174EIGHT The Fourth Day on the Mainland 1 “Is it really all right for me to come along?” asked Kawaminami again. They were sitting in the car heading from O— City to Kamegawa. Shimada, who was holding the steering wheel, kept his eyes front as he nodded several times. “Really. You knew Chiori and you’re also one of the ‘victims’ of those threat letters. Besides, having come this far, you wouldn’t want to be left out of the investigation, would you?” “That’s true.” He couldn’t forget about the warning Morisu Kyōichi had given them two nights earlier. Was it all right for them to invade other people’s privacy just to satisfy their own curiosity? Shimada said that he and Kōjirō were much closer than Kawaminami and Morisu seemed to think. He added that Morisu’s ideas and attitude might be a bit too stuffy. Kawaminami knew what Shimada thought. To be honest, Kawaminami didn’t like Morisu’s sudden change of attitude either, despite the help he’d happily provided at the start of their deduction game. Nevertheless, Kawaminami felt reluctant and even guilty about making such an informal visit to Kōjirō once again, a mere three days after his first. 175 “If you’re really so against this, Conan, then just pretend we became best of friends these last three days. So now you’re doing this for your best friend, even though you don’t want to. Is that better?” said Shimada with a straight face. He’s really a strange person, thought Kawaminami. It wasn’t just that he was brimming with curiosity. Kawaminami was certain that this man had powers of observation and insight that far surpassed his own. When Morisu had advanced the theory that Nakamura Seiji was still alive, it appeared that Shimada had already thoroughly considered the possibility. The decisive difference between Morisu and Shimada was that while Morisu was, in a way, a strangely conservative realist, Shimada was like a dream-gazing child, a sort of romantic. He would let his imagination run wild on any real case that interested him and if he found a possibility he thought interesting, he’d start to weave it into his dream. At least that was how it seemed to Kawaminami. And perhaps that was why, to Shimada, the question of whether his “dream” corresponded to reality was of secondary, even tertiary, importance. The car left the National Route and they drove through familiar city streets. The characteristic smell of hot springs mingled with the wind flowing in through the half-open window of the passenger side. It was often described as “the smell of rotten eggs”, but Kawaminami didn’t mind the smell of hydrogen sulphide. They arrived at Kōjirō’s house just after three o’clock in the afternoon. “He should be here today,” Shimada muttered, standing in front of the gate. “The high school he works at is already on spring holiday and besides, it’s Saturday. He doesn’t go out much in his free time either.” 176 “Didn’t you call him to say we’re coming?” asked Kawaminami, to which Shimada shook his head. “Kō, you know, he likes surprise visits.” “Oh.” “Odd, right? Depends on who’s coming, of course. But as I’m a close friend…” Shimada winked and laughed. The garden that Yoshikawa Sei’ichi had so often come from Ajimu to tend was still full of blooming flowers. Above the roof, branches with buds of cherry blossom were visible from behind the house. As they walked up the stone steps, the brittle petals of a spiraea sprinkled their shoulders. This time, the doorbell was answered immediately. “Oh, it’s you, Shimada. And you too… Kawaminami, if I remember correctly?” Kōjirō was dressed sharply today as well. Black slacks, a shirt with black stripes and a light coffee-brown Aran cardigan. Kōjirō led the two of them to the same sitting space in the back, with no sign of surprise at Kawaminami’s presence. Shimada dropped down into the rattan chair on the veranda. Kawaminami waited for Kōjirō to offer him a seat, and let his body sink into one of the sofas. “So what’s up today?” Kōjirō asked while he was preparing tea. “There was something we wanted to ask you.” Shimada leant forward in the rocking chair, his elbows on his knees. “But before I do that, where were you two days ago?” “Two days ago?” Kōjirō looked questioningly at Shimada. “I’ve been home every day the last few days. School’s on vacation.” “Really? We stopped by two days ago, on the night of the 27th, but you didn’t answer the door.” “Ah, I have to apologize for that. I have a deadline for a thesis 177and I’ve been pretending not to be at home to visitors and people who call on the phone alike these past two or three days.” “Is that any way to treat a friend?” “Sorry—if I had known it was you, I would have let you in.” Kōjirō handed them the teacups and sat down on the sofa across from Kawaminami. “And what did you have to ask me? Kawaminami is here too, so I assume it’s connected to those prank letters signed with my brother’s name?” “Yes. But today we’re here on a slightly different matter.” Shimada took a breath and continued. “Actually, we want to ask something private about the late Chiori.” The hand that held Kōjirō’s cup of tea stopped in mid-air. “About Chiori?” “I’m going to ask you a very weird question, Kō. You can punch me if you think it’s unforgivable.” And then Shimada asked straight out. “Was Chiori perhaps your daughter?” “Nonsense. What kind of question is that?” Kōjirō replied instantly, but Kawaminami had noticed that for one brief moment his face had turned pale. “So I’m wrong.” “Of course you are.” “Hmm.” Shimada stood up from the rattan chair and moved to a seat next to Kawaminami. Kōjirō, still angry, crossed his arms. Shimada’s eyes stayed fixed on him as he continued: “I know it’s an insulting question. You’re angry, of course. But Kō, I need to know. Chiori was your and Kazue’s daughter, wasn’t she?” 178 “That’s enough of your nonsense. Where’s your evidence?” “I don’t have any evidence. But all sort of facts are whispering it to me.” “Stop it.” “I went to Ajimu with Conan here two days ago. To meet with the wife of the missing Yoshikawa Sei’ichi.” “Yoshikawa’s wife? What for?” “Those threatening letters incited us to find out more about the incident that happened on Tsunojima last year. And the conclusion we finally arrived at is that Nakamura Seiji is still alive and the one behind it all.” “Impossible. My brother is dead. I saw the body.” “A completely burnt body, I think?” “Yes.” “That was Yoshikawa Sei’ichi’s body. Seiji was the real murderer and, after he had killed Kazue and the Kitamura couple, he burned Yoshikawa’s body in place of his own. Seiji’s still alive.” “You’re as imaginative as always. And I guess it was this imagination of yours that linked me with my sister-in-law?” “Yes,” Shimada continued without reservation. “Supposing Seiji was the murderer, what could it have been that drove him to commit those murders? You once told me, Kō, that your brother loved Kazue passionately, but his fixation on her was not normal. You said that the real reason he had withdrawn to the island at such a young age was that he wanted to keep Kazue all for himself, that he wanted to keep her on the island. For him to kill the wife he loved so much, there’s only one motive I can think of: jealousy.” “But why jump to the conclusion that my sister-in-law and I had an affair?” “Yoshikawa’s wife told us that Seiji didn’t love his daughter all that much. But it’s a fact he loved Kazue very passionately. So why 179didn’t he love Chiori, the fruit of his and Kazue’s marriage? It’s a contradiction. Isn’t that evidence that Seiji at least suspected he wasn’t Chiori’s father?” “My brother could be a bit strange.” “Even if he was strange, he was still a person who loved his wife. There had to be a reason for him not to love the daughter his wife bore him,” said Shimada decisively, before continuing: “And so, if we assume this hypothesis to be true, then who is Chiori’s real father? Several facts point to you, Kō. A young man who could come into contact with Kazue even though she was confined to the island. And there’s the fact that you and your brother had a falling out around the time of Chiori’s birth—” “You’re completely wrong. I’ve had enough of you, Shimada. I deny everything. Nothing like that ever happened,” said Kōjirō angrily, as he removed his horn-rimmed glasses. “And I’ll say this again: my brother isn’t alive. He’s dead. And I have nothing to do with that case.” Kōjirō said this resolutely, but his eyes avoided Shimada’s gaze and the hand on his knee was trembling slightly. “Then I have one more thing to ask you, Kō,” said Shimada. “On the 19th of September of last year, the day before the Blue Mansion went up in flames—do you remember?—you called me to have a drink, even though you hardly ever touch alcohol. We went from one bar to another and you got dead drunk. To me, you seemed like a man trying to drink away his pain.” “So? What are you trying to say?” “You were completely drunk and, finally, you started to cry. You probably don’t remember any more. I got you back home, and we both fell asleep on these sofas here. Kō, you were muttering as you cried, ‘Kazue, forgive me, forgive me’ over and over.” “No…” 180 The colour in Kōjirō’s face changed visibly. Shimada didn’t stop. “I didn’t think too much of it at the time. I’d had quite a few drinks myself. And even after I learnt about what happened on Tsunojima, I didn’t immediately think back to that night because I was involved with something troublesome of my own at the time. But now that I do look back…” Shimada sighed heavily once again. “Kō, on the night of the 19th of September, you already knew that something had happened on Tsunojima.” “But how…” Kōjirō turned away from Shimada’s gaze. “How could I have known something like that?” “The murderer himself, Seiji, told you.” Shimada’s intense gaze remained fixed on Kōjirō. “Kazue’s body was missing the left hand. Seiji had cut it off. I think he sent it to you, Kō. You probably received it on the 19th. You couldn’t call the police because you were afraid of scandal, so you tried to drink everything away.” “I, I—” “I don’t know the details about how you and Kazue found each other. I don’t need to know. Even if you two were the reason Seiji went mad, I don’t think anyone has the right to blame you. But Kō, if you had called the police on the 19th, the lives of the Kitamuras and Yoshikawa might have been saved. Your silence that day was a crime.” “A crime?” muttered Kōjirō, and he suddenly stood up. “Kō.” “It’s OK, Shimada. I’ve had enough.” Kōjirō turned away from Shimada’s gaze and walked to the veranda with dull, lifeless steps. “That over there,” he said and he pointed at the wisteria pavilion in the garden. “I planted that the year Chiori was born.” 181 2 Kawaminami didn’t appear to have returned home yet. The lights in his room were out. Morisu Kyōichi looked at his watch. 10.10 p.m. His friend probably hadn’t gone to bed yet though. He parked his motorbike near the entrance of the apartment building and went into the coffee house on the other side of the road. The shop was open until 2.00 a.m. At this time of night it was usually full of students who lived nearby but, because of the spring holiday, there were only a few customers dotted about the place. He took a seat near the window overlooking the road. He sipped his black coffee and considered leaving once it was finished. After all, it wasn’t as if he had to see him. He could always make a call later. He’s always quick to get all fired up, and then lose interest again. By now he’s probably had enough of playing detective. Morisu put a cigarette in his mouth and started to reflect. It had been the “letter from the dead” that had sparked Kawaminami’s interest. The letter was all it had taken to get him started. And, once he had found out that the members of the Mystery Club had gone to the island, he naturally couldn’t just sit still. Kawaminami had gone all the way to Beppu to visit Kōjirō and come to him, Morisu, to ask for advice. Usually, the Kawaminami he knew would have started to lose interest around this point. However, it was different this time. Shimada Kiyoshi’s face appeared in his mind. He wasn’t just some curiosity seeker. Shimada had a sharp mind—Morisu could admit that. But his insensitive inquisitiveness, which Shimada seemed to think was acceptable, was something Morisu just couldn’t stand. 182 Of course it was normal to be intrigued by those curious letters. And, considering Shimada’s love of detective fiction, it was also natural he would dig into that case that happened last year. Still, Morisu regretted suggesting a visit to Yoshikawa Sei’ichi’s wife. He had made the suggestion without thinking it through. What must Yoshikawa Masako have thought when she was suddenly visited by strangers asking her this and that about her missing husband—whom they also suspected of murder? Morisu had proposed the theory that Nakamura Seiji might be alive, but realistically speaking it was impossible. It was just a hypothesis he had posed to put an end to a silly detective game being played by a couple of mystery addicts. But then Shimada had turned his attention to the motive behind the Tsunojima incident. He’d focused on the relationship between Kazue and Kōjirō and even suggested that Chiori might have been Kōjirō’s daughter. What’s more, he was planning to confront Kōjirō himself with that theory. The smoke in his throat almost hurt. With a gloomy feeling, Morisu took another sip of his bitter coffee. Thirty minutes had gone by when, just as Morisu was about to leave, a car stopped in front of Kawaminami’s building. It was a red Familia. Recognizing the silhouette of the person who got out, Morisu stood up. “Kawaminami.” He stepped out of the shop and yelled, and Kawaminami waved to him. “So it was you. I thought the bike looked familiar. There’s nobody in my building with anything off-road like that.” Kawaminami was looking at the dirty, mud-covered motorbike—a Yamaha XT250—parked by the side of the road. “You came all the way to visit me?” 183 “No, I was just passing by anyway,” Morisu answered, tapping the knapsack hanging from his shoulder and pointing with his chin at the canvas holder set on the bike’s rear carrier rack. “I went to Kunisaki again today. On my way home now.” “How’s the painting going?” “I think tomorrow will be the last day. Come and see it when it’s finished.” “Hello, Morisu.” Shimada had emerged from the driver’s seat and was looking at Morisu with a friendly smile. Morisu’s tone suddenly became solemn. “Good evening. Where did you go today?” “Just a visit to Kō… No, a little drive to Beppu. You know, I’m getting along so well with Conan. We were planning to have some drinks in his room now.” Morisu and Shimada followed Kawaminami up to his room. He quickly put away the futon which was still lying on the floor, took out his folding table and prepared drinks. “Morisu, you too?” “No, I’m fine. I’m on my bike, remember?” Shimada had headed straight for the bookcase and was looking at the spines of the tightly arranged books. Watching Kawaminami preparing ice in his glass, Morisu asked: “And how’s the case going?” “Hmm,” Kawaminami answered with a long face. “We went to S— Town yesterday, but we were only able to see Tsunojima from the beach, and to hear a couple of ghost stories.” “Ghost stories?” “The usual rumours, the ghost of Seiji roaming the island, that sort of thing.” 184 “Oh. And today? You didn’t just go up there for a drive, I assume?” A troubled look appeared on Kawaminami’s face and he grimaced. “Well actually…” “So you did go to see Kōjirō?” “Yes. Sorry for ignoring your warning.” Kawaminami stopped mixing the whisky and water and looked down at his friend apologetically. Morisu sighed briefly and leant forward. “And the result?” “We know most of what happened last year. Kōjirō told us. Mr Shimada, your drink is ready.” “You mean you know the truth behind the case?” Morisu asked in surprise. Kawaminami nodded and gulped down his whisky and water. “And the truth is?” “It was a murder–suicide planned by Seiji.” And Kawaminami started to talk. 3 “I planted that the year Chiori was born,” said Kōjirō, and he shivered slightly. “The wisteria?” Shimada cocked his head, puzzled. “But why?” he started, but then he mumbled “I see” to himself. He turned to Kawaminami, who hadn’t understood any of the exchange. “It’s a reference to The Tale of Genji, Conan.” 185 “The Tale of Genji?” “Yes—I’m correct, I think?” Shimada asked Kōjirō, who was standing on the veranda. Kōjirō nodded, and Shimada went on. “Hikaru Genji, who had been deeply in love with his father’s wife, Lady Fujitsubo, for many years, finally slept with her for one single night. But she became pregnant, and the two of them had to keep on betraying and deceiving their father and husband after that.” Kōjirō had considered his brother’s wife, Kazue, his Lady Fujitsubo. Chiori, the child born of sin. The birth had brought the two of them closer, but had also torn them apart. His heart, still longing for Kazue, had made him plant that wisteria, because Fujitsubo meant “wisteria pavilion”. Lady Fujitsubo never forgot about the sin she had committed with Hikaru Genji, nor did she ever forgive herself. And neither would Kōjirō’s lover… “You always did like that story.” Shimada stood up from the sofa and walked up behind Kōjirō. “Seiji found out about you, didn’t he?” “No, I think my brother only had suspicions. I think half of him knew something had happened and the other half was trying to deny it,” answered Kōjirō, his eyes still fixed on the garden. “My brother had incredible talents, but as a human being, he was lacking something. He loved my sister-in-law passionately, but it was—how to put it—a twisted love, which had been overcome by a longing, a mad desire to keep her all for himself. That’s how I looked at it. “I think my brother knew that himself. He knew that he wasn’t a good husband to her. That’s why he was always afraid, always suspecting her. I think he felt something close to fear for Chiori. But part of him still tried to believe, wanted to believe 186Chiori was his own daughter. That part of him that still believed in his bond with his wife was what kept his mind balanced those twenty years. “But then Chiori died. With the sudden death of his daughter—whom he had always tried to believe in, despite his fears—he lost the one bond that tied him to his wife. My brother was thrown back into a sea of suspicion. He suspected his wife didn’t love him, that her heart was elsewhere, that it lay with his own brother. And he brooded, suffered and finally broke… My brother killed her with his own hands.” Kōjirō, his eyes fixed on the new leaves that had grown on the wisteria pavilion, didn’t move a muscle. “What happened on Tsunojima—that was a forced suicide planned by my brother.” “A forced suicide?” “Yes. That day, on the afternoon of 19th September, I did indeed receive a package from my brother, just as you said. Inside was a bloody left hand, sealed inside a plastic bag. I recognized the ring on the ring finger. I instantly realized what had happened. “I telephoned the Blue Mansion. My brother answered, as if he had been waiting for me. He said, with neither laughter nor sorrow in his voice: ‘The Kitamuras and Yoshikawa died for me too. As a farewell gift for the two of us…’ “He’d gone completely mad. That was all I understood. He didn’t listen to anything I said and was talking about how the two of them were heading for a new stage, something about the blessings of the grand darkness, that I needed to take good care of the present he’d sent me. And after going through all that, he hung up the phone. “There’s no way my brother is still alive. Even if the physical evidence says there is a possibility, I say the psychology doesn’t 187allow for it. He didn’t die because he had killed my sister-in-law. He couldn’t bear to live any more and decided to take her with him.” “But Kō—” “Listen, Shimada, and you too, Kawaminami. Nakamura Seiji is dead. He set himself on fire. The couple of days between him murdering his wife and his own death weren’t just to give him time to send her hand to me, for revenge and to have me suffer. They were so he could hold in his arms the body of the wife who had always been too far away to reach in life.” Kōjirō didn’t speak again. Looking at his back, it appeared he had become smaller and older. This figure staring motionlessly at the garden—what, Kawaminami asked himself, was he projecting upon the wisteria pavilion? The image of the murdered woman he had loved? The face of her murderer, his own brother? Or the image of his daughter, who had died in a tragic accident? It was just as Shimada had said: Kōjirō had been the father of the deceased Chiori. So the person who had reason to hate the students who drove her to her death was… “Kō, I want to ask you one more thing.” Shimada broke the heavy silence. “What did you do with Kazue’s hand? Where is it now?” Kōjirō didn’t say a word. “Kō, I—” “I know, you just want to know what really happened. You’ll say that you won’t tell the police, right? I know, Shimada.” And Kōjirō pointed to the wisteria pavilion once again. “There. Her hand is buried beneath that tree.” “It was just as you said, Morisu.” Kawaminami put away another whisky and water.188 “It may sound rude to Mr Shimada, but we asked things we should never have asked about, I think. It doesn’t feel right.” Morisu kept smoking silently. “Kōjirō said that Nakamura Seiji is dead. I think that’s the truth. Now the only problem left is the letters.” “What are your thoughts about the whereabouts of Yoshikawa Sei’ichi?” asked Morisu, also including Shimada in the question. “Mr Shimada seems to be interested in his disappearance too, but as the body hasn’t been found, I think he just fell into the sea and was washed away,” replied Kawaminami, and he looked at Shimada, who was sitting with his back leaning on the wall. He was reading a book he had taken from the bookcase, his glass in one hand. Had he, or had he not, been listening to their discussion? “Anyway”—cheeks red from the alcohol, Kawaminami clapped his two hands softly together—“this is the end of playing detective. Maybe we’ll find out who wrote those strange letters when the gang returns from the island next Tuesday.”
Chapter 66
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