The Tokyo Zodiac Murders (16 page)

I woke up the next morning only to find Kiyoshi and Emoto already gone—again. I had missed the chance to tell Kiyoshi all I’d learnt from Yasukawa’s daughter, information I was very excited about. I was sorry to have overslept, but then it occurred to me: I could continue my research separately. And if I solved the case before Kiyoshi did, it would have an extra happy ending.

I got dressed and headed out to Karasuma Garage. I arrived at Shusai Yoshida’s house at around 10 a.m. I opened the sliding door at the entrance and called out to see if anyone was at home. An elderly woman in a kimono appeared. I asked her if I could speak to Mr Yoshida.

“I’m afraid my husband is in Nagoya,” she replied.

I felt deflated. “Well, may I ask when he will be back?”

“Probably this evening.”

Well, that was better than nothing. I asked for their phone number so that I could call before visiting again.

Dejected, I walked south along the Kamo River until it joined the Takano River. Quite accidentally, I found myself near to Imadegawa; it was where the family of Heikichi’s ex-wife Tae had lived their unhappy life.

It was now the 10th. In two days we’d have our reckoning with Takegoshi Jr. It began to seem impossible that we’d have anything by then, even supposing a strong clue emerged from
Shusai Yoshida this evening or there was some unexpected lead tomorrow.

I called Yoshida’s house at 2 p.m. His wife told me he hadn’t returned yet and apologized deeply. I didn’t want to keep bothering her, so I decided not to call again before 5 p.m. But I could feel my frustration building.

I sat in a park for a while and then went to a bookshop. Finally, I went to a first-floor coffee shop so that I could watch the passers-by without them seeing me. At 4.50 p.m., I could wait no longer. I dialled Yoshida’s number and was elated to hear that he had just returned home. I hung up the phone and ran out, barely missing a waitress with a tray of hot coffee.

Yasukawa’s daughter had said that Shusai Yoshida was about sixty; but his full head of grey hair made him look older than that. He greeted me politely and led me into the living room. As I sat on the sofa, I hastily recounted Bunjiro Takegoshi’s written confession and my conversation with Yasukawa’s daughter.

“Mr Yasukawa seemed to think that Heikichi Umezawa was still alive. Do you think he lived? And if so, did he make Azoth?” I asked.

Leaning back in his chair, Yoshida listened quietly and attentively. His appearance was pleasing—his grey hair framed his rather narrow face handsomely, and his eyes had a strong yet gentle quality. His posture was upright and he seemed in good health. Unexpectedly, he fit my image of a lone wolf.

“I know about the case, of course,” he began. “I explored it with my fortune-telling techniques, but I couldn’t reach any conclusion about Heikichi Umezawa’s death. I think there is
a 60 per cent chance that he is dead. Concerning Azoth, I think he did create it, yes. I am a doll-maker myself, so I can understand what might have been in his mind. If he committed the murders, there would be no reason for him not to complete his creation.”

At that moment, Yoshida’s wife came into the living room with some tea and biscuits. I realized that I had been so absorbed in my thoughts I had forgotten to bring the customary gift. I apologized embarrassedly.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Yoshida laughed, putting me at ease.

The shelves in the living room were full of books and dolls of various sizes; some were made of wood, some of synthetic resin. Most of them were arrestingly realistic. I asked Yoshida how he developed his interest in doll-making.

“Well, really, I was interested in human beings. It’s not easy to explain the connection unless one shares the same interest.”

“I see. But you said you could understand Heikichi Umezawa’s passion for creating Azoth.”

“Let me explain. There is something magical—for want of a better word—about doll-making. Dolls are copies of humans. When we are fabricating a doll and the work is going well, we get a certain feeling of creation. We feel as if the doll is slowly obtaining a soul. I’ve had this feeling many times. In this regard, there is an awesome sense of power in making a doll. The feeling I get is so profound that I cannot find the right words to express just why it fascinates me so much. The word ‘fascination’ does not quite correspond to what I feel, either. Traditionally, Mr Ishioka, the Japanese didn’t like making dolls much. In ancient times, they made
haniwa
figures for rituals;
they were substitutes for human beings who were to be buried alive as a sacrifice. Doll-making came to mean the creation of a human; it was not a hobby or an art. In fact, the ancient Japanese were afraid that a doll might steal their soul. That was why they didn’t want to create them or even draw portraits; it was not because they lacked the skills. Drawing portraits—like doll-making—was a taboo. That is why there are very few portraits or statues of emperors and leaders in Japan, whereas in Greece and Rome there are statues and portraits of emperors and heroes everywhere. In ancient Japan, only the Buddha was made into statues. All this may sound odd to modern society, but that was the ancient belief. Craftsmen devoted their lives to the solemnity of their work. Doll-making only became a common hobby in, perhaps, the late 1920s.”

“So the idea of Azoth was…”

“Well, it might have been of interest intellectually, but it was a completely outrageous concept, of course. Using real humans to make a doll is against the rules; it’s against nature. Given history, I can well imagine where Umezawa got his ideas from. Perhaps most of the serious doll-makers of my generation would understand it. But none of them would ever follow the path he took. It’s a matter of principle. Umezawa’s ideas were very far from those of a doll-maker.”

“That’s very interesting. I begin to understand what you mean, Mr Yoshida. But you said you thought that Umezawa probably died. Why do you think that?”

“That would be my guess. As both a doll-maker and a fortuneteller, I was curious about the case. And besides, as you know, I knew Yasukawa, who was Umezawa’s friend. There was a slight possibility Umezawa was alive, but in order to prove it, I would
have required specific evidence, which I didn’t have. My hunch was based on intuition, not logic. I would put it like this, Mr Ishioka. Suppose Umezawa had survived, he would still need to have had contact with society. Even if he hid in a mountain, he would need to eat. It’s not as simple to do that as one might think. If villagers saw Umezawa hunting for food, they would think he was a vagrant and report him to the police. And if Umezawa chose to live in town, then his neighbours would want to know who he was and where he came from.

“Japanese people are very nosy—in fact, I think they pay too much attention to others. Japan is an island, and because of our island-nation mentality, any community would soon grow suspicious of someone like Umezawa, wherever he tried to live. Suppose he had killed himself after he created Azoth; his body would surely have been found. Someone else would have had to bury it or burn it. He could not have done that alone, obviously. And so it seems unthinkable that Umezawa remained alive.”

“Did you talk about this with Yasukawa?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did he say?”

“He wouldn’t listen to me. He was a bit fanatical about his own notions.”

“Yes, I heard he believed that Umezawa was still alive… But what did he think happened to Azoth?”

“According to him, it was created and placed somewhere in the country.”

“Did he mention any specific location?”

“Yes, he did,” Yoshida replied, suddenly bursting into laughter.

“Where did he say it was?!”

“In Meiji-Mura… Meiji Village. Do you know the place?”

“I’ve only heard the name.”

“It’s a theme park, which the Meitetsu railway company developed in Inuyama, in Aichi Prefecture, north of Nagoya. Everything is based on life in the Meiji era (1868–1912) and it contains dozens of real buildings from that time. By coincidence, that’s where I’ve been today.”

“Really? But where in Meiji-Mura is Azoth? Buried somewhere?”

“Well, in the park there’s an old post office, from Uji-Yamada, which exhibits mementos of the Japanese postal service through the years. It includes mannequins of postmen in uniform from different periods, old-fashioned postboxes—that kind of thing.”

“So it’s like a museum?”

“Yes. Now in the exhibition there’s a single female mannequin, which has been placed in the corner. Yasukawa insisted that she was Azoth!”

“Huh?… That’s unbelievable! But couldn’t we trace where it came from? That would be possible, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, there’s no need for you to trace its origin, Mr Ishioka. That was a project I was involved in personally. You see, I was on the team of the Owari Mannequin Company of Nagoya that travelled back and forth between Nagoya and Kyoto, making the mannequins for the village. But something mysterious did occur: on opening day, we noticed that a mannequin that we had not made had been added to the display. The craftsmen at Owari had no idea where it had come from. It was a mannequin of a woman. None of us had been asked to make a female mannequin, so we concluded that the administrators of Meiji-Mura had changed their minds and included one at the last moment. It’s not entirely crazy that Yasukawa thought
it was Azoth, because the mannequin did have a very strange aspect about it.”

“Were you at Meiji-Mura today to repair the mannequins?”

“No. I went to see a friend, who used to be a fellow craftsman. I must confess I love that place; it reminds me of my youth in Tokyo. They transferred many old buildings there, you know: part of the old Imperial Hotel—which was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright—the old Sumida River Bridge—things like that. There are few visitors on weekdays, so it’s very relaxing to be there. Tokyo’s too crowded; I could never live there any more. Kyoto’s fine, but I think Meiji-Mura is great. I sometimes envy my friend being able to work there.”

“Is it such a nice place?”

“Oh, it’s a perfect place. I don’t know if young people would agree with me, though.”

“But, going back to the female mannequin… Do you still laugh at Mr Yasukawa’s idea about it being Azoth?”

“Well, Yasukawa was always lost in his fantasies. I never took him seriously.”

“But he moved to Kyoto to be near you, didn’t he?”

“I have no idea,” Yoshida smiled, with perhaps a trace of bitterness.

“You must have been close friends?”

“He visited me often. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but, to tell you the truth, Yasukawa grew quite irrational in his later days. Trying to solve the Zodiac Murders became his obsession. As you know, it was a hobby of many people, but for Yasukawa it turned into a kind of mania. He would discuss the case with everyone he met. He was also ill. He always had a small bottle of cheap whisky in his pocket. I told him he
should quit drinking, but he brushed me off. He didn’t care. He would sip his whisky and launch into notions about the murders, whether his listeners had the slightest interest or not. So eventually people began to avoid him. His visits became less frequent after I expressed my uneasiness with him. But whenever he had a dream, he would come over to tell me about it in detail. Most of the time, he didn’t make any sense. He’d lost touch with reality. The last straw was when he pointed to a friend of mine and said, ‘This man is Heikichi Umezawa!’ He then threw himself on the floor, bowing and crying and saying, ‘It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, Mr Umezawa!’ My friend had a scar over his eyebrow, and that appeared to be what set Yasukawa off.”

“Did Umezawa have a scar?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps only Yasukawa knew.”

“Are you still in contact with that friend of yours?”

“Yes, he’s among my closest friends. He’s the one I went to see in Meiji-Mura.”

“I see. May I ask his name?”

“Hachiro Umeda.”

“Hachiro Umeda?!”

“Please don’t draw any hasty conclusions, Mr Ishioka. Yasukawa strongly believed that Hachiro Umeda was Heikichi Umezawa. Their names may sound alike, but there is no proof whatsoever that they are the same person. Umeda is a very common name in the Kansai area, and in fact the largest station in Osaka is located in a place called Umeda.”

Although Yoshida tried to deny any connection, my suspicion was growing stronger. I was focusing less on his friend’s last name than on the first—Hachiro.
Hachi
means “eight”
and there were exactly eight victims in the astrology murders: Heikichi (or his double, if my idea was correct), Kazue and the six Umezawa girls.

“As far as I know,” Yoshida went on, “Umeda has never lived in Tokyo. He’s younger than I am, so he cannot be Umezawa. Perhaps Yasukawa was confused because he thought Umeda resembled Umezawa in his younger days.”

“And what does Mr Umeda do at Meiji-Mura?”

“He’s an attendant at the Kyoto Shichijo Police Station, another genuine building from the Meiji era. He plays the part of a policeman, wearing a nineteenth-century police uniform with a sabre.”

I was just thinking about how I could meet this man, when Yoshida interrupted me as if he had read my mind. “You may wish to see him, but I must insist that you should not think he is really Heikichi Umezawa. He’s much younger than Umezawa would have been today, and he has a totally different personality; Umeda’s a natural-born comedian, whereas Heikichi Umezawa was antisocial and introspective. In addition, Umezawa was left-handed; Umeda’s right-handed.”

As I was taking my leave and thanking Yoshida for his time, his wife came out to say goodbye, bowing deeply. Yoshida walked out to the street with me. “Meiji-Mura is open from ten to five in spring,” he said. “Arrive early. It will take you a few hours to look around.”

I thanked him again, and walked towards the bus stop. I looked at the setting sun, hoping it was not a reflection of what was to come.