Читать книгу Murder at the Tokyo Lawn & Tennis Club - Robert J. Collins - Страница 11

CHAPTER 4

The scene outside the club was typical of normal Saturday afternoons in the exclusive residential neighborhood. A recently disgraced political leader lived across the street, and this attracted a dozen or more press vehicles which were illegally parked along the narrow road.

Dodging and ducking members of the press were another dozen or so political leaders attempting to pay respects to their disgraced colleague and, perhaps more specifically, attempting to contain the damage potentially wrought by the disgraced one's further babbling in public. The political leaders' cars were also illegally parked.

In addition, two separate political demonstrations were taking place—one at the Chinese Embassy around the corner from the club, and the other at the Korean Embassy down the hill from the club. Wrongs, real and imagined, were being addressed by several hundred concerned citizens driving loudspeaker trucks or marching along the street carrying placards.

Compounding things was the presence of eight large police vans carrying national troopers assigned to the task of maintaining law and order amongst the demonstrators. The vans, camped next to the illegally parked vehicles, not only reduced normal traffic to one lane, they also contributed to the elements of chaos which would not be sorted out until well after sundown.

Captain Kawamura sat calmly in the back seat of his car as the driver twisted and turned his way through the hordes—at one point traveling several meters down the sidewalk in front of the hospital next to the club which, as luck would have it, was in the middle of visiting hours. Police captains were expected to be driven, although walking to the club would take half as much time as the car ride. An ambulance, stuck crossways in the street, was wailing away and generally contributing to the festivities. A normal Saturday in Tokyo, Kawamura mused.

Several club employees—the office manager, the court manager, and four female clerical staff members—stood in two columns at the entranceway as Kawamura's car bounced across the curbing and finally came to rest. Kawamura crawled out of the back seat, walked up the four broad steps, and briefly acknowledged the employees' bows with a brief nod of his head. The employees, Kawamura observed, were treating him with the kind of ingrained dignity more properly reserved for individuals in the Imperial Family—members of the club and frequent visitors. The gods, in all their wisdom, had at least contrived to arrange an Imperial absence on this particular day.

The clubhouse proper was a scene of barely controlled hysteria. Members in tennis outfits paced back and forth looking worried, frightened, and, in a few cases, angry. But surprisingly, and it was Suzuki-san who pointed this out, at least half the courts outside the large glass doors were occupied by people pounding away at their games—seemingly unaware, or at least unconcerned, about the reported developments in the locker room.

A dignified man, whose face looked vaguely familiar to Kawamura, walked up and introduced himself. He was the club president, he said, Tatsuo Morimoto. During the introductory bowing ceremonies, Kawamura remembered where he had seen the man. In the newspapers. Tatsuo Morimoto was a retired foreign service officer and former Japanese Ambassador to the United States. Kawamura held his last bow a beat longer than he would otherwise.

"I'm afraid we have a very sad development here," announced Morimoto at the conclusion of the ceremonies. Morimoto had contrived to produce a business card from the interior of his tennis costume.

'That's what I understand," said Kawamura. "Something about the bath, and apparently... ah, a member..."

"Very sad," confirmed Morimoto without moving but managing to look diplomatically sad. "Very sad indeed."

Kawamura repeated "very sad" and managed to duplicate the impression of sadness.

"But perhaps it would help if I could, ah, examine the area where the sadness occurred," explained Kawamura.

"Of course," responded Morimoto, suddenly adopting a businesslike attitude. "It's up the stairs in the locker room."

Kawamura followed Morimoto and a half-dozen Concerned Members up the circular staircase to the bath area. "Very sad" was murmured by the accompanying entourage.

The locker room was modern, air-conditioned, and equipped with all the niceties one expects in a first-class operation—towels, toothbrushes, spotless floors, hairdryers, and tatami flooring in the entranceway to the bath. A foreigner, naked and apparently in a traumatized state, gazed toward Kawamura with round and unfocused eyes as the entourage approached the bath.

"Is he all right?" Kawamura asked Morimoto with reference to the foreigner.

"We think so," answered Morimoto. "He was... shocked by discovering the, ah, sad problem."

Shig Manabe's body, formerly housing one of the nicest guys in the world, had now sunk completely under water. Only the toes stuck up above the crimson fluid. The court manager, who had greeted Kawamura on the steps outside the club, had managed to remove his necktie and beat the entourage to the bath area. He was now demonstrating his commitment to things by vigorously flourishing a mop around the floor.

"We think he slipped and cracked his head," explained Morimoto, as Kawamura studied the scene. "And that's why..."

"Tell him to stop that," said Kawamura abruptly. The court manager, not comfortable with outsiders giving directions, paused in his mopping chores and looked at the club president.

"Stop that," confirmed Morimoto.

"Has anybody touched anything here?" asked Kawamura.

The locker room denizens mumbled noncommittally.

"I touched the mop," replied the court manager after a moment. He had been spreading pink puddles around the floor next to the bath.

"Anything else?" asked Kawamura.

"Well," considered the court manager thoughtfully, "maybe just the towel." The court manager indicated a pile of obviously clean towels stacked neatly on a cabinet. "Shig, er, Manabe-san hadn't used his yet, and we're supposed to reduce the expense for laundry..." The court manager's comments trailed off.

Kawamura looked down at the body in the bath.

"We called an ambulance," explained Morimoto, "even before we called you. For some reason..."

"It's outside, still... stuck in traffic," said Kawamura interrupting. "Are you certain nothing else has been touched?"

No one answered.

"Sometimes the footing in the bath, getting in and out, can be dangerous. Particularly when..."

President Morimoto's remarks were interrupted by the still-naked foreigner.

"I think there was a tennis racket on the floor. Next to the bath. At least, that's what I remember."

"A tennis racket?" Kawamura repeated, using the English pronunciation.

"Oh, that," said the court manager. "I gave it to

"Me," said a young man wearing a white shirt, polka-dot necktie, blue blazer, boxer shorts with red dots, calf-length socks, and no trousers. "And I gave it to..."

"Me," said a very tan, middle-aged man wearing jockey shorts and a spectacular bandage on his elbow. "And I gave it to..."

"Me," said a dapper man wearing a cravat under his paisley shirt. "And I gave it to..."

"Me," said a gray-haired gentleman—the other half of the now defunct Silver Foxes. "And I put it back in the rack where tennis rackets belong. Water ruins the gut strings."

Kawamura stared at the group surrounding him. A basic precept taught in all courses on detection dictated that private feelings and personal emotions had no place in the analytical process. Kawamura turned to his assistant, Suzuki-san.

"Get the damn racket, be careful with it, and seal it."

"What could be so important about the racket?" asked Morimoto. "Slipping in the bath..."

"I have no idea what's important about the racket," answered Kawamura. "But simple observation, even without the ambulance people, indicates that your friend here suffered from a... different problem."

"Different problem?"

"Different problem. The rim of the bath is horizontal. Your friend died as the result of a vertical blow... which nearly split his head lengthwise."

The locker room denizens and Kawamura were staring at what used to be one of the nicest guys in the world—now in water turning almost purple—as the white-coated ambulance personnel bounded into the room.