Masako Togawa - The Lady Killer

“Naturally, the police are only informing you of this fact. I can assure you that it will never be made public.”

After all, he reasoned, if the suicide could be attributed to a vocational disease, then the relatives could claim compensation.

Tsuneko Obana dabbed her face with her handkerchief, trying to repress her tears. Suddenly, she looked up and began to speak urgently, as if a dam had broken inside her.

“She did have a lover… I read her diary… She met him in a bar… and they sang ‘Zigeunerliedchen’ together… How could she be so stupid?… Poor, foolish girl…”

There was nothing he could say, the inspector thought, as he listened to these disjointed statements. He stood up to bring the interview to an end. The sorrow of bereaved relatives does not lie within the jurisdiction of the police.

“Well, that is all, Miss Obana. I have no more questions to ask you.”

As she collected her belongings and made ready to go, he noticed for the first time that she had a very distinctive mole on the edge of one nostril. It had been hidden by the handkerchief, but now he could see it clearly. She caught his eye, and, embarrassed by his rudeness, he quickly looked away.

“I am sorry for the trouble you have been caused.” The sister mouthed the appropriate formula, but left the police station looking overwhelmed with grief.

As he watched her leave, the inspector was seething with anger. He felt his chest tighten with rage against the unknown man who had so casually made a nineteen-year-old girl pregnant. The fact that the man was unknown made his pent-up wrath the greater. If it was my daughter, he thought, I would hunt the man down, root him out, and give him just punishment for such a crime.

Of course, in such a case, it would be at least as hard to find the man as to identify a murderer. The thought depressed him. There was really nothing that could be done; he began to regret that he had told the sister, so pointlessly, of Keiko’s pregnancy.

In summer, the bars and small restaurants in Kabuki-cho, Shinjuku, usually greet the first customers of the day at about 4 p.m. However, trade at this hour is listless; the place has only just opened, and the air conditioner has not begun to bite, or else the floors are still glistening with fresh-sprinkled water. The customers huddle at the end of the counter and get on with the serious business of drinking; they certainly do not revel at that hour or spend money on itinerant street musicians.

These wandering minstrels usually turn up in the entertainment districts after 8 p.m. But on a certain day a violin player known since his youth as “Ossan”—“the old fellow”—set out early and was cruising the area by 6 p.m., when the sun was still high in the sky. This was because he had taken the previous day off and needed the money. Both the old fellow’s low-heeled shoes, the soles of which were worn to paper-thinness, and the sandals of his partner were spattered with white dust.

“Hey! Old fellow!” They were passing the Bar Boi just behind the Koma Theater when a waiter came out and called them. “One of our customers wants music. She says only a violinist will do.”

“She really wants a violinist? That’s unusual.” Nowadays, no one seemed to want violin music, what with the craze for the guitar. They followed the waiter into the cool and almost deserted bar.

He led him to a table where there sat a female customer wearing dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. The old fellow bowed to her.

“What would you like me to play, madam?” He studied his client’s face carefully, noting the large mole on the side of her nose.

“Can you play ‘Zigeunerliedchen’?”

“Ah, now, if you ask me for a classical piece I can play anything you want.”

“Go ahead, then, let’s hear you.” Her voice seemed strangely toneless.

Getting his instrument out of its case, the old fellow reflected that he’d heard of a woman who made this request to some of his colleagues. None of them could play it, which was a pity for them, as the woman offered to pay a thousand yen just to hear that one tune. It must be the same woman, he thought. But the old fellow was a far better hand at the classics than at modern music. The guitarist began to strum, and he embarked upon the haunting melody.

The woman just sat and listened, without making any effort to sing the words. Yet she didn’t seem to be drunk, just odd. When they came to the end of the tune, she merely said, “Once more.”

He complied, and when he finished he asked, “How about something else?”

But the woman was silent. There was certainly something odd about her: mad, perhaps. Here she was at a Shinjuku bar wearing a large hat and sunglasses, just as if she was on the beach. It was impossible to read the expression on her face, tricked out as she was in that manner.

At last she broke her silence, and when she spoke her voice seemed artificial.

“Do you play that often?”

“Well, it’s not a common request.”

“But surely you play it sometimes?” The woman spoke almost aggressively, as if trying to force his answer. I know the type , the old fellow thought. Kindergarten teachers, they’re like that .

“I used to play it a lot in the old days.”

“But how about recently? How about a year ago, for instance?”

This question was so preposterous that the old man could not prevent himself from laughing.

“Well, if you say so. I mean, I play every day, so I can hardly remember what I played when.”

“Surely you remember. It was in this very bar, right?”

“Here?”

“Yes, in the Bar Boi, on the ground floor. A man and a woman sang the song, and only that song, several times over.”

“Can you remember?” He turned to his partner, a much younger man with heavily oiled hair.

“Search me.” The guitarist plainly did not like her interrogative approach.

She stood up suddenly and pointed to a corner of the room. She had the posture and tone of a prosecutor in court.

“It was over there. There was a man sitting alone who asked for that song. Now think back. He looked a bit foreign—he had very sharp features. You must remember him, he was so handsome.”

The two strolling players were astonished. They looked at her in a puzzled manner, but she went on, ignoring their bewilderment.

“He was singing down here. And upstairs there was a young girl. She joined in the singing, and after the first duet she came down and joined him and they sang it again. Surely you can remember! Think! Think!”

The old fellow did his best to remember, but his partner was plainly bored.

“An unforgettable voice,” she went on. “Unusually deep—not at all typically Japanese. Now do try and remember. I’m asking about a man with a deep bass voice.”

“Ah,” said the old fellow in a relieved tone. “You’re talking about Mr. Honda. Yes, that’s who it will be. Haven’t seen him around much recently.”

“What does he do for a living, this Mr. Honda?”

“Oh, I really couldn’t say. I mean, I address all my customers either as ‘professor’ or as ‘president,’ and think no more of it. I used to call him ‘professor,’ that’s all I can tell you. He likes singing, though, and has a good voice. I think he once told me that he was the leader of the choral society when he was at college.”

“Which university was that?”

“Now, let me see. A.B.C.—was that it? No, not quite, but it was something like that—three letters of the alphabet. Maybe it wasn’t in Japan at all, but overseas, with a name like that.”

“Have you seen him around recently?”