sat fascinated by the picture, putting it down with great reluctance at noon to eat a frugal lunch and to take a nap. When he awoke, he continued studying it until suppertime, then, when he had eaten; he put on a pot of water to boil and held the photo and card over the steam. Patiently, he moved his hand to and fro until he had them unstuck, giving a sigh of relief to see them come apart without damage.
The name card bore a line of Japanese characters running from top to bottom. The bullet had entered a bit off center and touched one of the characters, but they were all readily identifiable.
He placed the card and photo on the lamp stand to dry, then switched on the television. Frequently, during the evening, he turned off the television set and picked them up, staring as intently as before.
The following morning, he bundled up warmly and descended the staircase to a store at a corner. There he looked up a telephone number, then entered a booth and dialed.
A woman’s voice answered. “Berlitz Language School, good morning.”
“Do you have courses in Japanese?” asked Masters.
“Of course, sir. Three times weekly, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, at seven p.m.”
He hesitated. “How much are they?”
“One moment, please.” A short time later she was back. “In a group course, it is seventy-two dollars for twelve weeks.”
“Thank you.”
That evening, Masters registered at the school, disappointed to learn that new classes would not begin until after the first of the year.
“Could I speak with the instructor for a few minutes, please?” he asked the registration clerk.
The clerk glanced at her watch. “I don’t think he’s started his classes yet.” She directed him to the proper room.
The instructor was a stout, middle aged Japanese. Masters handed him the card.
“Could you please tell me what is written here?”
“It’s a name. Ito Tanaka.”
“Does it have any meaning?”
The Japanese shook his head. “No, it’s just a name. Quite often a woman carries a name with a meaning, such as a flower or an incident, but it’s rare for a man. It’s a common name, though, this Ito Tanaka. Probably a farmer or a villager.”
Masters walked home slowly, muttering, “Ito Tanaka. Ito Tanaka.”
The next morning, he made his way to his former insurance office. George Brighton was in his office checking over delinquent accounts.
“For Pete’s sake, Keith,” he said, getting up to help Masters doff his overcoat. He placed it on a rack near the door. “What are you doing out in this weather? Don’t you know it’s freezing outside?”
Masters took the seat offered by Brighton and smiled. “Of all the things I’m not afraid of, it’s catching cold. George, I want to borrow on my policies.”
“All right, Keith.” He rang for a clerk and told her to fill out the forms. “Do you want the money right away?”
“No, let it come through normally.” He hesitated. “I’m going to Japan this summer.”
“Japan! Are you out of your mind?”
Masters leaned over the desk. “George, you’re one of the most understanding people I know.” He gnawed gently at his lip for a few moments, concentrating on how he should express himself. “A couple of nights ago, right after you left, I started thinking about myself. I guess when you’ve faced death as closely as I did last summer, you begin to ask yourself some questions.”
Brighton interrupted. “You’ve faced death long before last summer. What about the War, and Korea?”
“That’s different. I was a husky kid then. In battle you know one thing if you don’t get the big one that day, you’re still young and healthy and can fight like a son of a bitch the next day. Since last summer, I learned that I can’t fight anymore. All I can do is delay the big one.”
“Okay, Keith. You’ve got something on your mind. Let’s have it.”
Masters sighed and chewed his lip harder. “A couple of nights ago I realized that I had murdered a man.”
Brighton eyes opened wide in surprise for the merest moment, then he got up, strode to the far end of the office and shut the door, which was slightly ajar. He took his seat, his expression guarded. “Keith,” he said softly. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
Masters raised his hand. “Relax, George. The killing was considered legal. In fact, they gave medals for it.”
Relief spread over Brighton’s face. “You mean war, don’t you?”
“Yes. I was responsible for the murder of a man.” The manager sat quietly, eyeing him. “I allowed one of my sergeants to shoot this Jap. I could have stopped it, but I didn’t. I guess I’ve always known I was responsible for his death, but I was unable to admit it to myself until a couple of nights ago.”
“Was he a soldier this Japanese?”
“Yes.”
“Was he armed?”
“Yes.”
“Had he surrendered?”
“No, but he was severely wounded. He wasn’t able to fight anymore.”
“Did you order this sergeant to shoot him?”
“No.” Masters paused, then sighed. “But I wanted him to.”
Brighton leaned back, lit a cigarette while he digested what Masters had said, then blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Keith, I was with the Judge Advocate during the war. Your case occurred so many times that you couldn’t count them. There isn’t a court in the world which would find against you or your sergeant. You are in the midst of a firefight and you put a bullet into an enemy. An enemy, Keith. Get that word fixed in your mind. The enemy is sworn to kill you, any way he can. Anyhow, after you put a bullet into this...enemy, you take out insurance by putting another bullet into him. Whether he’s kicking or not, you shoot him good. I think that’s being a smart soldier, not a murderer.”
“And if he had surrendered?”
“That’s different.”
“And you conclude that a wounded man, unable to lift a finger, is not the same? Maybe he wanted to surrender, but didn’t have the strength or time to turn his head and say so.”
“That’s known as real tough titty, Keith, and if you’ve heard one bullet fly by your head, you know it’s the truth.” Brighton hesitated. “Look, I’m not a psychoanalyst, and you’re not the kind of person who needs to be told that your heart attack has released all sorts of fantasies. I assume that you firmly believe what you are saying, and that it had lain dormant how long?”
