a scholarly tone, but with a certain excitement, Chief Takahashi said, "Usami's family life was peaceful and content. He had no outstanding debts. His hobby was the inexpensive one of gardening. He was liked by his neighbors. In other words, he was a fine member of society about whom nobody had anything bad to say. I know of only one case of murder like this."
"What's that?" Assistant Inspector Iizuka asked, with a look of disbelief. The other members of the investigation team shared this look.
"It's in my imagination. Somebody in the company tells Usami an important secret. Later, he thinks, 'I've done it, now. If Usami spills that, it's all up with me.' Then this guy gets the idea of killing Usami. . . ."
One of the team objected. "But Usami was famous for keeping secrets."
"Yes. But if the secret was very important, the person who told it might become the victim of terrible doubts," Kono said, thinking that Takahashi had something.
Another of the team said, "I can't help thinking the police chief's explanation relies too much on imagination."
There was some substantiation to this objection. Takahashi, disgruntled, said no more. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Could it have been suicide? Kono felt this doubt among the members of the group. No one voiced it. They had investigated the case as murder to this point.
Pressure of duties had made administrative employees kill themselves. Often these suicides paid no attention to their surroundings. During rush hour, they leaped in front of oncoming trains, or hurled themselves from office windows during work hours. Usami might fit this category.
A veteran detective named Hosobe, asked, "Chief, couldn't it be suicide?" It was a brave gesture under the circumstances. Kono had heard that Takahashi and Hosobe did not get along well.
Takahashi said clearly, "Right now, I'm not considering suicide. In the first place, there's nothing in Usami's daily life to warrant suicide. In the second place, potassium cyanide looks like a planned killing. There was no suicide note. And, two days before the party, Usami himself bought plane tickets for a business trip to Tokyo."
"I see." Hosobe seemed convinced for the moment. The investigation was ploughing ahead for murder, and Hosobe lacked sufficient confidence to try to call it to a halt.
Turning to Kono, Takahashi said, "How d'you make it?"
"You mean murder or suicide?"
"Yeah."
Kono folded his arms. "I think the chief's right. It seems like it's murder. Forgive me for being vague."
Takahashi asked, "I get the feeling the investigation's bogged down in questioning. What d'you say?"
"Earlier, you said everybody was prepared for Usami to keep their secrets. Maybe it's related to the heart of the matter. I'm not saying it points directly to a conclusion, but it might be a good notion to examine the issue from the viewpoint of what's happened in the company." Kono glanced around, scowling, then said, "Right now, the idea of self-defense is especially strong in commercial enterprises and their staffs. To give a simple example—a bank where embezzlement's occurred. It's possible to make preparations. Let's say the amount is five million yen. The bank will certainly deal with this within the limits of its own organization and not let word leak to the outside. After all, banks require the customers' trust. If Usami'd heard an important company secret—and if this is the cause from which the crime grew, the investigation. . ." Kono paused. Then he slowly added, "Will be very difficult."
One of the investigation team had come in and was whispering something to Takahashi. Wrinkling his forehead, Takahashi said, "The lab report says the only clear prints on the glass are Usami's. There are other smears, can't be identified. Another thing, potassium cyanide is used by Sanei. Strictly controlled, but an employee could probably get it if he wanted it bad enough."
The room was heavy with silence.
That night, Kono found it difficult to sleep. His mind was busy with the Usami case. His intuition told him it was murder. But he was convinced some secret was concealed behind the matter. He had talked of self-defense in commercial enterprises and their staffs. He'd given a bank as an example. But cases like this were not limited to banks. They could be found in the police department itself. Instances of embezzling occurred in the police and were dealt with without publicity. The police, too, required the trust of the people. While uncovering crime, they had to eliminate such from within their own ranks. Kono recalled the mistake he'd made in his youth. It embarrassed him to think of it, though it could not really be called a crime. . . .
Just promoted to assistant inspector, he went through a brief period when he lowered his standards slightly. As the person in charge of economics-related crime, he had to deal with illegal practices in horse and bicycle racing. This meant he often traveled to the tracks. One day—he must have been bewitched—he suddenly found he'd bought bets on a race and that he'd made a large winning. Although he realized it could be the start of involvement with other kinds of gambling, he began taking a lively interest in horse races and bicycle races. There was no rule that a policeman must not gamble. But there was an unwritten law that they should exercise self-control. Because he had a guilty conscience, Kono avoided the tracks in F city and attended regional ones.
One day, when he had lost all the money he'd brought with him, he felt someone tapping his shoulder. Turning, he saw Wakamoto, the head of a small loan-company.
"The afternoon race is the big one," he said casually. "Want me to let you have some money?"
Wakamoto had noticed that Kono's funds had run out.
"Maybe—"
This was his mistake. Once this kind of borrowing starts, it becomes habit and debts snowball. A policeman is the best kind of customer a small loan-shark can have. Because of his work, he cannot kick back. Before Kono knew it, he had borrowed more than he could pay off. Interest piled up, and the debt increased. He knew he must do something. The days rolled relentlessly by.
One day, his superior, Inspector Takami, called him. The two went to an out-of-the-way restaurant. Seated, Takami said, "I consider you a talented man. Your promotion to assistant inspector was the fastest in the department, ever. It makes me proud of you. But you've got into debt, right?"
"What?"
"You're dealing with a nasty customer. Wakamoto's tied up with gang financing."
The blood drained from Kono's face. Takami knew everything.
"How much can you scrape up from friends and relatives?"
The conversation swept on, and Kono was powerless to resist. After all stones were turned, Kono was still short one million yen. Takami lent it to him out of his own pocket, saving him from a bad predicament. Kono considered Takami a great benefactor from that time on.
Takami had happened to spot Kono's name in Wakamoto's books when he was making a check. His foresight saved Kono from a serious black mark, both in and out of the police force. He'd certainly have been disgraced if he'd been publicly exposed in the books of a petty loan-shark.
Kono learned from the mistake. First, he gained a true understanding of what it meant to be a policeman. Second, he saw the police as an organization that acted speedily to cover whatever unfortunate events occurred within its limits. Kono realized that Takami had also taken the step to protect his own position as a ranking officer on the force. Unreliable people in the department would have brought a black mark against him as well.
Since then, Kono had been so severe on ethical points that he'd earned the nickname, the Hard Guy. His mistake proved a good tonic that later brought him immense trust. He had to grow to the point where he could take a cool, professional look at everything happening above him in the organization. Kono understood the self-defense syndrome in big business. He suspected Taro Usami's death was connected in some way with the self-defense feelings of the company or someone on its staff. A sense of smell developed through years of experience led him to this belief. Difficulty in falling asleep, because of the Usami case, was shared with Kono by all thirteen of the people who had