Masako Togawa - The Lady Killer

The taxi stopped outside his secret flat, and Honda absent-mindedly handed the driver a five-hundred-yen bill and told him to keep the change. The driver, a good-natured-looking old man, took off his cap and bowed his profuse thanks. As he did so, he memorized the face of this unusual customer who had tipped him twice the fare. Another witness had unwittingly been created to Honda’s future disadvantage.

He entered the Meikei-so and lay down on the bed without taking off his clothes; putting his hands behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling, a vacant look in his black-ringed eyes. How could such a thing happen to him? So far, his secret life of fishing for women had gone without a hitch. But surely it was nothing—merely a coincidence? He strove to drive the doubts from his mind, but without success. A new, dark thought began to obsess him—both of the women were his victims, were they not? Both had had sexual relations with him. And as he moved on to each fresh victim, a murder was committed. Was this some epidemic—was there a carrier stalking the town? He loosened his tie, undid his shirt buttons and massaged his chest. Was he a leper, his body gradually rotting away? But the feel of his muscular, hairy chest reassured him.

But then: What if all the women I touch are murdered ? Surely this was impossible. What had happened so far was mere chance. It was arbitrary that two women with whom he had slept were now dead—there could be no possible connection. It was all chance.

Sluggishly, he pulled himself up off the bed and changed his suit and prepared to go back to the hotel. In his mind rang that one word, his breastplate: “Chance.”

All day long Ichiro Honda waited with mounting impatience for the evening papers to come out, expecting to read of the discovery of Fusako Aikawa’s dead body. In his office on the sixth floor, he listened to the 3 p.m. news, but there was nothing on it. Whereas at the time of the last murder he had stayed fairly calm, this time he couldn’t—perhaps because he had seen the corpse with his own eyes.

He switched off the radio, got up, and went to the window. On the road far below, cars were moving like toys and pedestrians like ants; it was impossible to tell the difference between men and women from this height. He thought of how, amongst the billions of people on earth, only two knew that, in a flat with the plaster peeling in Koenji, a woman’s body was beginning to decay: only two people—himself and the murderer who had strangled her with a nylon stocking. He felt a weird sense of affinity for the murderer, as if they were partners in crime. There was some poem like that, wasn’t there? He couldn’t remember. He went out to buy the early editions of the evening papers.

In the corridor, he met an acquaintance from the General Affairs Department. He wore rimless spectacles and spoke with an effeminate voice.

“When are you next off to Osaka, then?”

“The day after tomorrow. I always at least spend Christmas with my wife.”

“Do give your father-in-law my best regards.”

During this exchange, he beamed and looked at ease, but as soon as the other man was gone his face resumed its look of gravity and exhaustion.

He bought several evening papers, but there was no news in any of them of the death of Fusako Aikawa.

When work was over, he walked down Ginza, occupying himself by staring at displays of women’s shoes or else by standing behind a girl who was trying on scarves. Reaching Shinbashi, he went into a large pachinko hall, which had previously been a cabaret. The staircase and the ceiling were all too gorgeous for a pinball parlor, he thought. He looked around; the players, each riveted to his machine, seemed to lose themselves in the oppressive clamor. Perhaps he could, too; he bought a hundred yen worth of balls and sat down at the nearest vacant machine. As he played, he noticed a girl of about fifteen peering around the machine at him. She had single-lidded eyes heavily painted with mascara and seemed to display an interest in him. For his part, he was getting bored with the monotony of the game; his saucer was full of balls and emitted an oily smell. He noticed a man of his own age standing behind him.

“Care to try?” he said.

The man, despite his cheap suit, had his pride. He flushed at what he took to be an insult. Honda ignored him and walked out, leaving the balls behind him.

The murder was not reported on that day, nor indeed the next day, finally appearing in the evening papers of the third day. Now that it at last came out, it was a shock to him. He bought all the evening papers and took the underground to his hideout in Yotsuya Sanchome. He was tightly squeezed between other passengers and closed his eyes, listening to the rattle of the wheels over the points. The headline he had read kept appearing in front of him.

As he visualized this, he could almost smell the newsprint.

When he got to his apartment, he started to devour the newspapers eagerly. Perhaps because he had seen the corpse, he felt a far deeper interest than he had in the case of the cashier. Again and again it came up: “Sobra an important witness.”

However, only one paper, and that a second-rate one, saw any connection between the two crimes. He got out the two-month-old papers that had reported the last murder and, blowing the dust off them, sat down and began to compare the two cases.

There were four similarities.

Firstly, both women had been strangled.

Secondly, the victims were single women living alone.

Thirdly, both seemed to have intimate male friends.

These were the obvious points in common. In both cases, the papers had suggested a degree of intimacy between the killer and his victim as there were no signs of resistance, but otherwise there was nothing of interest.

And there was a fourth similarity that only he knew about. Both of the victims featured in his hunting log. This fact, unknown to everyone else, was the only thing that bound him to the cases. And what could he do about it? Nothing.

Events had to develop as they would. He was due to fly back to Osaka by the night plane; for a few days, at least, his hunting would cease.

And with this comforting thought, he dozed off.

Ichiro Honda flew back to Osaka on Christmas Eve. He had taken leave over the whole Christmas and New Year season. At the airport, he got a splinter in his hand from a temporary plywood partition that had been put up alongside the walkway, and it drew blood. He mopped the blood with his handkerchief but did not bother to ask the stewardess for iodine.

He looked down at the lights of Tokyo. Oh marvelous living city, that seemed to breathe as he watched it! What did it matter to him that human beings were dying there, people being murdered, all the time?

At Itami Airport, his wife met him. “Welcome home,” she said smilingly. “Have a good flight?” They agreed to go for a walk down the bustling streets of Shinsaibashi before dining there. They then visited a bar where Taneko was known, and it was midnight before they sat down to dinner. They had reserved a table for two, and as it was now Christmas Day they followed their custom and ordered turkey and opened a bottle of champagne.

“Do you remember,” he said, toasting her, “Christmas Eve in New York?”

“Of course,” she replied. “We went to Très Bon.”

“That’s right,” he said. Then, changing the subject, “Let’s dance.”

She was wearing a black, low-necked dress with an orchid pinned to it. She danced closely in his arms, not caring if the flower was crushed or not. They went back to their table.