is the Middle Shrine, whose surrounding village used to mark the extent of settlement in Togakushi. The area beyond, as its name Koshimizu-ga-Hara or Water-Crossing Plain implies, used to be covered with bamboo shrubs and swampy areas of skunk cabbage. But backed by craggy West Peak of the Togakushi Mountains, the entire stretch is blessed with beauty all year round, making it not only ideal for sanitoriums and mountain villas, but also giving it potential for large resorts. Thus, in recent years, the stretch of plateau beyond the Middle Shrine and up to the Inner Shrine has been rapidly developed with villas.
In spite of the nationwide craze for the development of such resorts, however, the Togakushi Plateau—except for its paved roads and ski lift—has not been subjected to any remarkably large-scale development. Thus it retains the strong image of a secluded country place, and that in itself makes it thoroughly attractive to big investors.
As Takemura and Kinoshita drove by the Middle Shrine, they saw from their cream-colored compact several tour busses and a considerable number of private cars parked in the square in front. The Togakushi Plateau, quiet for a while, would rapidly be getting lively again, and there were a lot of local young people hard at work cutting the bamboo brush beside the road. A little way out of the Middle Shrine village, Kinoshita turned right, shortly after which they passed through the stretch of villas and then saw the white building of the Koshimizu Plateau Hotel at the bottom of the ski slope.
When Takemura showed his badge, the desk clerk paled. Although it was obvious from his manner that the police had been expected, they were nevertheless kept waiting for nearly an hour in the coffee shop on the first floor. Kinoshita, young and impatient, kept getting up to go press the clerk, but each time the clerk asked them to wait just another moment.
Around them in the coffee shop were three groups of noisy students. Perhaps it was a feeling of freedom that made them so loud as to spoil the quiet so hard to come by.
"I wonder where those kids get the money to play around with," said Kinoshita in disgust. "I suppose they must have sponged it off their parents, but I don't see why their parents stand for it."
"Now, now," laughed Takemura, "you're jealous."
"No I'm not. I just feel sorry for their parents. They worked hard for that money."
"Maybe their parents don't mind. They might be happy to have the kids enjoying themselves."
"You think so? That might be all right if the kids did as much for their parents as the parents do for their kids, but filial piety is out of style nowadays."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I hear you've got a reputation for being a filial son."
"I try. But my parents didn't do all that much for me. I mean, the parents of these kids aren't likely to get much in return. That's what they don't understand, the fools!" Kinoshita was really angry, and not just because he was tired of waiting.
He was a good man, thought Takemura, with a pleased smile. Twenty-four years old and dressed in a windbreaker over a long-sleeved sport shirt, Kinoshita quite resembled the other, more modern youths in the place, but hearing him talk about old-time filial piety made Takemura decide that the closed society of the police must do something good for a young man.
Takemura himself was even more of an anachronism. Having no formulated ethics, no religion, and no concept of ideology, he had not chosen a police career out of any strong desire to guard the Establishment or for any lofty ideal of protecting the public peace and welfare. He had done so out of a need to eat.
He had graduated near the top of his high school class, but family circumstances had forced him to give up the idea of going on to college. Together with his teachers' regrets, however, had come the suggestion that his excellent high school record would open up the path to success with the police. Influenced as well by the same TV detective dramas that influence most boys who eventually join the police, he had taken the suggestion, and found in a year or two that he had undergone an undeniable and remarkable change, and been given a purpose in life.
The police organization has incalculable effects in the molding of individuals. After the superficial mold is removed, though, personal ability, effort, and more than anything else, special aptitudes count most. In particular, a good detective needs deductive powers and imagination. Iwao Takemura, a man blessed with just those talents, was meant for the job. When he found himself on a challenging case, his excitement was like that of a hyena licking his chops before some delicious prey. He would forget everything else, not satisfied until he had seen it through to the bitter end. It was not infrequently that enthusiasm led him to ignore his position as inspector. That job was supposed to be mainly managerial, but he continued to operate the way he had always done, behaving like a staff detective— sometimes an eccentric one.
A raise and a very nice place to live had come with his double promotion, but this had not made him conceited. He did not own a car, nor would he even buy a new raincoat. At the height of summer, of course, he didn't carry his raincoat, but he did refuse to give up his rumpled white shirt and tie. He had taken just one look at the sport shirt and string tie his wife Yoko had bought him—"just for midsummer," she had said—and stuffed them into a drawer. "You really ought to try wearing something different once in a while," pleaded Yoko, who had been pleased with her purchase. But Takemura had evaded the issue with, "Don't be ridiculous. A man can't go around wearing any old thing just because his wife tells him to."
* * *
It wasn't so very hot, but when the hotel manager finally showed up, his face was covered with perspiration.
"I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting so long," he said, bowing and scraping. "I'm Takano, the manager."
"Well, you must have had quite a time preparing for this meeting," replied Takemura, unable to resist the sarcasm. "I'm sure you were very worried about Mr. Takeda."
"Er, uh... oh yes, yes, you're right, of course," mumbled Takano, flabbergasted. He was a short man of about fifty with a pleasant, round face, which expressed clearly his total loyalty to his job.
"We need to ask some questions concerning Kisuke Takeda's death. I wonder if you'd mind calling the desk clerk who was the last person to see him?"
Takano hurried out and came back with a young man named Aibara, a tall, slim, handsome fellow. He sat down quite properly, facing Takemura.
"According to your statement, it was a little before 7 P.M. that you saw Kisuke Takeda going out. Is that correct?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Was there anyone else at the desk with you at that time?"
"No. There was somebody in the office behind the desk, but as a rule, unless we're serving guests, we usually keep only one person on the desk at a time."
"All right then, since you were the only one to see him go out, I want you to consider your answer very carefully: are you absolutely sure that it was Kisuke Takeda you saw?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"Did you know Mr. Takeda on sight?"
"Oh yes. He had stayed here several times since this spring, and besides, I had heard that he was a big stockholder in the hotel."
"Oh really?" Takemura looked at the manager for confirmation.
"Yes," confirmed Takano, "Mr. Takeda owned a lot of stock in our parent company, the Kawanakashima Tourism Development Corporation."
"Then
