style="font-size:15px;"> "Nothing?"
"Nothing. And to answer the question you didn't ask, if anyone really wanted to kill him, it would probably be me."
Kawamura and Sakai stared at each other. Finally Sakai turned his head and looked out the manager's window at the nearly deserted courts.
Then the remaining Silver Fox took off his thick glasses, put his head down on the desk, and began to cry.
CHAPTER 6
Weekend evenings at the Tokyo Lawn Tennis Club were usually quite relaxed. Anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred members would normally sit around, discuss the day's games, tell funny stories, eat, and quench thirsts developed as the result of hours spent chasing around on the courts. To put this in perspective, although the club boasted some of the top Japanese and foreign players in the country, more bottles of beer were typically consumed annually than cans of tennis balls.
On this Saturday evening, however, there was nothing but gloom. A couple-dozen members sat quietly, watched Captain Kawamura's methodical investigators going through their routines, and discussed Shig. Dusk had emptied the ten outdoor clay courts.
Kawamura could feel the awkwardness and tension as he walked around watching his men take measurements and photograph every conceivable feature in the clubhouse. Kawamura secretly knew that all the measurements and photographs in the world could not possibly determine what happened upstairs in the locker room, but investigative routine was well spelled out in the manual, and his superiors would expect to see the results of these labors in the file.
A foreigner, speaking English with a heavy French accent, broke the ice.
"Please, monsieur I'inspecteur, if you could tell what it is that happened to Manabe-san? He was a friend to all of us."
The other members silently looked at Kawamura.
"I am not a, mesher lonspec... ah," replied Kawamura crisply in English, "I am only a police captain."
'Then, mon capitaine, what was the circumstance in the bath?"
The other members silently looked at Kawamura.
"Our investigations are still... continuing," answered Kawamura.
To the Japanese members he added, in Japanese: "We have no clear idea what happened."
The other members silently looked at Kawamura.
"Manabe-san was a very nice man," said one of the Japanese members after a moment.
CHAPTER 7
"Nobody can be that nice," announced Kawamura's assistant, Suzuki-san.
Kawamura and Suzuki-san were eating dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the Azabu Juban section of Tokyo—down the hill from the tennis club and a good three kilometers from the police station. There was merit in collecting thoughts before returning to bureaucratic demands at headquarters. Besides, neither man had eaten since breakfast.
"I mean, I worry about people who are always thought to be nice. There's usually something wrong."
Kawamura looked at his assistant. Suzuki-san, now a sergeant, was respected more for his loyalty than his brainpower. At forty, Suzuki-san had decided that the best way to deal with a balding head was to shave it to the skin. That, plus a tendency to wear the same blue serge suit summer and winter, set him apart from the usual upwardly mobile staff on the force.
"Why do you say that?" asked Kawamura between mouthfuls of dumplings.
"My wife's uncle," answered Suzuki-san, who was working on a bowl of noodles festooned with slices of pink pork. "He was also very nice. Quiet. Respectful. He went to the shrines on all holidays. Everybody liked him. He also cut up my wife's aunt into little pieces and fed her to the birds in a park near Ueno Zoo. It surprised everybody."
Kawamura set aside the last dumpling on his plate.
"I hate going to that park now. When the birds..."
"Never mind," interrupted Kawamura. "What did you learn from the staff at the club?"
"Mrs. Moto, head of the kitchen, said Shig Manabe would often forget to pay his bill. He would leave town for months with an outstanding debit."
'That's hardly grounds for... whatever happened to him."
"And the young waitresses. He would find out their home phone numbers, call them, and request that they visit him at his apartment."
"Well," said Kawamura, "I guess he was friendly, but still that's not a motive for..."
'The court manager said that Manabe-san and his regular tennis partner..."
"Sakai."
"Sakai. They would have tremendous fights. About their tennis games, I guess."
"I interviewed Sakai-san," said Kawamura, "but I think he felt closer to Manabe than maybe even he realizes."
"Also, the office manager told me that Manabe and the foreigner who talks perfect Japanese had a big problem. Something about business."
"Bitman? I talked to him."
"Yes, Bitman. Theodore Bitman. We sometimes see him on television. Manabe once sued him."
Kawamura watched the waitress clearing away their plates. In his early days on the police force, Kawamura was assigned to the "illegal immigrant" detail. Picking up people like the waitress, visitors who overstayed their tourist visas merely to work, was like spreading a net in a school of fish. This woman, an Oriental lady, could not even understand the Japanese for "more beer."
"We'd better investigate that lawsuit," said Kawamura. "Bitman told me that he had great respect for Manabe."
The waitress delivered two cups of Chinese tea, which Suzuki-san waved away—pointing to the empty beer bottles and holding up two fingers.
"And the most unusual thing," continued Suzuki-san, "was what the head groundsman told me."
"The head groundsman? What does he do?"
"Sweeps the courts. But he knows everything that goes on. He's been there since the war."
"What did he say?"
"He said that Manabe and the fancy man..."
'The fancy man?" asked Kawamura.
'The fancy man. He was wearing a handkerchief around his neck today..."
"Ah, yes," said Kawamura. "He was one of those in the locker room. Paisley shirt."
"Fruit-salad shirt. His name is Kimura. And the groundsman told me that one morning he and Manabe were fighting each other and rolling around on the clay courts. The groundsman had to break them up."
"Fighting?
