I didn't think Manabe ever fought. When was this?"
"Fifteen years ago," answered Suzuki-san. "And ever since then, Manabe and Kimura won't even play on courts that are next to each other."
Kawamura watched the waitress deliver four bottles of beer. Clearly, there was a communication problem.
"Well, there's one good thing," said Kawamura at last. "Because the... ah... problem took place in the men's locker room, we can rule out half the people who were there today."
"Women? No, we can't," answered Suzuki-san. "Our people found a cigarette with lipstick on the butt in the men's toilet next to the bath."
"Are you serious?"
"Serious. And smoking isn't even allowed up there."
Kawamura sighed and picked up the check.
"Let's go back to the station. I'd like nothing better than to learn from the coroner's office that Manabe, for reasons of his own, dove head-first into that bath."
A long and complicated discussion ensued with the manager of the Chinese restaurant regarding two of the last four beers that had been served during the meal.
CHAPTER 8
The Azabu Police Station, located in the heart of the Roppongi entertainment district, is like any major city police station in the world. Drunks, foreigners, criminals, lost souls, and Concerned Citizens wandered or were ushered in and out the main entrance. Patrolmen in uniforms—intent on assignments—bumped into each other as they rushed up and down the narrow stairs.
Activity on Saturday nights in the summer was always heavier than usual. Kawamura and Suzuki-san passed a man whose car had tipped over in the main Roppongi intersection, a wedding party of twenty or twenty-five people who were lost and should have been in Shibuya, a woman in jeans who claimed that her diamonds and pearls had been stolen in the Hard Rock Cafe, and seven Iranians who could not understand why selling baubles on the sidewalk outside the police station was not permitted. Kawamura even caught a glimpse of the prostitute from Thailand who had bitten off his little fingernail.
Upon reaching his third-floor office, Kawamura was informed that Police Chief Arai had made an unusual Saturday-night visit to the station, and that he requested Kawamura's presence in his office "the very instant" he walked in the door.
Kawamura nodded agreement, looked at the phone messages on his desk, thought about calling his wife, then decided to go up the one flight of stairs and see Arai. There were, Kawamura thought, easier ways to earn a living.
Police Chief Arai was a force to be reckoned with. Not only was he in command of the Azabu Police Department—a position of power and authority—he was a dynamo personally. He would intimidate people if he were a janitor.
"Where the hell have you been?" greeted Arai warmly as Kawamura entered the office. "The international and diplomatic world is coming to an end, and you disappear."
"We just had dinner and..."
"Had dinner? Do you realize what happened at the Tokyo Lawn Tennis Club?"
"Of course, or I think so. That's where I've been since..."
"Six or seven foreign ambassadors are members," counseled Arai, "a former ambassador to the United States is the president, and..."
Arai made head-jerking motions with his head over his shoulder.
"The Imperial Family?" suggested Kawamura helpfully.
Arai nearly jumped out of his chair.
"Don't even say that. Protocol."
"Yes, but..."
"And you're out having dinner. Do you realize the implications?"
"Yes, or no. I mean, I've been investigating..."
"Do you realize it was cold-blooded murder? A respected Japanese who was also an international citizen?"
"We're not sure of that yet. It could have been an accident and..."
Police Chief Arai slammed his hand on the desk, causing papers, pens, and knickknacks to bounce and rattle.
"You must be a complete idiot," explained Arai. "Hey, you, tell him."
Arai nodded toward the corner of his office. A man Kawamura had not noticed before sat cowering in his chair. He wore a gray rumpled suit, a gray rumpled necktie, and had gray rumpled hair.
"Er, ah, my name is Chokei, and I..."
"Cut the goddam introductions," counseled Arai. "Tell him what the hell you think."
"Er, ah, my office... the coroner's office... thinks the fatal blow to the head was most probably made by the tennis racket which was submitted as evidence. The configuration of the rim and the, ah, string-channels is consistent with..."
"See?" amplified Arai for Kawamura. "Unless you can demonstrate that your victim committed suicide by pounding himself over the head..."
"Are there fingerprints?" Kawamura asked Chokei.
"Not really. The grip is cloth, designed to absorb perspiration, and..."
"Don't get fancy, Kawamura, your job is to find out who did it," recommended Arai.
"... and the residual tissue and blood traces match those of the..."
"Stop that. Both of you," advised Arai. "Your job is to find out who did it. How many times do I have to tell you?"
Kawamura rose and began to back out of the room.
"Your input," he said, "is always very valuable, Chief Arai."
Kawamura and Chokei left Arai's office together.
"Is it always like this?" asked Chokei. "I mean, working here?"
"In a way, yes," answered Kawamura. "But it's sometimes worse."
The two men began to descend the stairs.
"We think the killer was right-handed. The right side of the racket's rim was the leading edge..."
'Thanks," said Kawamura.
"If you need more help..."
"I appreciate it, Chokei-san."
The two men parted on the third floor—Chokei quickly blending into the gray background and, presumably, down the gray stairs and out into the gray night. Kawamura never saw him again, but that's just as well. Kawamura was already in bed when he realized that tennis rackets don't have right and left sides.
CHAPTER 9
Sunday morning was bright and sunny, and at 9:00 A.M. it showed every indication of becoming a very warm day. Japan's
