The Tattoo Murder E-Book

Akimitsu Takagi

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 521

Beschreibung

An ingenious classic Japanese murder mystery, set in post-war Tokyo and steeped in the illicit subculture of Yakuza tattoos'Like voyeurs, we follow Takagi down the charred streets of bombed-out Tokyo to scenes of fastidiously executed decadence' New York TimesCan you solve the mystery of the tattoo murder?Tokyo, 1947. At the first post-war meeting of the Edo Tattoo Society, Kinue Nomura reveals her full-body snake tattoo to rapturous applause. Days later she is gone. A dismembered corpse is discovered in the locked bathroom of her home, but her much-coveted body art is nowhere to be found.Kinue's horrified lover joins forces with the boy detective Kyosuke Kamizu to try to get to the bottom of the macabre crime, but similar deaths soon follow. Is someone being driven to murder by their lust for tattooed skin, and can they be stopped?Set in a seedy Tokyo of bomb sites, dive bars and Yakuza gangs, The Tattoo Murder  is one of Japan's most ingenious and legendary whodunits.

Leseprobe

In the shadowy depths of Mount Togakushi in Nagano Prefecture, there lived three powerful, wicked sorcerers who were masters of the black arts of magic and enchantment. These mysterious magicians were known as Tsunedahime, Jiraiya, and Orochimaru, and their legendary exploits have been the subjects of folk tales, Kabuki plays, woodblock prints, and some of the most spectacular Japanese art tattoos ever created.

This is the tragic story of three of those tattoos.

CONTENTS

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1

It was the summer of 1947, and the citizens of Tokyo, already crushed with grief and shock over the loss of the war, were further debilitated by the languid heat. The city was ravaged. Seedy-looking shacks had sprung up on the messy sites of bombed-out buildings. Makeshift shops overflowed with colorful black-market merchandise, but most people were still living from hand to mouth.

Even in formerly posh neighborhoods around the Ginza, the same pathetic scenario was being played out. During the day, ragged crowds of people with empty eyes would meander aimlessly about the crossroads, mingling with the American soldiers who strutted along triumphantly in their dashing uniforms. When evening rolled around, the rubble-strewn streets teemed with prostitutes, petty criminals, and vagabonds seeking a cheap night’s lodging. The uneasy silence of the night was frequently shattered by the report of a pistol.

“Tokyo has really changed. The Ginza’s changed, too,” muttered Dr. Heishiro Hayakawa, as he stood beside a shuttered building on a side street in the West Ginza district. He was nattily dressed in an off-white linen suit with a precisely knotted necktie of ecru satin, and he carried a rattan walking stick.

Dr. Hayakawa struck several matches, without success. When one finally flared, he held it up to the nameplate on the building. The bright flame illuminated the professor’s aquiline profile, with its dramatic, deeply carved features. There was something vaguely Mephistophelean about his magnified shadow, which loomed on the wall like that of a gigantic Balinese puppet.

“Six-Chome, Number fifty-eight. This must be the place,” Dr. Hayakawa murmured as he rang the bell below the nameplate.

There was a small sound as a peephole slid open. From inside, two eyes peered into the darkness. “Who’s there, please?” a woman asked in a low voice.

“My name is Heishiro Hayakawa, but the newspapers call me Dr. Tattoo. In any case, Miss Nomura should know who I am. Just tell her Professor Hayakawa is here.”

“And may I ask who sent you?”

“Takezo Mogami is my nephew.”

The woman’s next question sounded like a riddle, or a nursery rhyme: “The snake, the frog, and the slug?” she said cryptically.

“The snake eats the frog, the frog eats the slug, the slug dissolves the snake,” the professor replied without hesitation.

The Arabian Nights door opened to reveal a steep, narrow staircase, lit dimly by a naked bulb. The sphinx behind the door turned out to be an innocent-looking young girl with a vaguely foreign appearance, dressed in a Chinese sheath-dress of white silk embroidered with blue and yellow dragons. Following this lovely apparition, the professor climbed the stairs.

At the end of the hall, on the right side, was a closed door bearing a discreet sign that read simply serupan. Professor Hayakawa, being something of a linguist, recognized the word right away as the Japanized French for “serpent,” and he shivered with pleasure at the prospect of being admitted into the snake-woman’s inner sanctum.

The girl in white knocked on the door, then vanished down the hall. The professor’s heart was pounding with excitement. Kinue Nomura and he were practically related, by common-law marriage, if not by blood. Surely that would count for something.

After a moment the door was opened by a striking-looking young woman with a long face, narrow eyes, and the delicate classical features of one of Utamaro’s woodblock-print beauties. She looked at Professor Hayakawa with undisguised suspicion.

“Welcome,” she said automatically, but her voice didn’t sound very welcoming. The woman was tall and slender, and she was dressed Japanese-style, in a kimono patterned with white polka dots on a black ground and sashed with a red-and-black striped obi.

“Kinue—Miss Nomura—it’s me! Don’t you remember?”

“Professor Hayakawa?” Kinue Nomura’s pale oval face flushed cherry-blossom pink with recognition, but instead of looking relieved she seemed even more suspicious. “So, the famous skin-peeler survived the war. How long has it been since we’ve seen each other, Sensei?” she asked in a distant tone, using the term of respectful address for teachers and masters of any art. In her mouth, though, it sounded facetious, almost insulting.

He said, “It must have been six or seven years, at least. You’ve really changed, haven’t you?” The remark was obviously meant as a compliment, for over that time Kinue had blossomed from an attractive teenager into a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

“Now that you mention it, so have you.”

Behind the terse words was the clear implication that the professor had changed for the worse. It was true. The hardships of war had turned his hair half-white and deepened his wrinkles, making him look considerably older than his forty-six years. His skin had a slightly jaundiced cast, and even his jaunty costume looked weary and worn in the light.

Kinue Nomura eyed the professor warily. “Well, Doctor Tattoo, I assume you’ve come here to offer me your famous obscene proposition?” Her tone was acerbic.

“You know me, I’m a slave to my obsession. But let’s not rush things. Won’t you let me come into your bar and have a drink? I am an old friend of your family’s, after all. And now that you’re, uh, seeing my nephew Takezo, I’m practically your uncle.”

Kinue pursed her shapely lips, which were painted a deep cherry red to match her obi. “Well, Uncle, I’m afraid the Serpent Bar is full up at the moment,” she said coldly. “Besides, it’s for members only.”

Through the crack the professor could see several empty tables, and he knew that even with the tenuous family connection, an uphill battle lay ahead. Start with innocuous small talk, he told himself, and the door will swing open soon enough. “So tell me,” he said casually, “what’s your talented older brother Tsunetaro doing these days?”

“He was sent down south to the Philippines in 1943, and I haven’t seen him since. Nobody came to deliver his ashes, and he’s officially listed as missing, so I think he must have been killed in the war. I’ve given up hope by now.”

In the background the professor could hear a drunken male voice shouting, “Hey, madam! Come back and show us your sexy tattoo!” Kinue Nomura paid no attention. Somewhere in the noisy room behind her a defective gramophone kept playing the same melancholy postwar ballad over and over, but she didn’t seem to notice that either.

“And what about your sister?” the professor asked, prolonging the conversation.

“Poor Tamae, I guess she was born under an unlucky star. She was in Hiroshima when the bomb fell, and no one’s seen her since. Even if she had survived by some miracle, she probably would have died soon after from her injuries.” Kinue’s tone was oddly clinical and offhanded, as if she were discussing the fate of a stranger.

“You two were never close, were you, even as children?” the professor asked.

“That’s putting it mildly.” Kinue’s exquisite face was suddenly distorted into a mask of unpleasantness.

“I thought sisters so close in age were supposed to be inseparable,” ventured Professor Hayakawa.

Kinue Nomura shrugged her elegant shoulders. “To tell you the truth, I never felt close to her at all,” she said. “I always thought Tamae was an evil changeling, left on the doorstep, who just happened to look like me.”

The professor was taken aback. He had forgotten about Kinue’s habit of saying outrageous things, true or not, just to shock people. Returning to his own agenda, he said, “I can’t remember the last time I saw your sister. I think it was when you two were still in middle school, long before your father gave you that magnificent snake tattoo. What about Tamae, did she ever get any tattoos?”

“You really do have a one-track mind, don’t you?” Kinue sounded angry, but it could have been an act. “What ever happened to, ‘My condolences on the loss of your entire family’? But to answer your prying question, Tamae was very competitive, not to mention insanely envious of everything I did, so she couldn’t very well have stood by watching me get tattooed without wanting one too.”

“What did your sister’s tattoo look like?” The professor leaned forward eagerly, his eyes gleaming behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

“I’d rather not discuss that. It’s too creepy, like counting the birthdays of a child who died a long time ago.”

“If it’s true that both your brother and sister are gone, then the Orochimaru tattoo on your back has become a national treasure. Please take care of yourself, and live a long, healthy life.”

“What a lousy liar you are!” Kinue erupted. “What you really mean is, ‘Be careful not to injure the skin on your back, and please die as soon as possible.’”

Professor Hayakawa was so stunned that he couldn’t think of anything to say. Kinue Nomura stood there glaring at him, her crimson lips curved in a mirthless laugh.

After a moment she said, “By the way, the answer is still no.” And with that, she slammed the door in his face.

2

Let’s celebrate the Japanese art tattoo! read the crudely mimeographed flyer, under a blurry photograph of a glowering, muscular man covered from shaven head to foot with tattoos of exotic sea creatures in a matrix of stylized Hokusai-style waves. The fine print gave the date and time for the first postwar meeting of the Edo Tattoo Society, and solicited entrants for a tattoo contest. Kenzo Matsushita had seen the posters around town, and had thought nothing of them at first. Eventually, though, it occurred to him that a passing knowledge of the tattoo culture might be useful to a future doctor of forensic medicine, if only because tattooed people (whose ranks included a great many gun-toting gangsters) had a tendency to become involved or implicated in crimes. Not without some trepidation, Kenzo showed up at the tattoo competition around twilight on a warm August evening. His long hair was uncombed as usual, and he was casually dressed in a short-sleeved open-necked white shirt, khaki slacks, and a pair of American-made combat boots. In this costume he joined the predominantly male crowd filing through the gate: dapper young men with squared-off haircuts and flashy outfits, hoodlums in sunglasses and sharkskin suits, khaki-uniformed American GIs—black, Caucasian, and a few Asian-Americans—with their sleeves rolled up and newly purchased Japanese cameras around their necks.

Kenzo Matsushita was twenty-nine years old, and like everyone else in Japan he was still reeling from the effects of the Great War. By necessity, Kenzo lived in a small, rent-free room at his married brother’s home. His primary leisure-time activities were reading foreign mystery novels and playing board games, and he would have been hard pressed to remember the last time he had gotten dressed up or slicked back his thick black hair for a night on the town. As for female companionship, there had been very little of that in Kenzo’s life so far, aside from a few sordid, unsatisfactory wartime encounters.

Kenzo was intelligent and well-educated, but he had never developed the delicate instincts that would have enabled him to understand the flamboyant Edo Style, an aesthetic that found its most spectacular expression in the full-body tattoos to which the Tattoo Society was dedicated. Indeed, aside from what he had learned during one brief visit to the famous Specimen Room at Tokyo University, Kenzo had no particular interest in or affinity for tattoos.

Kenzo Matsushita had grown up in the farm country of Nagano Prefecture, where tattoos were few and far between. Since graduating from Ikko Preparatory Academy and subsequently from Tokyo University Medical School—two of the most elite schools in the country—Kenzo had become a military medic. He had survived the war with limbs and faculties intact, although even after he was repatriated from the Philippines a sort of tropical torpor seemed to linger in his mind.

Kenzo’s older brother, Detective Chief Inspector Daiyu Matsushita, was a prominent police detective who had taken advantage of the postwar chaos to skip the usual hierarchical steps and vault to the position of chief of the main criminal investigation division of the Metropolitan Police Department. With his brother’s help, Kenzo was planning eventually to join the police medical staff. Since there were no vacancies at the moment, he had returned to the university, where he was refreshing his skills by studying forensic medicine and working desultorily on a PhD dissertation about an arcane aspect of the limbic system.

As the surging throng swept him into the garden, Kenzo felt one of his sudden mood-swings coming on. He had first experienced this disturbing phenomenon while stranded in the depths of the mountains of the Philippines, resigned to imminent death. It had been diagnosed as a post-traumatic nervous disorder, and in certain situations it would flare up suddenly, without warning.

In the manic phase, Kenzo would feel on top of the world, as if he were already a full-fledged medical doctor, a PhD, and a member of the faculty of a prestigious medical school. When he was depressed, though, he became convinced that his talents were mediocre, his existence worthless, and his dissertation a total waste of time. The wisest thing, he would think at those emotional low tides, would be to throw himself under a train, because there was nothing for him to contribute, and no place in the world where he could ever feel at home.

On this summer evening, Kenzo felt uncomfortable from the moment he walked through the gate. Crowds made him nervous, and he felt like a leaf being tossed about on a stormy ocean. Rather than following the other spectators into the large hall where the meeting was to take place, Kenzo fled toward the far corner of the garden in search of solitude.

Just as there were exclusive clubs in Tokyo for the descendants of samurai lords and the winners of literary prizes, there was an association called the Edo Tattoo Society whose membership was limited to men and women with substantial art tattoos. (Edo was the archaic name for Tokyo, and many tattooed Edoites referred to themselves as edokko—literally, “children of Edo.”) There were only a hundred members in 1947, but this was by no means the total number of people in Tokyo who had tattoos. For example, there were gentlemen and ladies of high social standing who might have gotten a tiny tattoo on some spur-of-the-moment whim during their salad days, but who had grown ashamed of those badges of reckless youth and did their utmost to conceal them. There were vast armies of gangsters, whose dubious profession made club-joining impractical. Many laborers and firemen boasted full-body tattoos, but were too busy trying to make a living to go to a meeting and stand around with their clothes off.

The Edo Tattoo Society’s activities tended to be annual rather than monthly. Every year a number of tattooed men were called upon to carry the miniature mikoshi shrines in various Shinto festivals. They might also be asked to appear at the christening of monuments and the formal celebration of marriage announcements, or to act as pallbearers at funerals. Aside from such occasions, the annual general meeting was the only opportunity for members to get together and mingle en masse. Those meetings had to be suspended during the wartime era, but after the war ended, the tattoo society sprang back to life with a flourish.

There was a suggestion that the first postwar meeting should be a memorial service for the members who had died, but that idea was rejected, because the country was still in turmoil and many people remained unaccounted for. Also, it seemed more upbeat to have a friendly get-together to see old faces (and familiar tattoos) and to celebrate the miracle of survival.

As an afterthought it was decided to include a tattoo competition, to liven things up. The usual meeting place, Nanushi Waterfall in Oji, had been badly damaged in the war, so the organizers arranged to rent a garden restaurant that was housed in a former nobleman’s estate near Kichijoji. The date was set, and advertising flyers were printed in the basement of a society member who owned a rusty old mimeograph machine.

As August 20 approached, excitement about the contest mounted, particularly when it was announced that there would be a first prize of ten thousand yen for the best tattoos, male and female. Even with spiraling inflation, ten thousand yen was a sizable sum. The members of the society, being true children of Edo, tended to be relatively unconcerned about cash, but times were hard and they couldn’t very well eat their tattoos. Besides, everyone secretly believed that his or her tattoo was the most magnificent in Japan.

With the lures of artistic pride, prize money, and sociability, the meeting managed to attract most of the surviving members of the society and some outside participants. There were more than a hundred men and women entered in the competition. The eye-catching flyers, posted all over town, attracted a good deal of attention, and a large number of newspaper reporters and spectators showed up, including Kenzo Matsushita.

Kenzo had found his haven in the depths of the garden when someone placed a hand on his arm. He turned and found himself looking into the face of a bespectacled stranger, a short, slight, middle-aged man with wispy yellowish-white hair crowned by an unseasonal beret of thick black wool. The man wore a summer kimono of dark green cotton, and he was holding an old-fashioned kiseru pipe, shaped like a long cigarette holder with a brass bowl at the end. Kenzo’s suspicion that his accoster would turn out to be a fatuous academic type was confirmed when the man opened his mouth. “There’s nothing quite so lonely as a crowd, is there?” he said.

Kenzo nodded, and before he could reply the man said, “Have you seen the ridiculous Americans strutting about, showing off their pathetic ‘sushi’ tattoos?” He pointed toward a small clump of GIs who were chatting with two young Japanese women in identical short red dresses. “Unlike the Japanese tattoo, which flows over the contours of the body like a river over stones, the Americans cover their arms with a hodgepodge of unsightly, obvious designs—hearts, anchors, flags, and the like. I suppose an upstart country like the United States doesn’t have any folklore or tradition to draw upon, but still, there’s no excuse for the total lack of artistry. No imagination. And the shading techniques are appallingly primitive, like something from the Stone Age! The subtle shadowing that sets the Japanese tattoo apart is achieved by the use of natural pigments which are applied with immeasurable skill by a true artist manipulating a variety of needles, with each bundle of needles encased in a wooden handle. But the Americans! They use a single needle, which is why their designs are as thin as a bowl of milk that’s been left out in the rain.”

As a physician, Kenzo had taken the required courses in psychology, and he recognized the pipe-smoker’s tirade as the most transparent sort of jingoistic overcompensation. Kenzo had no grudge against the American victors, and he thought of saying, “Their appalling tattoos didn’t keep them from winning the war.” But he knew that would prolong the conversation, and turn it into an argument. So he just said, “Thank you very much for the edifying lecture, but I really must go meet someone now.” As he walked away Kenzo wished he had thought to ask what the man had meant by “sushi tattoos,” but it didn’t seem worth the trouble to turn back.

The aroma of the talkative stranger’s pipe tobacco had made Kenzo crave a lungful of nicotine, and as soon as he reached the safety of the far garden wall he took a hand-rolled cigarette from his stainless-steel cigarette case. After a moment’s blissful, smoky silence, another strange voice spoke into his ear, causing him to levitate in surprise.

3

“Excuse me, kind sir, could you please lend me a match?”

Kenzo turned in alarm and saw that the question had come from a young woman standing behind him. She was tall and slender, yet voluptuous, and she wore a high-collared, white, Western-style dress with flowing sleeves. The woman had a long oval face, and her hair was piled on top of her head to show off her swanlike neck and delicate features. Her enchanting profile reminded Kenzo of an aristocratic cat, or an Egyptian goddess.

“Oh, a match? Here you are.” Kenzo spoke playfully, in the overblown style of an advertising poster: “Thanks to the progress of twentieth-century science, these matches are guaranteed to strike a light the very first time.” He handed over the box.

The woman lit an Asahi cigarette and blew a cloud of lavender smoke. “Thank you,” she said with a coquettish laugh. “That’s delicious.”

That laugh, combined with the woman’s elegant yet slightly dissolute appearance, had a bewitching effect on an unsophisticated country boy like Kenzo. When the woman lifted her arm to light her cigarette, the sleeve of her dress slid back and Kenzo caught a glimpse of pattern and color, of darkness and light. He thought it was odd that she was wearing a dress of such thick material on such a hot evening. Unable to control his curiosity, he ventured a casual-sounding inquiry.

“There certainly are a lot of people here tonight,” he said. “Of course I suppose the majority came as I did, just to observe, but I’m still amazed by the turnout.”

“Yes,” the woman replied through a cloud of smoke, “there are a lot of people in this world who like strange things.”

“I read somewhere that there were a hundred entrants in the men’s division and about twenty in the women’s,” Kenzo said. “I wonder if there really are that many tattooed women here tonight.”

“Oh, absolutely. I know at least ten personally.”

“And are you going to participate as well?”

Kenzo immediately regretted the boldness of his question, for the woman seemed annoyed by his lack of subtlety. Furrowing her pale brow with its crescent-shaped eyebrows, she shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands in an exaggerated manner, like an actress in a foreign movie.

“Hey, mister,” she said feistily, “do I really look like a tattooed hussy?”

Totally taken aback, Kenzo stammered an incoherent reply. “No, really, I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me. I didn’t mean to pry or anything, it’s just that you look so stylish, and after all this is a tattoo society meeting, and I just sort of thought you might have a couple of tattoos; it was just a weird feeling I had. What I said was totally inappropriate, and I’m very sorry if I offended you.”

The woman gave a heedless laugh. “That’s really funny,” she said, still chuckling. “There’s no need to take everything so seriously. Besides, I’m sure you could tell just by looking at me that I’m in the business of entertaining men.”

“So I was right! What do your tattoos look like?”

“On my arms I have a few men’s names, and some calligraphed poems—you know, the one by Akiko Yosano, where she says that her naked body looks like a white lily submerged in the bathtub.”

“I see.” Kenzo assumed the woman was telling the truth, and he was filled with admiration for her candor. She stared at his credulous face in astonishment, then began to laugh again.

“What’s so funny?” Kenzo asked.

“You’re really gullible, aren’t you? You’re just like a child. Do you really think I could hold my own at this competition with a couple of measly tattoos like that?”

Kenzo blushed. “In that case, you must have some really serious tattoos,” he said.

“I know it’s not very becoming for a woman, but the truth is I’m tattooed all over, down to my knees and my elbows, and everywhere in between.”

Kenzo stood stunned and speechless, as if he had been hit on the head with a cudgel. With a seductive sidelong glance, the woman added, “You would have found out in any case when the meeting started. The unveiling will take place any minute, so there’s no point in trying to hide it. If you’ll excuse me…”

She turned and headed toward what had been the main house of the estate. Kenzo peered intently at the back of her white dress, wishing he had X-ray vision. No trace of color or pattern was visible through the thick fibers, and Kenzo thought that the woman must have been joking about being tattooed all over.

4

Feeling disoriented and overstimulated, Kenzo headed for the meeting hall in a daze. As he passed a thicket of trees, a young man in a dark blue shirt brushed past him. The man glanced at Kenzo’s face and stopped in his tracks, staring in disbelief.

“If I’m mistaken, please forgive my rudeness,” he said, “but are you by any chance Kenzo Matsushita?”

“Yes.” Kenzo stared into the startlingly handsome face, trying in vain to recall where he might have seen it before. There was something slightly contemptuous about the way the man’s mouth turned up at the corners, and his sculpted, sensual lips were so naturally rosy that Kenzo wondered for a moment whether he might be an actor who had neglected to remove his stage makeup. The man had a long, well-shaped nose and a deep vertical furrow between his thick, straight brows. His brooding black eyes sparkled with intelligence, and his hair was combed straight back from his face. He had broad shoulders and an athletic build, and he carried himself with a self-assured, almost cocky air, as if he knew very well that he was a type that men find intimidating and women find irresistible.

Flustered, Kenzo searched his memory, but he still had no idea who this charismatic person might be. “I’m sorry, you are…?” he ventured.

“Have you forgotten? I’m Hisashi Mogami.” The man’s tone was incredulous, as if he were not accustomed to being unremembered.

“Oh, that’s right, of course.” Suddenly a memory from long ago swam into the front of Kenzo’s mind. “Forgive me, I had a pretty rough time in the Philippines and I’m afraid I’m still not thinking too clearly.”

Hisashi Mogami had been a friend in middle school, but they hadn’t seen each other in over ten years, so it was no wonder Kenzo hadn’t recognized him. Although Hisashi was three years older than Kenzo, he had taken two years off, from school due to heart trouble and they had ended up in the same class, sitting at adjacent desks.

It might have been sexual precocity or a naturally wild nature, but at that time Hisashi Mogami had already begun to acquire a reputation as the black sheep of the school. On one occasion he copied a love letter word for word from a famous foreign novel, audaciously substituted his own name for that of the dead writer, and sent copies to ten different female students.

Hisashi Mogami studied judo, and by the third year of middle school he was already a black belt. While he was out of school, recuperating from his illness, he had become very good at playing shogi, Japanese chess, and he used to brag that he would have no trouble earning a first-grade certification, which was reserved for the most accomplished players. Hisashi did have a remarkable aptitude for mathematics so it was possible that he really had mastered the complex and sophisticated board game.

The two boys graduated. Kenzo managed by a once-in-a-lifetime fluke to get into Ikko Academy, the premier feeder-school for prestigious Tokyo University. Hisashi went to a less illustrious high school and from there to the engineering department of a small private college, where he majored in applied chemistry. The two men drifted apart.

Kenzo had heard rumors that Hisashi was living an unconventional, rootless life as a freelance experimental chemist and womanizer, with financial support from his prosperous older brother.

“Well, well,” Hisashi was saying. “Fancy meeting you here! I never dreamed you were interested in tattoos.”

“No, it’s not that I’m interested,” Kenzo stammered. “I’m just here to do some scientific research.”

“That’s fine—whatever the nature of your interest. You never even used to look at girls. I guess you’ve grown up. Come on, you don’t need to hide it. I know you came to ogle the tattooed women!”

“You always did try to make sex the underlying motive for everything, didn’t you? You really are a Freudian at heart.” Kenzo didn’t appreciate being reminded of his lifelong lack of success with women. Besides, it wasn’t so much that he didn’t look at them. They usually didn’t look back.

“So I’m a Freudian. Is that a problem?” Hisashi’s tone was mock-belligerent. “As far as human behavior goes, if you strip away the thin veneer of appearances, there’s nothing left but the desire for food, sex, material goods, and power. Why do you suppose all these spectators have flocked to this meeting? For most of them the motivation is purely sexual. Putting aside the artistic merit of the tattoos, there’s nothing particularly unusual about seeing men who are tattooed all over. There’s no way all these spectators would take the time and trouble, and spend money on train fare, just to see a bunch of tattooed dolts milling around in their skivvies. But if you have the chance to see twenty tattooed women in the same place, that would be well worth taking a day off from work.”

“Do you really think there are that many tattooed women in Japan nowadays?”

“Oh, they’re out there, for sure. If you look at the women who hang out with members of the underworld, you’d be hard pressed to find a single one with undecorated skin. Getting tattooed is almost a prerequisite to being accepted in that world, but no one forces them into that idiotic life. They choose it by themselves. It’s a distorted underground society, where going to prison is like a badge of honor. By getting tattooed all over and cutting themselves off from normal society, the women show their commitment to a particular man and to the renegade-outlaw life in general.”

“That makes sense,” Kenzo said slowly. “Yes, I can see your point. There certainly could be ten or twenty such women out of the millions living in Tokyo. But I’m still amazed that so many have shown up here.”

“These days, ten thousand yen has an undeniable appeal,” Hisashi said, making the Japanese hand-symbol for money: thumb and forefinger joined to form a circle. “So the women are here out of greed, and we’re here out of lust. Any way you look at it, it all comes down to primal instincts.” His sophistry was as glib and flawless as ever.

“So then you, too…?” Kenzo raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

“No, I personally don’t have the slightest interest in such barbaric customs. I did some research into the tattoo subculture a while ago, but I just ended up feeling contempt for that whole way of life. The truth is I was forced to come here on my older brother’s orders, to keep an eye on his tattooed moll. He really is absurdly jealous.”

“Your brother?” Kenzo started to add, Oh, the one who pays your bills? but decided that might be less than tactful.

“Yes,” Hisashi said, “he runs a civil engineering and construction firm called the Mogami Group. If you ask me, though, he’s a kind of war criminal. During the war, he collaborated with the army and made pots of money. After the war ended, he turned to funneling hoarded goods into the black market in collusion with the Army of Occupation. I must admit it, though, he’s really got a good thing going, the slimy bastard.” Hisashi apparently felt a pang of conscience after this scathing attack on his brother’s character because he added, “Not that it’s my place to criticize anyone else; I’m not exactly Albert Schweitzer myself. Let’s just say that my brother has a good business sense, and leave it at that. On the personal front, he has been greatly influenced by our uncle, Professor Hayakawa. So when he got tired of dating normal women, he went out and found the most beautiful tattooed woman in Japan, and made her his mistress.”

To illustrate this point, Hisashi Mogami held up the little finger on his left hand, a gesture that denotes an intimate male-female relationship. “She isn’t my type at all, but I have to admit she’s a real looker, and she’s got quite a figure.” Hisashi leered and sketched an exaggerated hourglass shape in the air. “Her name is Kinue Nomura. She’s the daughter of a tattoo artist named Horiyasu, and she has a bizarre design, called Orochimaru, tattooed on her back. But the thing is, she isn’t educated or cultured at all, and her interests are very superficial. I swear, if you talked to her for an hour you’d be bored to tears. Like I always say, give me a woman with large breasts and a big brain, and I’ll be happy as a clam.”

It suddenly occurred to Kenzo that Hisashi was talking about the intriguing woman in the garden. “Is she still young, this Kinue Nomura?” he asked.

“Of course she’s young. She’s in her early to mid-twenties, just the age when women start to fill out, and since she got her tattoos when she was eighteen, they’re only five or six years old. You’re a physician. You know that when you put pigment into human skin, the color will eventually be absorbed, the images will start to migrate, and the tattoo will fade and become discolored. But right now this woman is in her prime, and her tattoo is at its best. I must say, I’m really amazed that my brother would allow her to strut around practically naked in front of strangers like this. We may have the same blood in our veins, but I don’t understand him at all.”

“Do you suppose she’s an exhibitionist, that woman?”

“It’s very possible. After all, she’s the daughter of a tattoo artist. Given the circumstances of her birth and her upbringing, it’s no wonder she’s a bit abnormal. When you see her all dressed up in kimono, you can somehow tell she works at a bar, but you would never guess that she’s hiding such extreme tattoos under her clothes. When I saw her bare tattooed arms for the first time, I was so shocked that I couldn’t say a word. I mean, if you think of a tattoo as a substitute for clothing, then I suppose you could be naked and not feel naked, but still…”

5

As Kenzo and Hisashi were reminiscing about their antic schooldays, they were approached by a man in a cream-colored seersucker suit. He was stout but not obese, with heavy brows, deep-set eyes, and an imposing physical presence. The expression on his face, though, seemed to reveal a subtle darkness of the soul. It was the restless, tormented expression of one who had been sneered at for being nouveau riche and had taken those jibes to heart.

The man wore several heavy gold rings, and the gold chain of a pocket watch hung from his waistcoat, but he didn’t seem to feel completely at home with those expensive adornments. He had the look of someone who enjoys sensual pleasures, and behind that complicated forty-year-old face, with all its timidities and desires, there seemed to lurk a certain slyness. The man’s eyes darted nervously, alighting on some passing face, then quickly glancing away.

“Oh, here you are, Hisashi,” he said. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

“I was wondering where you were, too.” Just a few moments earlier Hisashi had been deriding his brother. Now his tone was deferential, almost sycophantic.

“Have you seen Kinue?” asked the man in the seersucker suit.

“No, not really,” Hisashi replied. “I lost track of her a while ago. Sorry about that.” His apology sounded singularly insincere.

“The contest is about to begin, and I’ve looked everywhere for her but she doesn’t seem to be around.” The man’s eyes roamed the crowd as he spoke.

“Maybe she’s feeling embarrassed,” said Hisashi.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She was the one who wanted to enter the contest in the first place, remember?” While his brother was looking around with a displeased expression on his face, Hisashi leaned over and whispered two or three words in his ear. At that, the older man’s demeanor suddenly changed.

Turning to Kenzo, he bowed and said, in an extremely polite manner, “Well, well, I had no idea. Please forgive my rudeness. I’m Takezo Mogami. Thank you very much for all you’ve done for my brother in the past.”

“No, on the contrary, he’s the one who’s helped me.” Kenzo responded with the appropriate formulaic phrase.

“By the way, I hear that you’re the brother of Detective Chief Inspector Matsushita of the Metropolitan Police. I’ve known of your brother by reputation for some time, and I’ve been thinking recently that I would like to meet him face to face, just once. This is really fortuitous, meeting you like this. I’d like to buy you a glass of sake and a nice big American-style steak sometime, but unfortunately tonight I have an appointment with some foreigners. What day might you be free to honor me with your company?”

If you want to shoot the general, first you kill his horse, Kenzo thought bitterly. Clearly the man had some dark ulterior motive—probably financial—for wanting to use Kenzo to make a connection with his brother Daiyu, or with the police department in general.

“Thank you ever so much for your kind offer,” Kenzo said, using the same excessively polite language. “Unfortunately, I’m not much of a drinker.” The truth was, he was able to hold his own perfectly well and had even been accused on occasion of having a hollow leg, but this sly, overfed mogul was not his idea of a convivial drinking companion.

“Now, now, don’t say that,” said Takezo Mogami in a hearty voice. “I can see by looking at you that you like to have a good time. After all, isn’t that what brought you here tonight?”

“Actually, I’m here as a scientific observer,” Kenzo replied coolly. “I’m working on my dissertation at the Tokyo University research laboratory. That may sound rather grand,” he added self-deprecatingly, “but the truth is I’m just a humble intern who doesn’t even know how to take anyone’s pulse.” More polite lies, he thought. In fact, he could take a pulse or do a tracheotomy with one highly skilled hand tied behind his back.

“I’ve always enjoyed this sort of event, myself,” Takezo Mogami declared, gesturing expansively at the ebullient crowd around them. “And of course I’ve been influenced by my uncle, Professor Heishiro Hayakawa, whom you may know better by his nickname, Dr. Tattoo. At any rate, my woman insisted on entering this contest as a foolish prank, against my wishes, and I just hope she doesn’t embarrass me.”

Kenzo felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of the tattooed beauty in bed with this corpulent crook. “I just heard about that from Hisashi,” he said. “It sounds to me as if she’s the odds-on favorite to win tonight.”

“Hahaha. Seriously, though, this is the sort of race where there are so many dark horses that the favorite might go home hungry. Well, I’ll see you around. In the meantime, here’s someone else who wants a word with you.” Takezo Mogami jerked his chin in the direction of his hitherto silent companion, who then stepped forward, bowed very low, and handed Kenzo his business card.

“I’m Gifu Inazawa, manager of the Mogami Group,” he said effusively. “I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I am to meet you.” Gifu Inazawa was a small thin man, flashily dressed in a blue plaid suit of prewar vintage. He had a sharp-chinned, ferret-like face, and his thinning hair was artfully combed over a nascent bald spot. He wore what appeared to be a permanent synthetic smile, and he reeked of hair oil, lavender water, and tobacco.

“Likewise I’m sure,” said Kenzo drily, for he had taken an instantaneous dislike to the man.

“Do you reside with your honorable brother?” Gifu Inazawa’s super-polite language failed to disguise the cheekiness of the question.

“Yes, I’m just a poor graduate student, so I can’t get anyone to marry me.”

“No, don’t be silly. You’re probably just setting your sights too high.”

What a dreadful creep, Kenzo thought. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was he disliked about Gifu Inazawa, he only knew that his first impression of the manager of the Mogami Group was entirely negative.

“We’ll look forward to seeing you next time.” Takezo Mogami and his obsequious employee took their leave, bowing from the waist and trailing elliptical pleasantries in their wake.

When Kenzo saw Takezo Mogami from behind, he couldn’t help being startled, for the man’s rear view was radically different from the front. Melodramatic as it might sound, he appeared to be walking in the shadow of death. Kenzo shuddered. When he was working as a military medic in China and the Philippines, he had often seen that same shadow hovering around Japanese soldiers as they walked away from his hospital tent on their way to battle. There was no logical explanation for the phenomenon. It was just an instinctive feeling, an irrefutable premonition of death. No matter how healthy and full of life the soldiers might have appeared to be at the moment, Kenzo always knew with absolute certainty that the only thing the future held for those high-spirited young men was a fatal bullet from an enemy gun.

6

The large meeting room of the restaurant was a hundred tatami mats in area. Even so, it was crammed to capacity. Half the occupants were spectators with unembellished skin, aside from the occasional arrow-pierced heart or Stars-and-Stripes tattoo on an American GI’s forearm. The other half were the tattooed contestants who stood around in scanty undergarments, looking like colorful statues. The room was hot and stuffy and the male contestants, without exception, were dressed according to contest regulations in cool white cotton fundoshi loincloths that covered their private parts but left their tattooed buttocks exposed.

It was, undeniably, a grand spectacle. Each person was an individual work of art. But seeing such a multitude assembled in one place, with such a profusion of magnificent skin-pictures on their backs, the philosophical observer was tempted to view them as an independent race, separated by their immortal tattoos from the transience of life on earth. With the force of a tidal wave, the sculpturesque group made a profound impression on the spectators. In the hallucinatory excitement, some people even forgot that they were living in the postwar depression of 1947, and were transported back to the carefree days of the Edo Period.

The female contestants, too, had congregated in a corner of the room, but only about half of them had stripped down to their underpants. Some lounged around wearing nothing but white loincloths and fanning themselves, just like men. Takezo Mogami’s “woman,” Kinue Nomura, was standing at the center of one wall, between the seating areas for spectators and contestants, leaning against a pillar and smoking a cigarette. Kinue was still wearing her white dress, and the eyes of many of the spectators kept straying in her direction. Standing there with sleeves flapping and arms akimbo, she looked like some exotic creature of myth, a giant white bat with an angel’s face.

“Are you tattooed, too?” A woman who was sitting next to Kinue suddenly spoke to her, out of boredom or curiosity. The woman had a picture of Kintaro (Golden Boy), the legendary wunderkind of Japanese folklore, tattooed on her back.

“Just a little bit,” Kinue replied cagily.

“Well then, you’d better take off your clothes. Everyone else is already undressed, so there’s no need to hold back. That dress must be unbearably hot.”

“When I look at all these splendid tattoos, my own scribbles seem like a bad joke, and I feel embarrassed. I think I’ll stay like this until my number is called.” When Kinue said this the woman with the Kintaro tattoo, obviously miffed, stuck her nose in the air and looked the other way.

The meeting room had a slightly raised area that was used as a stage. On this makeshift platform the expert judges—five middle-aged and elderly men, including Professor Heishiro Hayakawa—were seated at a long table. One by one the society members paraded up and down in front of the row of judges, in the order in which they had registered. The numbers were assigned in the same manner, so that while Kinue was one of twenty or so female entrants, her number was forty-seven.

The greatest applause for a male competitor was for number twenty-one, a young man with a shaved head and gothic eyebrows who was tattooed everywhere except his face, his neck, the soles of his feet, and the palms of his hands. Rather than the usual designs, he was imprinted from hairless head to hammer-toed foot with mystical Sanskrit scriptures rendered in scarlet, black, and blue. The applause escalated when he raised his arms to show the arabesque runes in his armpits, for everyone knew that the tender underarm flesh was the second most painful place to receive a tattoo.

When the man paused in his jaunty promenade and let his white loincloth drop to the stage, there was a universal gasp as the audience saw that the man’s penis was tattooed from top to bottom as well. No one in the crowd was unaware that this was by far the most sensitive spot on the male body, and most of them had heard stories of how such tattoos were done. While the tattoo master plied his bundles of sharp-tipped needles as gently as possible, an assistant would stretch the skin taut, and four strong men would immobilize the arms and legs of the shrieking, writhing subject.

“Ouch! That must have hurt like hell!” shouted a wag in the first row as the tattooed man showed off his illustrated sex organ, and everyone laughed uproariously.

The women’s competition began when a woman whom Kinue had met many times took off her white yukata summer kimono and walked in front of the judges. The woman was the proprietor of a restaurant in Yokohama and had formerly been the wife of an influential organized-crime boss from Kanagawa. As was the custom, she was known by her own name in conjunction with that of her tattoo: O-Kichi of the Fiery Chariot. O-Kichi was well filled out, even a bit overweight, and on the plump flesh of her back two blue demons were shown pulling a flaming chariot while above them a naked beauty writhed in torment in the raging fire.

The breathtaking exhibition continued, and the atmosphere in the hot, stifling room became electric with anticipation. “Number forty-seven, Miss Kinue Nomura.” Kinue was the final entrant in the women’s division, and when her name was called at last she didn’t reply. She just stood by her pillar, with the impermeable dignity of a sumo grand champion toeing the mark before a match.

“Orochimaru: Miss Kinue Nomura,” Professor Hayakawa called again, and this time Kinue stepped forward. Flicking away her half-smoked cigarette, she threaded her way through the contestants’ seating area with long strides, while the spectators watched her as if with a single eye. Still fully dressed, she stopped in front of the judges’ table.

“We have to see you naked, Miss, so please take off your clothes.” The professor’s voice was as crisp and businesslike as if he were addressing a stranger.

“All right, I will,” Kinue replied saucily. “As long as I’ve come this far, I may as well put myself on the chopping block, like a dead carp.” She stepped out of her white one-piece dress and stood in front of the judges in a thin-strapped chemise of translucent white silk that revealed the colorful tattooing on her upper arms. It was a strikingly beautiful sight: her bare skin was flushed a pale pink, and against a blue-black background the tattooed cherry blossoms appeared to be in fragrant bloom, with vermilion maple leaves floating through the air around them.

As Kinue had known, the beauty of her tattooed body was tantalizingly visible through the thin silk of her chemise. She was well aware that the flimsy fabric would act as a conductor of light, and that the indescribably gorgeous colors of the tattoos—the vermilion, the pink, the purple, the indigo, the luminous yellow-green—would shine through with subtle glory. She also knew that if she appeared to be shyly concealing her superb tattoos it would have a bewitching effect on the audience, and would make the ultimate unveiling that much more dramatic. After twirling around once or twice to heighten the suspense, Kinue casually stepped out of her silk chemise and stood in front of the crowd, dressed only in a pair of skimpy tailor-made underpants cut high on the hips, like the two-piece bathing suits worn by foreign women.

Kinue couldn’t see her own back, but she could feel a blush of excitement spreading over her full breasts, and she could feel them undulating gently as she walked. As the flush engulfed her body it appeared to the spectators as if the wild-eyed sorcerer on her back was blushing in shame, and the giant snake seemed to be wriggling like a living thing. The meeting hall, which had been dead silent, suddenly erupted in cheers, shouts, and whistles.

When she heard that thunderous roar Kinue knew without a doubt that she would be crowned the queen of the tattoo contest. Raising her crescent-moon eyebrows in triumph, she looked first at the five male judges and then turned to face the rowdy, cheering audience. The young man who had given her a match in the garden was standing near the front, shoulder to shoulder with Hisashi Mogami, staring hungrily up at her. Kinue caught his eye and gave him a small, secret smile.

“What’s your headline going to be?” a photographer in a filthy tan trench-coat asked a cigar-chewing newspaper reporter, as they left the hall after the contest.

“Hmm,” said the reporter, scratching his head with a tooth-marked yellow pencil. “How about ‘A Beautiful Snake-Woman Sheds Her Skin’?”

“Perfect,” said the photographer. He jammed a new roll of film in his camera, then ran off in pursuit of the woman in question.

The tattoo competition was over, and everyone agreed that it had been a huge success. As expected, Kinue Nomura was awarded the grand prize. After the judging ended and the musical entertainment began, a number of contestants wandered out into the garden without bothering to put their clothes back on. Some refreshed themselves under a small manmade waterfall, while others relaxed in the cool shadows of the trees.

Kenzo Matsushita and Hisashi Mogami strolled amid the flowering shrubs. “How about it?” Hisashi asked. “Would you like to meet the snake-woman face to face?”

Kenzo still hadn’t recovered from the excitement of being in such a decadent, sensual atmosphere, and he answered deliriously, “Yes, by all means, let me bask in the glory of the radiant queen.”

“I don’t mind introducing you, but I have to warn you that she has a tendency to take over people’s lives. Also, she sometimes comes out with bizarre and even paranoid remarks, and the best thing is just to say ‘Yes, yes’ and act sympathetic. I think she’s probably a little strange in the head because of the sort of upbringing she had, if you know what I mean.” Hisashi spoke in a serious tone, and Kenzo nodded.

Kinue Nomura was standing in the garden under a large cryptomeria tree, dressed in her demure white dress and surrounded by admirers. A large crowd of newspaper reporters was laying siege to the newly crowned queen, waving notebooks and cameras and yelling the usual questions.

“No, no!” Kinue shouted back, flapping her hands at a couple of photographers who had gotten too close. “Show’s over, boys. No more photographs. If you want to see my tattoos, you’ll have to come again next year.”

Kinue was still trying to shoo the journalists away when Kenzo and Hisashi approached. As they elbowed their way through the surging crowd, Hisashi called out, “How’s it going, Kinue? You seem to be having a hard time.”

“Oh, Hisashi, your timing is perfect. Please make these annoying creatures go away.”

“You don’t need me. If you just bare one shoulder like a gambler and shout a few insults at them, they’ll creep away in terror with their tails between their legs.”

“Bare one shoulder? That’s not exactly a brilliant suggestion. I mean, that’s what they’re hoping for, to see some skin.”

“Well, we’re living in a democracy now, remember. Why not give them a break and let them take a few pictures?”

“Absolutely not. You’re no help at all!” Kinue’s tone of voice was playful.

“Excuse me, Miss Nomura, but I was wondering what motivated you to get that tattoo?” A young reporter seized on the chance to ask a question.

“I got tattooed because I was deceived by a disgusting, manipulative, lecherous man, just like you!” Kinue shouted. Everyone started to laugh, and the young reporter turned bright red and rushed off toward the meeting hall. The rest of the journalists seemed to realize then that their siege was in vain, and they, too, began to drift away.

“Kinue,” Hisashi said, “I’d like to introduce one of your admirers. Actually, he’s an old school friend of mine. His name is Kenzo Matsushita, and he’s a doctoral candidate at the Tokyo University Medical School.”

Kinue stared at Kenzo in amazement. “So it was you?” she said softly.

“Oh, do you two know each other?” Hisashi said. “Just as I thought, there’s more here than meets the eye.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kinue scoffed. “He just lent me a match a while ago.”

“Hmm, is that so? Sounds pretty fishy to me,” Hisashi said, winking at Kenzo.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Kinue demanded, but she said it with a smile. “Actually,” she said, turning to Kenzo, “my husband Takezo was just asking me about you, too. Don’t tell me you’re another skin-peeler!” She pronounced the last phrase with the bitterest sarcasm, and Kenzo knew right away that she was talking about Professor Hayakawa, who was notorious for his obsession with harvesting and collecting tattooed human skins.

“No, no,” Kenzo said quickly. “I have no interest in that sort of thing at all.”

“Forgive me,” said Kinue. “It’s just that when I hear that someone is a doctor, I immediately think they want to peel me like a grape and steal my skin. Listen, why don’t we go over there and have a nice leisurely chat?” She led the way into the garden without looking back.

“Say, Matsushita, do you feel like stopping off somewhere for a drink on the way home?” Hisashi asked as they walked along behind the willowy, glamorous woman in white. Kenzo mumbled something about making it another time, and Hisashi went off on his own. The reporters had all dispersed by this time, and no one pursued Kinue and Kenzo into the dark.

In the shadows of a quiet grove of trees, there was a wooden bench. As they sat down, Kinue looked at Kenzo from under her eyelashes and said, “So, tell me the truth. Were you shocked to see the sort of woman I am?”

“Not in the least,” Kenzo said. “When Hisashi first told me that there was a stunning young woman with an Orochimaru tattoo who was certain to win first place in the contest, I had a feeling it would turn out to be you.”

“But an educated person like you must think I’m a foolish woman. I’m sure you must feel contempt for me for having defaced my body like this.”

“Not in the least,” Kenzo repeated. “The truth is, I took some classes in med school from Dr. Tattoo—that is, from Professor Hayakawa—and I had often heard him talk about the tattoo as an underrated art form, but I didn’t realize how right he was until today. When I saw your tattoo up there on the stage, it was almost like a Zen satori. You know, the flash of enlightenment when everything becomes clear? At that moment, I suddenly understood the beauty of tattooed skin with every cell of my being. There’s absolutely no need for you to be so defensive about it. Better that you should be proud of your tattoo and let the reporters take pictures, instead of running yourself down.”

“The problem is, I really hate reporters. They treat me like a freak, like a two-headed zebra or a sideshow snake-lady, not a human being.”

“There’s probably some truth in that. I’ve always thought that heartlessness must be a prerequisite for a career in tabloid journalism.”

“That’s so true. You’re a very perceptive man, do you know that? You’re not too bad to look at, either.” Kinue Nomura was staring into Kenzo’s eyes with an intensity he had never encountered before.

Kenzo blushed and looked down at his army boots. “I must say, you really handled the reporters.”

“That’s because I’m a woman,” Kinue said. “That’s the one thing I know how to do, handle men.” Seemingly lost in thought, she let out a sigh. Then she said dreamily, “I guess I was born with a taste for tattoos. When I was a child, no matter how hard I might be crying, my tears would stop the minute I saw my parents’ tattoos. It finally got to the point where I couldn’t stand not to have my own tattoos, and I virtually forced my father to tattoo me. It was really unbelievably painful. Even though you’re a doctor, I’m not sure if you could understand that sort of pain unless you had endured it yourself. The process took three years, and it was finished just a couple of months before my father died. When I looked in the mirror and saw that I was finally tattooed all over, I felt like a full-fledged woman for the first time. I was totally happy.”

Just then, Gifu Inazawa came up to where they were sitting, smiling his phony smile. “Doctor Tattoo wants to talk to you about something,” he told Kinue, after treating Kenzo to several deferential hand-puppet bows.

“Don’t you dare go away, Mr. Kenzo Matsushita,” Kinue said with a dazzling smile, and she followed Inazawa to a nearby gazebo, where the professor was waiting.

Shamelessly eavesdropping from twenty feet away, Kenzo could catch only a word here and a phrase there. First Gifu Inazawa took his unctuous leave, then Professor Hayakawa said something in a low voice and Kinue snapped, “Over my dead body!”

More maddeningly inaudible murmurs, then Professor Hayakawa said in a normal tone, “Can’t you see that you’re being unreasonable? I’m only asking for a photograph, not your skin.”