“What was her name?”
“Naruse Rieko, age twenty-five. She’s a staff member at the Avant-Garde Theater,” the policeman answered, consulting his notebook.
Imanishi looked around the room. Everything was put away carefully, as if she had been expecting guests. Imanishi’s gaze fell on a small wardrobe in the corner of the room.
“There’s something I’m concerned about,” Imanishi said to the policeman. “Is it all right if I open the wardrobe?”
“Please, go ahead.” The policeman agreed at once. Since this wasn’t a murder case but an obvious suicide, the regulations were not that strictly observed.
Imanishi stepped quietly to the wardrobe and opened the door. Several pieces of clothing hung on hangers. Imanishi focused on one of them. It was a black suit. He stared at the suit. Then without a word, he closed the door.
He scanned the room, and his eyes alighted on a blue canvas bag set between the desk and a small bookcase. It was the type of bag carried by stewardesses. Taking out his notebook, Imanishi jotted down a description of the bag.
About this time, the medical examination was finally finished. Imanishi knew the examiner from other cases.
“Thank you very much, Doctor,” Imanishi said, bowing.
“Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?” The doctor looked suspicious. This was not the kind of case to involve a homicide detective from headquarters.
“I live in the neighborhood. So I just stopped by to take a look. I’ve seen her several times, so I feel some sort of connection.”
“That’s kind of you. Please say a prayer for her.”
The doctor stepped aside. Imanishi knelt beside the body and pressed his hands together in prayer. The light from the window shone on Naruse Rieko’s face, giving it a bright and pure look.
“Doctor,” Imanishi said, turning toward the medical examiner, “you’re sure it was suicide?”
“There’s no mistake. She’d taken about two hundred sleeping pills. The empty bottle was by her pillow.”
“So there’s no need for an autopsy?”
“Absolutely none. It’s clearly a suicide.”
Imanishi stood up. Then he walked over to the policeman. “You said that there was no note, but there was a journal. Could I take a look at it?”
“Please, go ahead.” The policeman went over to the desk. The top of the desk was cleared off. He opened the drawer. “This is it.” It was a lecture notebook and had been left open. “She seems to have written her thoughts in it every now and then.”
Imanishi nodded in silence and read the words on the page. They were written in a cultured script.
Must love be a lonely thing?
Our love has lasted for three years. Yet nothing has been built from this love. It will probably continue on in vain. Forever, he says. The futility of this love tastes empty and feels like grains of sand slipping through my fingers. At night, despair haunts my dreams. And yet I must be strong. I must believe in him. I must protect this lonely love. I must persuade myself to be content with this loneliness, to find happiness within it. I must cling to this hopeless thing. This love always demands sacrifices of me. I must feel the joy of a martyr as I make sacrifices. Forever, he says. As long as I live, he will continue to demand that I make sacrifices.
Imanishi flipped through the notebook. All that was described were abstract feelings. It was written so that only the writer herself could understand it.
Again, with permission from the policeman, Imanishi picked up the bag that he had seen. He unzipped it. The contents had been cleaned out, and nothing remained in the bag. Imanishi searched in the corners, but he did not find any cloth fragments.
“So, she committed suicide because she was heartbroken,” the policeman from the local station said to Imanishi. “You can tell from what she wrote in the journal. Young women her age are so susceptible.”
Imanishi nodded. His thoughts were elsewhere. It did appear as if this young woman had been disappointed in love. Could it be that, in addition, she had a sense of guilt and that guilt had driven her to her death? Imanishi envisioned her scattering to the wind the small fragments of a man’s bloodstained shirt. He left the room and descended the stairs.
The woman who managed the apartment house was pale, still tense from the unexpected incident. Imanishi recognized her.
“You’ve got a terrible situation on your hands,” he said sympathetically.
“I never expected…” she responded, her voice faltering.
“I didn’t know her really, but it’s too bad. She seemed like a nice girl. Did she seem sad all the time?”
“She’s only been here a short while, and she didn’t say much, so I don’t know. But she seemed like a well- mannered young woman.”
“I understand she worked as a staff member at a theater?”
“Yes.”
“Then did she have men friends or a lot of young people coming to visit her?”
“No,” the woman shook her head. “There was never anything like that. It’s been about two and a half months since she moved in, but no one came to visit her.”
“I see.” Imanishi thought a bit, and asked, “Even if she didn’t let him in her room, did you see her with a young man near the apartment house?”
“Let me see.” The woman cocked her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you ever see her talking to a young man wearing a beret?”
“No, I never saw anyone like that.”
Imanishi remembered the young man wearing a beret who was loitering one night outside the girl’s window. He’d been whistling some tune.
“Was there a man wandering about whistling? Whistling to signal or invite the girl out.”
Her answer was negative as to this as well, “I can’t remember anything like that.”
Then perhaps it had only been that one night. If it had been more frequent, this woman would have heard it and remembered it.
Imanishi went outside. Had the girl he had been searching for been living so close to him? Was the girl of the paper blizzard the theater staff member living in his neighborhood whom he had seen several times? It was hard for him to believe.
In his mind’s eye he saw the tall, young man in a beret who had been hanging around outside her window. He had let it go at the time. He regretted not having made more of an effort to find out who the young man was. Now it was too late.
The woman who managed the apartment said that Rieko was always alone and never had visitors, so the young man in the beret must have been trying to call her out by whistling to her.
All of a sudden, Imanishi remembered the young man who had wandered around acting strange at Kameda. It was just a thought. He decided to go to the Avant-Garde Theater and ask about Rieko.
Imanishi came out of the back street. The sushi shop was getting ready for business. A young man was hanging the shop curtain outside to let customers know that it was open. The man with the beret might have stopped in there to have some sushi. Imanishi walked across the street.
“Good morning.”
The young man turned around and bowed to Imanishi. They knew Imanishi at this shop. He sometimes called to have sushi delivered to his home. “We’re not open yet,” the young man said.
“No, no, I haven’t come to eat. I’d just like to ask a few questions. Is the master in?”
“Yes, he’s inside preparing the fish.”
Excusing himself, Imanishi went inside the shop.
The shop master put down his knife when he saw Imanishi. “Welcome.”
“Good morning.” Imanishi sat on a stool at the counter while the shop was still being cleaned. “Sorry to bother you when you’re so busy. I came in because I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes, sir, what is it?” The sushi master took off his headband.
