horizon. The setting sun created a sash of light across the sea.
“It’s really boundless, isn’t it?” Yoshimura gazed at the sea as he walked along the sand. “The color of the Japan Sea is so dark,” Yoshimura exclaimed. “The Pacific Ocean is much lighter. To me it looks like the color of this sea is more intense.”
“You’re right. This color matches the scenery of the Tohoku region.”
The two men gazed out at the sea for some time.
“Imanishi-
“You mean a poem?”
“You’ve probably come up with about thirty already.”
“It’s not that easy.” Imanishi smiled ruefully.
A boy from the fishing village walked past them, carrying a large fish basket.
“Coming to a place like this makes you realize how hectic Tokyo is,” Yoshimura said.
“This
“I suppose you’d feel washed clean if you spent several days in a place like this. I feel like our hearts are full of grime.”
“You’re quite poetic yourself,” Imanishi said, looking at Yoshimura.
“No, I’m not.”
“I can see why you know about that group of young men. You’ve been reading those kinds of books.”
“It’s not that I like them particularly. It’s just part of common knowledge.”
“What did you call them?
“The Nouveau group. They are all very smart. They expect to be the leaders of the next generation.”
“I remember hearing about another such group from my uncle when I was a kid.”
“You mean the White Birch group.” Yoshimura seemed to know about that movement, too. “This group is more strongly individualistic. Mushanokoji and Arishima of the White Birch group turned out to be leaders, but most of them were pretty tame. Besides, the White Birch group limited itself to literature and art. These young intellectuals have political opinions as well.”
“That’s the difference between the generations.” Imanishi had little interest, but thought he got the general idea.
“Shall we go back?” Yoshimura was starting to get bored. “Since I can’t sleep well on the train like you, I’d better get some rest now.”
The trains were not crowded. When they changed to a limited express in Honjo, the two detectives were able to sit together comfortably in the middle section of the third-class car.
As soon as they boarded, Yoshimura put his bags down and rushed off to buy their box lunches. Through the windows, passengers exchanged farewells with those who had come to see them off. Imanishi absentmindedly listened to their conversations in the local dialect which he couldn’t quite follow.
Presently, Yoshimura returned with box lunches and tea.
“Thank you, thank you,” Imanishi said as he accepted one of the little pots of tea.
“I’m starving. Shall we eat right away?”
“Let’s wait until the train leaves. It’ll be less frantic then.”
The lights on the platform were already lit. The station sign “Ugo Honjo” blurred along with the platform as the train pulled out, picking up speed. Then the lights of the town flashed past them. People stood at the crossings, waiting for the train to pass. Imanishi felt sad, wondering if he would ever visit this town again. The lights of Honjo ended, all they passed now were black mountains.
“Shall we eat?” Yoshimura opened his box lunch.
“You know, Yoshimura,” Imanishi said as he opened his box, “each time I eat one of these box lunches I’m reminded that it was my childhood dream to have one. It was almost impossible to get my mother to buy me one. They must have cost about thirty sen in those days.”
“Were they that cheap?” Yoshimura said, glancing at Imanishi.
He felt that he understood Imanishi better now. For a man of Imanishi’s origins, the young men they had seen at the station must have seemed very well-off, sons of wealthy families who had all been to college. Looking over at Imanishi, Yoshimura couldn’t help but compare those young men to his senior colleague, who had had a much harder life.
By the time Imanishi had finished eating, his spirits had improved. He poured some tea from the miniature teapot and drank it contentedly. He put the lid back on the box and carefully tied the string. Then he took out a cigarette he had cut in half and smoked as he relaxed. The pallor of fatigue could be seen under the stubble of his beard. When he had finished the cigarette, Imanishi rustled around in his coat pocket and took out his notebook. He looked at it, frowning in concentration. Yoshimura thought he must be studying the notes he had taken on the trip.
“Yoshimura, read this, would you?” Imanishi passed him the notebook with a sheepish chuckle.
Drying noodles-
flow among the young leaves-
and glisten
Trip to the north-
the sea a dark blue-
summer still young
“So, you reaped quite a harvest.” Yoshimura smiled and read the next haiku.
The grass springs back-
after a nap-
at Koromo River
“Ah, this is about that strange fellow,” Yoshimura said.
“You’re right.” Imanishi laughed self-consciously and turned toward the window.
Darkness flowed past the train, only an occasional light from a farmhouse drifting by in the lonely distance.
“Say, Imanishi-
“If we could do that, then our trip won’t have been a waste,” Imanishi agreed.
“It’ll be hard not to have a guilty conscience if we find out that there’s no connection to the case after we’ve come all this way, and spent all this time and money.”
“We can’t help that. If there’s no connection, then we’ll just have to ask the others to understand.”
“I suppose so, but it bothers me. While we’re relaxing on this train, the rest of the team is running around investigating as hard as they can. That makes me feel bad.”
“Yoshimura, this is also part of the work. You don’t have to feel bad about it.” Though he reassured the younger Yoshimura, Imanishi’s feelings of responsibility for this trip weighed heavily on him, too. Looking out the window dejectedly, Imanishi muttered to himself, “I wonder if they’ve found the shirt?”
Yoshimura overheard him and asked, “Shirt?”
“Yes, the shirt the murderer was wearing. It had to have gotten bloody. He couldn’t have continued wearing it, so he must have hidden it somewhere.”
“Suspects often hide such things in their houses, don’t they?”
“Most of the time that’s true. In this case, though, it seems that it might be different. What I mean, Yoshimura,” Imanishi continued, “is that if there were a lot of blood on the shirt, he couldn’t have worn it all the way home. He would have been afraid that people would notice.”
“But it was dark.”
“Yes, it was. But if the murderer’s house was far away he couldn’t have gotten on a train looking like that. Even if he took a taxi, the driver would have been suspicious.”
“He might have had his own car.”
“Yes, his own car. That could have been it. But I think there must have been some place where he changed his shirt.”
Outside the window, the darkness continued to pass by. Some of the passengers were already getting ready to go to sleep.
