The murderer had to dispose of his bloodstained clothes. Naruse Rieko had cut a bloodstained shirt into bits and scattered the squares out the window of a night train. She must have had some connection with the murderer. So far nothing tied Rieko to Sekigawa. Yet since she was a quiet person who wasn’t gossiped about, one couldn’t be certain there was nothing between them. It was conceivable that Sekigawa and Rieko had met because the Nouveau group was a supporter of the Avant-Garde Theater. They could have been seeing each other without anyone knowing about it. Could her suicide have been caused by guilt over her cooperation with the murderer, and not by grief over a love affair?
Sekigawa had been involved with Miura Emiko, who had been four months’ pregnant when she died. Perhaps Rieko’s despair began when she found out about Emiko.
Miyata seemed to have been attracted to Rieko. He may have suspected that there was something between Rieko and Sekigawa. Miyata had wanted to tell Imanishi something, and it seemed to be so important that he had asked for twenty-four hours to think it over. Then he had died suddenly in a lonely place in Kasuya-cho, Setagaya Ward. It was only twenty minutes by taxi from Sekigawa’s house to the place where Miyata had collapsed.
There was no way to corroborate Sekigawa’s alibi for the night Miki was murdered in the Kamata railroad yard. Five months had passed, and everyone’s memory was hazy. But according to the statement from Sekigawa’s housekeeper, he was not at home when Emiko died.
The next problem was Emiko herself. She left her apartment in Imanishi’s sister’s building in Kawaguchi late in the afternoon and arrived at her new place in Soshigaya at about eight o’clock. But her landlord had just assumed that Emiko had arrived when they heard her belongings being delivered. They hadn’t actually seen Emiko in person.
It was about eleven o’clock the following night when a mysterious telephone call from a man summoned the doctor. By then, Emiko was already dying. It was conceivable that only her belongings had arrived at eight o’clock and not Emiko herself. If this were the case, where had she gone after she left the Kawaguchi apartment and stopped by the bar to inform the madam that she was quitting?
The coroner’s examination revealed that Emiko died from loss of blood after a miscarriage, and that she had suffered a fall. Where had she fallen? The coroner told Imanishi that she had fallen against something like a round boulder. But he had seen nothing like that at the Kubota cottage.
The more Imanishi thought, the more confused the situation seemed. As he tapped his chin with his pencil, he realized with a shock that he was obsessively reconstructing a death that wasn’t even a murder. His mood changed. He grabbed the telephone on his desk and dialed a number.
“Is this Yoshimura?” he asked.
“Yes, it is. Oh, Imanishi-
“How about getting together on the way home from work tonight?”
“I’d be glad to. At the usual place?”
“Good.” Imanishi put the receiver down.
When his shift at headquarters was over, Imanishi headed straight for the small
“Welcome.” The woman who owned the shop smiled at Imanishi. She recognized the faces of these two who always dropped by as a pair. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Over here,” Yoshimura smiled, waving from the corner.
Imanishi took the seat next to him.
“It’s been a long time,” Yoshimura began.
“It certainly has. Could you warm some sake for us, ma’am?”
Imanishi turned toward Yoshimura and said, “How’s it going?” Then in a much lower voice, “Anything new on the railroad yard case?”
Imanishi didn’t like to talk about their work in this kind of environment, but when he saw Yoshimura’s face, he couldn’t help asking. He had been thinking about the case incessantly.
Yoshimura shook his head slightly. “Nothing has turned up. I’m trying to follow up leads in my spare time.”
Imanishi touched his sake glass to Yoshimura’s. The two lapsed into silence for a while.
“How’s it going from your side?” Yoshimura asked.
“I’m doing a bit here and there. But like you, I’m not making much progress.”
He intended to confide in Yoshimura eventually. It felt good to be drinking with this young colleague with whom he was on familiar terms. The brooding feelings he had were lightened during their time together.
“It’s been five months since we took that trip to the northeast, hasn’t it?” Yoshimura broke the silence.
“That’s right. It was almost June…”
“I remember it being quite warm. I thought the northeast would be cooler, so I wore winter underwear.”
“Time goes by quickly.” Imanishi sipped his sake.
Just then a young man tapped Yoshimura on the shoulder.
Yoshimura turned around and smiled at him. “Hi. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
Imanishi looked at the man, but he didn’t know him. He seemed to be about Yoshimura’s age.
“How’ve you been?” Yoshimura asked.
“All right.”
“What are you up to now?”
“I’m in insurance sales, but I’m not doing that great.”
Yoshimura whispered to Imanishi, “He’s a friend of mine from grade school. Would you excuse me for five minutes or so while I talk to him?”
“Sure, I don’t mind. Take your time,” Imanishi said.
Yoshimura went off to talk to his friend. Imanishi sat alone. He must have looked slightly forlorn, because the shop owner reached over and handed him a newspaper.
“Thanks.”
It was the evening paper. Imanishi opened it up. There weren’t any major stories, but he glanced at the headlines to pass the time. The arts and culture section had columns on music and art events.
As Imanishi was looking at these columns, his eyes rested on a familiar name: Sekigawa Shigeo. Imanishi put down his sake and squinted at the article. The title of the piece was “The Work of Waga Eiryo.”
Imanishi could no longer read small print without reading glasses. He hurriedly drew a pair of glasses out of his pocket and put them on.
In the world of avant-garde music, Waga Eiryo can no longer be called an up-and-coming composer. Those critics who glanced curiously at “musique concrete” and electronic music a few years ago saw Waga Eiryo’s efforts as merely a direct translation of foreign trends.
Now, however, Waga has graduated from direct translation and has become a creator of original compositions. Naturally, individual pieces have certain shortcomings, which critics have pointed out. In fact, I, too, have criticized his works quite sharply.
When an art form is a direct import from abroad, the first examples of it will naturally be a translation of the foreign technique. This limitation does not discredit Waga Eiryo. Most of the paintings of the early twentieth century were merely copies of Cezanne’s style. The paintings of the seventh-century mid-Asuka period in Japan were nothing more than imitations of China’s Sui and Tang Dynasty works. Even music cannot avoid the fate of imitation. The issue is how to internalize new, foreign techniques, and how individual creativity can emerge from this process.
Gradually, yet in a definitive way, Waga has gone beyond the influence of the West and is in the process of giving form to his own inherent creativity.
Many are struck by his new art form and rush to follow in his wake. But they have no hope of reaching the level of this composer who has based his work on a solid foundation. I am impressed at what he has achieved in such a short time. I anticipate further great rewards from Waga Eiryo’s rich talent and his ceaseless efforts.
Imanishi was perplexed. He didn’t understand a thing about music. Still, it seemed to him that this piece was written in quite a different tone from Sekigawa’s previous criticisms of Waga’s work.
Imanishi had just started to go over the column from the beginning to reconfirm his impression when Yoshimura rejoined him.
