The Red Locked Room Read online

  ‘There it is. I’ll go down, you stay up here,’ said one of them, as he made his way around a pile of bricks and descended the stairs into the abyss. He counted them as he went down, all twenty-three of them. A grey wall stood in front of him at the bottom, with a door to his right. It had apparently not been oiled, as it made the noise of a longhorn beetle when he pushed it open, releasing a cloud of stuffy, mouldy air. There was a corridor straight in front of him, with a door on the left leading to a large dimly-lit room about fifty square metres in size. A large wooden screen stood against the right-hand wall. There was also a broken chair, but no corpse.

  The young officer continued down the corridor. He found another door to his left, unlocked. He peered inside and saw a storage room, filled with various objects: a pile of tables, a broken portable heater, apple boxes, two loose doors. Eventually, the circle of light from his torch illuminated a sofa and he gasped.

  The dark leather sofa was torn and stuffing material had come out. On top of it lay a man, his face covered by a newspaper. He was wearing black shoes, charcoal grey trousers and a gaudy green spring jacket, but the blood coming from his chest had stained his clothes dark.

  The man’s left hand was resting on the sofa, while his right arm was dangling above the floor. Both his hands had been horribly burned, and the parts of the sofa beneath ruined, probably by acid. The officer had seen dead bodies before and usually remained calm, but when he removed the newspaper to take a look at the face of the corpse, he dropped his torch on the floor due to the sheer shock. Although it only lasted a moment, he would never forget the sight as long as he lived. The corpse had no head, and the sight of the horrendous wound would forever haunt him in his nightmares.

  Later, the young officer couldn’t recall how he had managed to make his way out of the storage room and back up the stairs. He only remembered shouting to his colleague waiting above, who had then run to the police car.

  ‘This is MPD 35. We’ve found a headless corpse in the ruins of a building. Both hands have been burnt by chemicals, and he’s been shot in the chest, over.’

  Thirty minutes later, uniformed and plainclothes police officers were crawling around the cellar floor.

  For some time they had been expecting to discover a body and had been patiently waiting, so they were eager to get started.

  Once the forensic investigators had put away their cameras, the police surgeon started to examine the body and the unit commander ordered his men out. It was vital to retrieve the bullets from the victim’s chest and determine whether they had been fired from the revolver in the parcel. It was also necessary to determine whether the fingerprints had been burnt off with sulphuric acid, hydrochloric acid or nitric acid. It was assumed the man had been strangled with the vinyl rope, but it was necessary to check whether there was blood congestion in his lungs. And, of course, the time of death had to be established.

  The police surgeon examined the victim’s back, speaking without looking up, as if he were addressing the corpse.

  ‘Two shots in the back. One through the waist, bullet stuck there. The other penetrated the upper part of the stomach.’

  Once the preliminary examination of the body was finished, they went through his clothes and possessions. The fabric of his spring jacket and his clothes were of good material and well-made. They seemed to come from well-known stores, which suggested the victim was someone who dressed smartly. The name Okabe was found inside the jacket, as well as on his shirt.

  ‘Okabe, Okabe. Do you know of an artist named Okabe?’

  ‘I know my criminals, but artists I don’t know. How do you know he’s an artist anyway?’

  ‘I’m not completely sure, of course, but don’t you think this murder stinks of paint? It’s almost certainly connected to that business with the parcels, and considering this guy’s clothes, I bet you he’s an artist,’ said the unit chief as he checked each pocket. A pipe, a wallet with about five thousand yen, a hand mirror and a comb. All the items looked expensive. When the pipe-loving detective noticed the white mark on the briar pipe, he couldn’t help but feel jealous because of the Dunhill pipe.

  Once the victim’s body had been removed, the hunt for the bullet that had gone through him began. Hunting for a bullet in all the trash was like looking for a pearl floating in the ocean, but they couldn’t give up. An officer was dispatched to buy a 100-watt bulb to light the room.

  About ten detectives were now clearing the room in an organised manner, moving the apple boxes and the tables out of the way. After an hour all the corners of the room had been searched, but the bullet had still not been found.

  ‘Perhaps the killer took the bullet with him,’ someone suggested.

  Now the room was illuminated, the unit chief could see that there was a window in one wall, allowing a view of the adjoining storage room. He thought the bullet might have passed into the second room and decided to search it himself.

  The room didn’t only look cold because of the dim light in the ceiling, but also because it was mostly empty. There was a chair with a broken leg and a high, sturdy wooden screen nearly two metres wide standing against the wall dividing this room from the other.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said to a detective who had followed him in, pointing to bullet hole in the chocolate-coloured screen. There was indeed a small hole in the screen and, looking through it, they could see into the brightly-lit room next door.

  ‘Here’s the bullet!’ shouted another detective standing near the opposite wall.

  Obviously, the bullet had passed through the screen to hit the wall, but had then lost much of its power and had merely left a small indent there before falling to the floor. There were white stucco fragments on the tip of the slightly flattened bullet, which the detective put into a plastic bag and carefully placed in the evidence box.

  The investigation of the crime scene being over for the night, everyone left, save for some officers on guard from the local police station. Once they were outside, they found the fog to be as thick as ever. To the unit chief, the fog seemed to be covering the whole case.

  Everyone present at the crime scene had been troubled by the contradictions discovered there. It could be assumed that the culprit had decapitated the victim and burnt his fingers off in order to hide his identity. But in that case, why hadn’t the murderer ripped the name tags in the clothes out and taken the victim’s possessions with him? It might well be that the killer had dressed the victim in someone else’s clothes, to make the police think the victim was someone called Okabe. If so, pursuing that line of reasoning could eventually lead to solving the case.

  5

  It was now imperative to learn who Okabe was. From a newspaper the police learned details about him.

  Otsugorō Okabe was a member of the Independent Artists Association who wrote sharply critical reviews for art magazines under the pen name Hankotsu. For that he was unpopular, and most people tried to keep their distance from him. There had been rumours he might return to Paris. His colleagues all agreed that, although his critiques were well-written, Okabe’s own painting skills were not worthy of much praise. The police were surprised to learn that he had been living with Utako Ui in her home in Hayashichō, but they had broken up near the end of the previous year.

  That fact greatly surprised Chief Inspector Onitsura, now heading the investigation, who immediately decided to call on the female artist again.

  After receiving the autopsy report and the results from forensics, he headed the same afternoon for Hayashichō. The fog of the day before had cleared completely, resulting in a bright spring day. The artist’s hands were covered in clay and she was wearing working clothes, which she quickly changed for the red sweater and slacks she had worn before.

  ‘When I saw the name Okabe in the newspapers, I assumed it was someone else with the same name. But then on the radio they mentioned his full name, Otsugorō Okabe. You can’t imagine how shocked I was. I knew you would visit me again. I still can’t beli
eve he was murdered.’

  After washing her hands, she sat down and offered Onitsura Pall Mall cigarettes, lighting one for herself. He told her about the discovery the previous night.

  ‘When was he killed?’

  ‘He died somewhere between a week and ten days ago. That would put it between the first and third of the month.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He was strangled.’

  ‘Oh, on the radio they said he was shot…’

  ‘He was shot twice in the back, but that only disabled him, so he was then strangled.’

  ‘How horrible! Why didn’t the murderer simply shoot him again?’

  ‘We don’t know. Perhaps there were only two bullets, or perhaps the killer was afraid someone outside might hear. But that’s not all. The fingerprints of the body were burnt off with sulphuric acid.’

  ‘Oh!’ Utako cried out. The Pall Mall fell from her fingers and onto the table.

  ‘There is still a lot we don’t know at this point,’ said Onitsura, picking the cigarette up. ‘We suspect the culprit used a vinyl rope to strangle the victim. It’s still a mystery whether the culprit had prepared that item, or simply happened to have it to hand.’

  Utako didn’t seem to grasp the full extent of what Onitsura was saying. She seemed reluctant to interrupt and limited herself to the occasional gasp.

  ‘Did you want to say something?’

  ‘Well, yes, what about the vinyl rope?’

  ‘Further explanation is needed. On the same day you received your parcel, Inosuke Ikeda and Shunsuke Egi each received one as well. Mr. Ikeda was sent an empty bottle of sulphuric acid, and Mr. Egi was sent a vinyl rope.’

  ‘Oh, how bizarre!’

  ‘It appears the murderer sent the objects he used to the three of you, for some reason. This morning I received a report confirming that the revolver you were sent was the one used to shoot the victim.’

  Her face turned pale and her large physique appeared to shrink. She wrapped her arms around herself. Not knowing why the killer had sent those horrible tools of death was what made the whole business so eerie.

  ‘We haven’t shared the information with the public yet, but the victim might not actually be Mr. Okabe.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Utako in surprise. She didn’t seem quite sure whether she should be pleased with the news or not, and waited for the chief inspector to continue.

  ‘I need to explain this carefully. The mysterious sender posted the parcels on the morning of the second of March, so we can assume the murder occurred in the early hours of the second, or the night of the first, because it’s unlikely the victim was murdered during the day. However, Mr. Okabe was seen alive after the parcels were posted, in the afternoon of the second of March, to be precise.’

  Utako Ui’s eyes opened wide. If the victim assumed to be Okabe was actually someone else, why were they wearing Okabe’s clothes? After a moment, she asked in an emotionally restrained tone: ‘Couldn’t someone have been mistaken for him?’

  ‘Do you know the art supply shop Deidosha in Kanda? The owner there called us. A person believed to be Mr. Okabe bought ten picture frames there.’

  ‘And he is sure about the day?’

  ‘Yes, and there’s a receipt, so there’s no doubt about the date. The boy who worked at the shop that day still remembered, and was sure it was Mr. Okabe. The owner was in a room in the back, but he saw him as well and confirms it was Mr. Okabe. They say he was wearing flannel trousers and a gabardine jacket.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re mistaken? He usually bought his materials from a shop in Kyōbashi.’

  She looked as if she would have preferred it to be a case of mistaken identity.

  ‘Yes, that point bothers us too. But the people at Deidosha say they are sure, as they knew his face from photographs. That’s why I believe that the only person who can determine whether the body belongs to Mr. Okabe is you. Would you be willing to take a look?’

  It took a while, because artists are sensitive people, but she finally made up her mind to comply with the request and put on a gorgeous green duffle coat and red beret wholly unsuitable for the task ahead. In the police car on the way to Ōtsuka, Onitsura made use of the time to learn more about Okabe.

  ‘Would Mr. Okabe have anything particular in his medical history, such as pleurisy?’

  ‘He never mentioned anything like that. In fact, he was always boasting how nothing could hurt him, so I don’t think he ever suffered from any serious medical condition.’

  ‘The corpse also lacks any distinctive characteristics, which is what makes it so difficult to identify him. Suppose Mr. Okabe himself is the culprit and is on the run, do you have any idea where he might have fled?’

  ‘Well, he was born in Hokkaidō, so I would imagine he’d go there. Of course, I don’t know how a murderer’s mind works. Have you searched his home?’

  ‘Yes. But he left in the afternoon of the first of March, and never returned. We searched his rooms, but we found nothing that could shed a light on his whereabouts. Forgive me for intruding, but could you tell us about what kind of person Mr. Okabe was, and how you broke up?’

  The chief inspector purposely did not look at the sculptress as he asked the question. Experience had taught him that this was the most effective method to induce people to talk. The car passed through Hikawashitamachi and started climbing the sloping road again.

  ‘Is it necessary?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. It’s possible that when I learn what kind of person he was and why you broke up, we could discover why he might have sent those strange parcels.’

  ‘What did Mr. Ikeda and Mr. Egi tell you about him?’

  ‘They said that they could well imagine Mr. Okabe having done it, as a form of pestering. The two of them were often the target of Mr. Okabe’s criticisms and they often argued with him about that.’

  ‘Yes, he never minced his words and always spoke his mind. If anyone tried to retaliate, he would become even more determined to attack them,’ replied Utako, who had finally decided to talk.

  ‘He was always so stubborn, which often led to trouble. But deep down, he was a gentle person, just a bit self-centred and spoilt. He was definitely not the kind of person who would murder someone else for any reason, and I can’t imagine him being hated so much someone would want to kill him, either. So if he has indeed been murdered, I have no idea who would have done it. To put it fancifully, you could say we broke up because our visions as artists were incompatible. But I must admit I’d had enough of his self-centred, stubborn personality.’

  ‘So what is your opinion about the parcels?’

  ‘I tend to agree with Mr. Ikeda and Mr. Egi.’

  ‘Harassment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Utako Ui uttered that word with such determination that no other interpretation was possible. The car swayed wildly as it passed the large, metal gates of the Medical Examiner's Office and, between the trees, the two caught glimpses of the dark, stately building.

  6

  The woman was small, barely over 1.5 metres. Her nimble movements suggested she had done sports in her college years. She was wearing a plain grey collarless two-piece dress that made her look more mature, but the manner in which she spoke and the expression on her face still had something childish about them, and she appeared to be twenty-two at most.

  She opened her enamel handbag and out came a fittingly small business card. As she looked up at Shunsuke Egi, she smiled in a natural manner. Dimples appeared on her face as she smiled, which caused a moment of temptation, but when Shunsuke saw the name on her business card, he changed his mind. On it was written: Kimiko Kiriyama, Washizu Detective Agency – Investigative Section.

  ‘Oh, so you’re a detective? Well, that’s a surprise. But I can’t remember having done anything wrong. What do you want with me?’

  Kiriyama smiled again before she answered his question. Her red lips parted to reveal white buck teeth, which only made
her look even cuter. Shunsuke was much taken by her and felt he wanted to answer any questions she might fire at him.

  ‘I’ve been hired to investigate the incident of the decapitated body found in the cellar of the Kōryō Building in Kanda,’ said Kiriyama, taking out a small notebook and looking at Shunsuke with a pencil in her hand. The business-like gesture was definitely not that of someone who had only become a detective recently.

  Shunsuke Egi began to recall the incident, which had started to fade from his mind. The identity of the decapitated corpse was still unknown and, despite an extensive manhunt, the whereabouts of the disappeared Otsugorō Okabe remained unknown. Given what had happened with the culprits Shōda of the Mekka murder case and Ōtani of the trunk incident, the authorities were preparing for a long battle of endurance. Okabe’s picture had been printed 500,000 times and his face spread across the country. Although there were dozens of artists with whom Okabe had argued, whenever Egi found himself working alone in his spacious atelier, he couldn’t help imagining Okabe hiding behind the shrubs in the garden and trembled at the thought. But after a month had gone by uneventfully, the feeling of fear had dissipated.

  ‘The client who asked me investigate the case has a different theory from that of the police, and has retained me to gather any information in support of their theory. For example…’

  The woman probed deeply with her questions, never getting distracted. After a while she apologised for the intrusion and flew off like a little bird. Later, when Shunsuke Egi thought back to the interview, he had no idea who her client was, nor could he imagine in what manner their ideas on the case differed from those of the police.

  The beautiful female detective appeared at various places and each time, falling for her charm, everyone she talked to would pause in their work and go over the case with her.

  At Deidosha, she fired questions at the owner and the clerk, which finally dispelled the doubts she had about their testimony.