Masako Togawa - The Lady Killer

On October 15—a day that would be burned into his mind by the subsequent interrogations of the police, the prosecutor, his lawyer, and the judge—such a premonition came over him as he was tying his tie. He retied it carefully; as he picked up his room key, he broke into a cheerful whistle and ran down the stairs two at a time, eschewing the elevator as being too pedestrian for such a day. He read the papers in the lobby, taking his morning tea at the same time, and then went into the dining room and ordered toast and ham and eggs. He glanced at the local news in the press; traffic accidents, double suicides, and murders—what did these have to do with him? All of these human dramas were for him but arrangements of print on the page; he could not foresee his feelings on reading the papers a few weeks later. Did he but know it, he was no more than an insect in flight over whom the net was about to descend. As far as he was concerned, the world took no account of him and his doings.

As he walked to the subway, the burden of expectation oppressed his chest. He felt like a hunter setting forth for the field, and the whole world seemed to be bathed in sunlight.

On the evening of the fifth of November, Ichiro Honda boarded a bus at Yotsuya Sanchome, arriving at Shinjuku Oiwake. He was clad in a loose-textured tweed coat and hunting cap of the type affected by French film actors in the 1930s. The whole ensemble was brown. He had changed into this outfit at the apartment that he had rented under the assumed name of Shoji Ueda for the last two years. He had gone directly to this apartment, in a building called Meikei-so, immediately after he had left work. The landlord was under the impression that he was a writer who used the apartment to get on with his manuscripts in private.

The flat had two rooms, one about a hundred feet square and the other about seventy-five. Both were in the Japanese style with matted floors, and it served his purpose. For one thing, it was more private than most similar places—the caretaker was not curious, nor were those in the neighboring rooms. Of course, Honda never took anyone else there. The wardrobe was full of suits and coats; there was also a desk and a bed. Here he would always change into whatever costume took his fancy for that night. The decision was not always an easy one between the hunting cap, a trilby, or a French beret; between, say, the sweater with the red lining or a shabby raincoat. Sometimes he would change costumes several times before he was satisfied. Then he would sit down and write his diary.

He called it “The Huntsman’s Log,” and in it he would record all his adventures with women. He had been keeping it for many years, and the fat notebook was almost full. Such was his routine on days like this when the morning premonition came over him; he would go to the flat, change, and read or write up his diary of conquests.

Reading each entry would recapture for him the remembrance of his successes; he could resavor the taste of each woman. He could evoke the feeling of a breast beneath his hand, or the rustling of an underslip as it slid from a body. Visiting these past experiences would prepare him the better for the pleasures that waited him that night.

On this particular evening, the book fell open at an entry made about a year before. Later, he believed that this was no mere accident, that some hand had guided his, but at the time he thought nothing of it. Reading the passage, he recalled the woman clearly; he saw again her face as she sobered up. She had had a muddy complexion, and her face was cratered with acne scars. His eyes ran down the words he had written in his clear, forceful hand:

July 18

Fierce heat. At 3 p.m. the thermometer read 38 Centigrade. I dirtied my Italian shoes in the melting asphalt in the road between the hotel and work.

I was asked to go for a swim but felt no attraction for the sea and declined.

The heat reminded me of a slack afternoon in a Chicago café some years ago when I just sat and watched the electric fan in the ceiling rotate sluggishly.

I was torn between listlessness and carnal desire. I was particularly attacked by sexual feelings twice at work—once in the morning and once in the afternoon.

Dined at the hotel. The heat, persisting after sunset, conversely cooled my zest for hunting. Went to an air-conditioned cinema but fell asleep after ten minutes. Headed for Shinjuku; drank scotch with water at several bars—Roi, Black Swan, Bon Bon. Found a victim at the fourth place, Boi.

Shot her dead.

Strolling musicians came in. Asked them to sing “Zigeunerliedchen,” an old favorite of my schooldays. Surprised when a velvety female alto joined in upstairs. Most dramatic. Sang the song several times. Was stimulated more than I had been for a long time by sensing my victim, invisible upstairs.

Turned out to be a skinny girl. No need to hunt her; she flew straight into my hand. Left Boi and took her to several more places.

Taxi driver took us to an air-conditioned inn where I remember having slept before. Charged me twice as much this time—ridiculous—remember not to go there again.

Prey had a strong head for drink? Anyway, no resistance, no hysterics, no overacting. Just put herself into my hands. Felt like a god accepting a human sacrifice.

Did her best to satisfy my every need, but was too tense and kept trembling. Took two hours to kill. She was a virgin; drew blood.

She slept for three hours, a strangely relieved look on her face. Couldn’t think why.

Checked her handbag. Obviously not well off, so slipped in a few thousand yen.

Left inn at 5 a.m. and took prey to Omori by taxi. Had to wake maid at inn—she was in bad mood and accepted my tip with ill grace. My victim noticed and said, “Well, it must be a hard life for her, too.”

All her relatives killed by atom bomb; lives with 29-year-old sister at Omori.

Keiko Obana

Aged 19

Key-punch operator.

Fujii Apartments, XX Omori Kaigan, Shinagawa-ku.

Employer: K Life Insurance.

All of above obtained from identity card in her handbag.

Jan. 15.

This victim put an end to her life six months after her affair with me. Newspapers say cause was occupational disease. Alas, poor Keiko.

After summoning up the memory of Keiko’s face, he turned the page and began to read the next entry. The thought of any connection between himself and the girl who had killed herself after sleeping with him once never crossed his mind. The newspaper articles were but more fuel for an entry in his log.

He remembered watching her receding back going down the narrow alleyway at Omori Kaigan, where the air is full of the fresh smell of the sea. Even he was always hurt by partings; he saw it as the price to be paid for love. He shook his head ruefully. But it was no time for such thoughts—he was ready for the hunt, and dismissed them from his mind.

He went to the cupboard and began to dress with meticulous care. It gave him pleasure to don a dark brown herringbone jacket and to select a deep-red bow tie. He chose an overcoat of thick but loose-woven tweed made in Britain. He stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and carefully combed his jet black and slightly wavy hair. After a little reflection, he chose a dark brown hunting cap, and then as an afterthought he deliberately loosened his tie and twisted it slightly off center.

Like most men of his type, he was a narcissist. He examined his face in the mirror, noting with approval his black eyes with their impenetrable depths and their double-folded lids. This was not merely his face; it was a mask for others to see in it what they would. But nonetheless it struck him as a charming face, and he winked at it. The face winked back at him from the mirror.