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  But she produced only a chill in Segawa. He felt that even if he was to go on with the paramizol assignment, he wanted to have nothing more to do with this girl.

  “I’d like to have a talk with you some other time,” he said dolefully. “Tonight I’m too upset by his death.”

  She nodded gently and left him to himself.

  He walked towards the toilet in the hope of finding a mirror there so he could have a look at his face.

  “Mr. Segawa.”

  Nervously he recognised Toshiko’s voice behind him.

  “Thank you for coming over tonight,” she said, her tone un­changed as usual.

  “I would’ve liked to stay till morning, but I’ve another engagement tonight, unfortunately. I was thinking of leaving soon.”

  “I’m really grateful to you for fitting this in with your other business. Tea has been prepared in the visitors’ room, so please have a cup before you go.” Suddenly she looked around and lowered her voice to a whisper. “After three or four days, I’ll phone you.”

  “Thank you.” He hung his head and felt genuinely upset, re­alising he had no chance of talking to Eiko in the meantime. There was no other way but to use Toshiko as a messenger. Through her he might be able to find out what was in Eiko’s mind. “Please tell her I want her to trust me,” he whispered and thought that for the first time tonight he’d discovered a ray of hope.

  Two days later Kirishima was looking through the police report on the Ogino case in his office. The file had been delivered from the Suginami police station earlier in the afternoon.

  There was one paragraph in the report that puzzled him, and he read it for the third time: “The film found on the desk was a Fuji Neopan SS36. A little over ten shots had been pulled out of the cassette and fully exposed to the light. The rest of the film had not been used, so we can rule out an accident during the winding-back process after the completion of all shots. More likely the camera was opened by mistake when the film in it had been only partly used. It is impossible to determine what might have been taken on the ruined portion of the film.”

  This was strange, Kirishima thought, drawing on his ciga­rette. There might be the rare occasion of somebody opening a camera by mistake to put in a new roll before the film in it had been used up. But a 35 mm camera always showed the number of shots taken, so this was most unlikely, especially when a per­son was familiar with the camera. This was Ogino’s own cam­era, and according to the fingerprints on the film, he himself would’ve had to make the mistake . . . No, it didn’t make sense.

  Just then Inspector Ishida bustled into the room, full of en­ergy as always. “I’m sorry I’m late. My inquiries at the Shichiyo Chemical Company took longer than expected,” He sat down. “I’m satisfied there’s bitter competition among various groups within the company. This, of course, is quite common after the death of a strong president who used to make most of the deci­sions himself.”

  Ishida went into detail. His report was almost identical with Segawa’s report to Sakai. Kirishima didn’t know about Sega­wa’s investigations, but he had visited Kurahashi a second time the previous day and received similar information from him.

  “Hmm.” Kirishima scratched his chin. “It’s not so easy to find a straight answer to the question of who is going to profit most by Ogino’s death, is it? Quite a few people could be sub­ject to suspicion. Apart from managing director Kurosaka, di­rector Okamura may also wield much greater power than we’d expected, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, his control over Dr. Nishiwaki gives him a big advan­tage. Nishiwaki is an outstanding scientist—the company’s most valuable asset—and he’s married to the former president’s daughter, so he himself must be considered presidential mate­rial. For all we know, Okamura may be planning to exercise his own power through Nishiwaki.”

  “That’s if Nishiwaki goes along with him. Don’t forget that Ogino’s death has changed Nishiwaki’s position a great deal. He might have ambitions now to move from a supporting role to the top of the bill.”

  “Yes, that’s quite possible,” Ishida said. “The next one to look at is the current president, Yusaku Ogino. On the surface at least, he has suffered a setback through Shoichi Ogino’s death by losing a powerful supporter. But it’s easy enough to look at this from another angle.”

  “You mean Yusaku was aware that sooner or later he would’ve had to hand over to Shoichi? And Shoichi’s death has given him an extension of time in the presidential chair?”

  “Exactly. Also, Shoichi Ogino was apparently much more popular with the staff than Yusaku, who isn’t very highly thought of at all. And the shallower a man’s mind, the more he may resent being unfavourably compared with a younger man of greater ability. Lack of talent is often accompanied by mean­ness and an unrealistic self-confidence. Looking at it objec­tively, Shoichi’s death can be nothing but a minus to Yusaku, but he may be blind to this. During my time in the police force I’ve often seen people digging their own grave without know­ing it.”

  “Yes, that’s quite true.” Kirishima thought that he, too, had seen many examples of human stupidity leading to ugly greed for glory or wealth and eventual self-destruction.

  Ishida said the secretary had told him that on the day of Ogino’s death the executive meeting had taken much longer than usual because of a heated argument.

  “What was the argument about?”

  “I’ve nothing definite on that. All the executives who’d been there were tight-lipped about it. Each told me the same thing—that it had been simply a confrontation of opinions concerning company management. The one thing I have found out is that there’d been a rather violent clash between manag­ing director Kurosaka and the victim. And from bits and pieces gathered from various people, I’ve built up a picture of what the subject of the argument might’ve been, but this is only guesswork, of course.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, recently there’d been a slight discrepancy in the company’s accounts. Whether it was just an innocent mistake or a deliberate attempt to steal is not clear, but the defect in the books was discovered and the chief accountant was naturally held responsible. It was a very small amount, hardly worth making a fuss over it. Still, it was something the board couldn’t ignore. So the performance and integrity of the chief accountant—a man called Kobayashi—came up for discussion at that meeting. And apparently Kobayashi happens to be a leading light of Kurosaka’s power group.”

  “I see.”

  “According to what I heard, Ogino insisted Kobayashi should be punished by a transfer north to the Sapporo branch, and Kurosaka was dead against this, although I don’t know what his argument was.”

  “Looks as if the chief accountant is in quite a spot of trouble?”

  “Yes, he’s got his home in Tokyo, and he can’t stand the cold, so being sent to Hokkaido Island would be a big blow to him. But of course, he can always resign from the company and find another job if he doesn’t want to go north. Looking at it this way, I can’t see there a motive for murder.”

  “Mmmm.” Kirishima noticed Ishida was gradually growing excited.

  “Mr. Prosecutor,” the inspector said, his eyes shining, “to tell you the truth, I never thought an investigation of the com­pany’s affairs would produce any worthwhile result. As a matter of principle I didn’t exclude the possibility of finding the killer inside the company, but I’ve yet to hear of a case when a con­frontation among factions within a business organisation has been a direct motive for murder, regardless of whether the crime is committed by a hired killer or otherwise.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right there.”

  “Well, I’ve always believed in giving due consideration to all possibilities at the early stage of any investigation. If one allowed his own preconceived theory to move him in a fixed direction from the start, one could easily find himself suddenly facin
g a blank wall. That’d mean going back to the begin­ning and starting ail over again when it may be too late. That’s why I was quite happy to devote the time to these in­quiries about the company. And I don’t think it was a complete waste either—I think I’ve come across something that may be useful.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the matter of Eiko Ogino’s boyfriend. You yourself have drawn my attention to this. The night before last I called at the Ogino house and probed Toshiko Murozaki with some indirect questions. She made it quite clear that the man with her the night she talked to your fiancée near Shinjuku Gardens was Shigeo Segawa.”

  “Segawa, was it?”

  “Yes, and this is confirmed by managing director Kurosaka’s statement this afternoon, though he’d asked me to keep the source of my information secret. He hinted at a very intimate relationship between Segawa and Mrs. Ogino, if you know what I mean.”

  “Is there any proof of this?”

  Ishida pursed his lips. “Kurosaka’s story goes back to the time when the Ogino couple were married. He thinks at that time Mrs. Ogino—then Eiko Murozaki—and Segawa were in love. He doesn’t know if their affair had reached the ultimate stage. But these days young people no longer frown on pre-marital sex, so I think they, too, might’ve gone over the line.”

  “But if they were in love, why didn’t they get married? Did they separate after a fight? Or did Ogino snatch her from Segawa somehow at the eleventh hour?”

  “No, to all appearances there was no trouble at all. Segawa is supposed to have given her up for the sake of her own happi­ness. Everything went very smoothly, at least on the face of it. There might’ve been some outside pressure, of course, that we don’t know about. But I think it was simply a case of Eiko Murozaki’s family preferring her to marry a rich young execu­tive rather than an ordinary clerk like Segawa. And I don’t find it at all mysterious if a lingering affection between the two has survived over the years.”

  “You mean the smouldering embers have flared up again?” Kirishima grinned. “Are you suggesting their old relationship has been revived?”

  “I think this is not at all unlikely. I’ve already taken steps to obtain their photographs so that we can show them to innkeepers around Yoyogi, Sendagaya and Okubo. Segawa’s place of work is at Shinjuku, and both his flat and the Ogino house are geographically connected to the Shinjuku terminal. The area around there is a well known centre for illicit love, so if those two did make use of such inns, they’ll be around there rather than further out.” Ishida spoke in a cold, confident voice.

  “Well,” Kirishima said, “if you can prove they’ve been in those inns together, you’ll have produced a strong motive for murder. But what are you going to do about Segawa’s alibi?”

  “Yes, that’s a hard nut to crack, I must admit. His story is logical enough without any obvious weakness in it, but we’re still checking. We’ve already been to the Mammoth Café, but as the name itself suggests, it’s a large place and we couldn’t find anything definite for or against . . . Yes, we may find it pretty hard to destroy his alibi, though personally I feel it’s far too good to be true.”

  “If your hunch is right, then Kazumi Yamaguchi must be an accomplice, or at least an accessory after the fact.”

  “It’s not at all unthinkable that Segawa managed to get her involved. She’s an old friend of both Segawa and Mrs. Ogino. There might’ve been some rotten relationship between Segawa and her, or she might’ve looked with sympathy on Segawa’s romance with Mrs. Ogino. Whatever the truth, when Mrs. Ogino discovered her husband’s body, she relied on Yamaguchi more than on any of her relatives.”

  Inspector Ishida’s tone was harsh and matter-of-fact.

  Listening to him, Kirishima recalled the information sup­plied by his lawyer friend, Kurahashi.

  The person to profit most by Ogino’s death was his wife, he concluded reluctantly. If she did have a secret lover, Ogino’s death meant not only an opportunity to legalise their affair and fulfil their love, but also a chance for the two of them to live in luxury ever after. And while Eiko’s alibi was perfectly sound, Segawa’s looked very much like a carefully contrived falsehood.

  10

  Since that terrible evening five days ago Segawa hadn’t been able to relax for a single second. He was caught up in a net of uncertainties. At every turn new dangers, real or imag­ined, were sapping his nervous energy. Already he had reached the stage when he had no hope of continuing his intelligence assignment with any degree of efficiency.

  What shook him to the marrow was the interrogation at the police station twice in a row. The initial questioning by Inspec­tor Ishida at the Ogino house had been short and formal, but the next session had lasted half a day, and this was followed by a full day’s interrogation that left him with raw nerves.

  At that last session the police didn’t conceal their suspi­cion. They kept asking him the same lot of questions over and over again, and if his answers varied to the slightest extent, they pounced on him and tried to make him contradict him­self. It was like sitting on a razor’s edge. At the end of the ques­tioning he was completely worn out in body and mind. Once or twice during the day-long session he had come close to telling the whole truth. He had learnt there the hard way how difficult it was to maintain a lie through an intensive police interrogation.

  And the police obviously suspected an affair between him and Eiko. They kept up a constant barrage of sarcastic indirect questions about their relationship. This was perhaps more un­nerving than a direct attack would have been.

  Without his alibi he could’ve never stood up to this ham­mering. He began to think of his alibi as his lifeline, and he made himself believe it was strong enough to sustain him. He had examined it many times from every possible angle and couldn’t find any flaw in it. As Sakai had suggested, he had gone over every detail with Kazumi several times, and had vis­ited the café, too, to familiarise himself with the layout and the surroundings.

  Sometimes he wondered if there might be some weakness in the alibi he himself couldn’t see. It was obvious the police had marked him out as one of the principal suspects. Was this be­cause they weren’t satisfied with his alibi? There was no way of telling this, but he was confident enough that so long as he and Kazumi stuck to their story, there was nothing much the police could do about it. He simply had to rely on his lifeline.

  During his last few months at Kabutocho he had often been desperate enough to risk everything on a single stock. Finally he had lost and had to leave the market. But this time he was gambling with his life and couldn’t afford to lose.

  Kazumi’s existence was assuming ever greater importance to him now. She had already been questioned by the police at least once, but he felt sure she’d never break down under cross-examination. If only he could force himself to love her a little he’d feel far more secure, but he couldn’t get Eiko out of his mind, especially now that she was going to be free and wealthy. Soon she’d become an outstanding proposition—very different from the days when she was just a penniless pretty girl.

  That same day he received the message he’d been so eagerly awaiting. Toshiko sent word she would meet him at the Café Midori at half past five.

  When the time arrived he was a little scared of what she might have to tell him, but was also anxious to get it over with. Constantly guessing at Eiko’s attitude towards him had become almost unbearable over the past few days. Often he had been on the verge of giving Eiko a ring, but each time he had man­aged to check his impulse, realising the danger of someone else picking up the phone or overhearing their conversation.

  Toshiko turned up a few minutes late. To all appearances she behaved normally except that when she’d settled down at the table she didn’t start chatting away in her usual way but kept looking at him in silence.

  In his edgy condition Segawa couldn’t stand her stare for long, and said, “You, to
o, suspect me, is that it?”

  “Would you expect me to trust you implicitly, not to have the slightest doubt? Don’t you think that’s a bit too much to ask?”

  Her quiet voice made him feel more comfortable. If she and Eiko really suspected him, her attitude would be a lot colder, he thought.

  “Perhaps it is too much to expect,” he said, nodding a couple of times. “But then what can I do? How can I convince you? I really don’t know.”

  “Personally, I’m prepared to go as far as ninety percent. Gosh, if you are the murderer, you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were. You didn’t have to choose that very day. Everybody knew you were going there, and you knew that everybody would suspect you.” She shook her head unbeliev­ingly. “But that ten percent of doubt remains—I’m sorry. And if nobody is caught, I’ll be left with the notion that even an in­telligent man like you can do such an incredibly stupid thing in the heat of emotion.”

  “Does Eiko share your doubts?”

  Toshiko tilted her head. “Mr. Segawa, there’s a world of dif­ference between me and my sister. What if she is suspicious? You seem to be worried.”

  “Of course I’m worried! Isn’t that only natural?”

  “Why don’t you try to think clearly for once?” Her voice was loaded with contempt. “It’s all right for me to express my be­liefs and doubts in cold percentages, but my sister can’t afford to do that. She can’t afford not to believe in you—it’s as simple as that. Even if she were absolutely convinced you’d murdered her husband, she’d still have to cling to you and try to justify you in her own eyes. Isn’t that right?”

  Toshiko kept her voice so low it was hardly audible, but her words acted on Segawa’s ears like a thundering drum-beat. He felt all churned up inside and was fighting to hold back his tears. He thought his own agony was nothing compared with what Eiko was going through.