Inspector Imanishi Investigates

“It’s all right. It can’t be helped since it’s for your work.”

Imanishi was determined to come back this time with something in his grasp.

The following day, he telephoned Yoshimura. “I’m going to Yamanaka in Ishikawa Prefecture tomorrow night.”

“To Yamanaka?” Yoshimura said, surprised. “You mean the Yamanaka in the song ‘the hot springs of Yamanaka, Yamashiro, or Awazu’? What kind of work is it this time?” Yoshimura asked.

“It’s that same case,” Imanishi answered, a bit abashed.

“There are so many connections all over the place, aren’t there?”

“I guess so.”

“Imanishi-san, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” Yoshimura’s voice was earnest.

“Let me see,” Imanishi said. “I’m leaving tomorrow night from Tokyo Station. The train leaves at nine- forty.”

“I’ll be there to see you off.”

On Saturday night Imanishi stood on the platform at Tokyo Station with his suitcase in hand. Yoshimura approached through the crowd of people seeing off the travelers.

“You came after all,” Imanishi smiled.

“Thank you for all your efforts,” Yoshimura bowed. “It’s not a business trip this time?”

“I can’t ask to be sent on another expense-paid trip. Luckily, Monday’s a holiday. So it looks like I’m off to enjoy myself. My wife let me use her savings, so I’m grateful. But she’s not too happy about it.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. Your wife is very supportive.”

“That doesn’t matter, really. Actually, I’d like to ask you to do something for me,” Imanishi said, looking around to either side. “Let me tell you.” Drawing Yoshimura close, Imanishi whispered to him.

Yoshimura opened his eyes wide. “I understand. I’ll make sure that’s done before you return.”

“Thanks.”

Just five minutes before the train’s departure time, Yoshiko appeared from the crowd of people.

“Dear, this is for you to eat on the train.” She held out something wrapped in a cloth.

“What is it?”

“Look forward to being surprised when you open it.”

“Sorry to make you spend money like this,” Imanishi said in an unexpectedly formal way.

When the train had left the platform and had become a small speck in the distance, Yoshimura turned to Yoshiko standing beside him and said, “It must be tough on you, too. There aren’t many like him, though.”

“He really loves his work,” Yoshiko responded.

Dawn came at Sekigahara. Imanishi changed to the Hokuriku Line at Maibara. The morning sun glinted on Lake Yogonoumi. Snow had already fallen in the mountains of Shizugatake. It was just before noon when he changed at Daishoji to a small electric train that headed for the mountains. Yamanaka hot spring was at the end of the line, where the plain narrowed and came up against the mountains. Half of the passengers had come to take the cure at the hot spring. In this distant area, the sounds of the Kansai dialect of the region around Osaka grated on his ears.

Taking out his notebook, Imanishi asked for directions near the station. His destination was a village at some distance, near the mountains. Imanishi hailed a taxi that followed a country road beside a stream.

“Is this the first time you’ve been here, sir?” the middle-aged driver asked. When Imanishi answered yes, he asked, “Did you come here for the hot springs?”

“Yes, I did, but I also want to visit someone I know,” Imanishi answered.

The cloud over the mountain looked cold.

“I hardly ever take passengers to this village.”

“Really? Is it that remote?”

“There’s nothing there. It’s called a village, but there are only about fifty houses. And they’re all scattered. Only farmers live there, so no one uses taxis.”

“Is it that run-down a village?”

“It’s a poor area. In Yamanaka and Yamashiro there are lots of visitors from the Osaka area who liven things up, but just five miles away, there are people who have trouble getting enough to eat. It’s a strange world. Oops…” the driver caught himself, “do you have relatives in this village?”

“No, I don’t have any relatives there. I’m visiting someone named Yamashita.”

“Yamashita-san, you say. About half the people in that village are named Yamashita. What’s his given name?”

“It’s Yamashita Chutaro.”

“I could ask about him.”

The road climbed into the mountains from the plain. Narrow fields dotted the valleys between the mountains. The poor condition of the road made the taxi pitch like a boat as it navigated two passes.

“Mister, that’s the village. As you can see, you can hardly call it a village.”

Small roofs, placed haphazardly, appeared in the direction the taxi driver pointed. The driver offered to ask for directions, but Imanishi stopped him. He got out of the taxi near half a dozen farmhouses separated by fields. This was an area with considerable snowfall so the eaves of the houses were very deep.

A young woman stood in front of a house, carrying a baby on her back. She stared at Imanishi as he walked toward her.

When Imanishi bobbed his head in greeting, she did not even smile. “I’d like to ask you something. Which house belongs to Yamashita Chutaro?”

“Yamashita Chutaro, oh,” she uttered slowly, “it’s on the other side of the mountain.” She pointed with her chin to the ridge line of the mountain. Her face was rough and freckled from outdoor physical labor.

“Thank you,” Imanishi said and started to walk away.

“Mister, wait,” the woman stopped him. “Yamashita Chutaro is no longer in this world.”

Imanishi had half expected this. If he had been alive, he would have been quite old.

“I see. When did he pass away?” Imanishi asked.

“Let me see. It was about twelve or thirteen years ago.”

“Is there someone at his place now?”

“Now? His daughter Otae-san lives there with her husband who was adopted into the family.”

“I see. So his daughter is called Otae-san? And what’s her husband’s name?”

“He’s Shoji-san. They may not be at home now. They may be out working.”

“Thank you very much.”

Imanishi returned to the taxi. When he told the driver that he wanted to go to the other side of the ridge, he looked unhappy.

“Mister, that’s a terrible road.”

The road was so narrow it was unclear whether a car could drive through, and it was even more rutted than the road they had come on. But for Imanishi it was essential that the taxi take him there.

“Sorry, but won’t you try? I’ll make sure to give you a good tip.”

“I don’t need a tip.” The driver grudgingly agreed to go.

Rounding the ridge, they came across some different scenery. If it had been the sea, the area would have been an inlet. Some four or five houses lay scattered at the base of the foothills.

Alighting from the taxi, Imanishi walked along the footpath toward an old woman working her field.

“Excuse me, could I ask you something?” he called to her politely. “Where is Yamashita Chutaro- san’s house?”

The old woman straightened up, leaning on her hoe. “Chutaro died many years ago.” She seemed to be suffering from trachoma and had bleary eyes.

“I understand that the house now belongs to his adopted son, Shoji-san.”

“Shoji’s house is that one.” The old woman stood up even straighter and pointed a finger caked with dirt to the farthest of the half-dozen houses. It stood on the hillside, so its thatched roof appeared taller than the others.

When Imanishi thanked her and started to walk on, she called after him, “You won’t find Shoji there now.”