-tatami-mat room was crowded with a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a bureau set against one wall. It was neat and scented. Emiko always sprayed the air with perfume when she expected Sekigawa.

Sekigawa sat down, and Emiko brought him a moistened hand towel.

“When did you get home?” Sekigawa asked, wiping his face with the towel.

“Just now. I asked for permission to leave as soon as I received your call. I was in the middle of my shift, so it wasn’t easy.”

“You should have made arrangements as soon as I came into the bar.”

“But you didn’t say anything. You didn’t even give me a sign.”