When one is confined to bed for a long time, reading becomes an absolute need. Of late, however, I have become weary of contemporary fiction. When only part of the way through a novel, I begin to lose interest and soon put it aside. One day, when my husband had come to see me, he happened to leave behind a railway timetable. I picked it up out of sheer boredom. A timetable is of no use to me, bed-ridden invalid that I am, but I found it surprisingly interesting. It was far more entertaining than a poorly written novel. My husband uses a timetable very often because of his many business trips. He is familiar with it for practical business reasons, whereas I, an invalid, have become a constant reader not out of necessity but for the sheer pleasure it gives me.
This timetable has the names of all the stations in Japan. As I read them, I can picture each one, even to the surrounding landscape. The small local stations are the ones that really stir my imagination. Toyotsu, Saikawa, Saki-yama, Yusubaru, Magarikane, Ita, Gotō-ji, these are names of little stations on the local lines in Kyushu. Shinjō, Masukata, Tsuya, Furukuchi, Takaya, Karikawa, Amarume lie along the local railways in the Tohoku region. The name Yusubaru, for instance, suggests to me a village set in a deep ravine filled with the luxuriant flora of the south; Amarume, I imagine to be a desolate little town in the northeast, cowering under a sullen sky. In my mind's eye I see the villages, the towns, the mountains that surround these stations, the houses and even the people living there. I recall a phrase in the famous Tsuretsuregusa which says, 'Whenever I hear a name, I seem to be able to visualize the person.' Well, I feel the same way about places. When I am bored, I open to a page in the timetable. No matter which page, I am carried away. I am free to travel through San-in, Shikoku, Hokuriku, just as I please.
But my imagination does not stop there; it extends into the element of time. For example, I may look casually at my watch: it is 1:36 in the afternoon. I turn the pages of the timetable and look for a station marked by the numerals 1:36. I find that at Sekiya Station on the Echigo Line, number 122 has just pulled in. At the same moment, people are getting off number 139 at Akune station on the Kago-shima Main Line. Number 815 has arrived at Hida Miyata. At Fujiu on the Sanyo Line, Iida in Shinshū, Kusano on the Jōban Line, Higashinoshiro on the Ōu Main Line, Ōji on the Kansai Main Line, at all these stations, trains have come to a stop at this same instant.
At this very moment, as I lie abed staring at my emaciated hands, trains are coming to a stop at certain stations in Japan. People from every walk of life and with varied backgrounds are getting on and off these trains. I close my eyes and picture the scene. If I check the time and the station I may even learn how trains pass each other and at which station and at what hour. This can be fascinating! How and when trains connect or pass each other is deliberate and planned, but the meeting and parting of passengers is purely accidental. At such moments I can imagine the ceaseless movements of these thousands as their paths cross and their lives briefly brush past each other in those faraway places. I find more pleasure in my own flights of fancy than in novels born of the imagination of others. It is a pleasure wrung from the dreams of a lonely woman.
The railway timetable with its numbers and Chinese ideographs is one of my favorite books these days.
Mihara finished reading and put the little magazine aside.
"An interesting idea, don't you think?" the doctor remarked. "Of course, these thoughts occur to her because she is confined to her room."
"I suppose so." Mihara's answer was curt. How Ryōko Yasuda felt or what she imagined did not interest him. What she had written at the beginning of the article was the important point. "My husband uses a timetable very often because of his many business trips. He is familiar with it…" For a moment, Mihara forgot the doctor's presence.
By the time Mihara had returned to his office it was close to eight o'clock. Inspector Kasai had already gone home. On the desk, under an ink bottle, Mihara found a telegram. It had arrived sooner than expected, he thought as he opened it. The message was from the Sapporo Central Police Station in Hokkaido and was a reply to his inquiry.
"Kawanishi of Futaba Company says he met Yasuda at Sapporo Station on Jan. 21 stop Yasuda stayed at Marusō Inn Jan. 22 and 23."
He had half expected the confirmation; nevertheless he was disappointed. Kawanishi did meet Yasuda at Sapporo Station on January 21; Yasuda did stay at the Marusō Inn on Jan. 22 and 23. It was exactly as the man had claimed.
Mihara sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. He was alone in the room. He could think quietly.
Yes, it was the answer he had expected. Yasuda would not tell a lie that could be easily detected. This meant that Yasuda had actually arrived in Hokkaido on the twenty-first. Sayama and Otoki committed suicide in Kyushu, at the other end of Japan, on the night of the twentieth; their bodies were discovered the following morning. During this time, Yasuda was aboard the express Towada on his way to Hokkaido. He had to be; he could not have met Kawanishi at Sapporo Station otherwise.
But Mihara was troubled by the fact that Yasuda had used the four minutes at Tokyo Station to make a third party witness Sayama and Otoki's departure. Why he had done this was still not clear. And since it was not clear, he could not help connecting Yasuda's movements on the twentieth and the twenty-first with the tragedy in Kyushu. Mihara was honest enough to admit to himself that he wanted to make the connection. He suspected Yasuda. Of what, he was still unable to say. Yet the man was actually traveling away from Kyushu at the time. Instead of going west he was going north!
He lit a second cigarette. Was there something suspicious, he wondered, in the mere fact that Yasuda was traveling in the opposite direction? Wasn't there something unusual, almost forced, in this trip of Yasuda's? Could it have been as deliberate, as carefully planned, as his use of the four-minute interval?
Mihara took from his desk drawer the file which contained the reports on the suicides. These were the materials that Tori-gai had collected for him. It was a long time since he had given a thought to that kindly little man with the thin face and the tired eyes.
He looked through the documents. Sayama and Otoki… they had swallowed potassium cyanide… the night of January 20, between the hours of 10 and 11. Double suicide, the police had concluded. There was the autopsy report.
He turned to the railway timetable on his desk. At that particular hour, he noted, the express Towada was passing through Hisa-no-hama or Hirono. He looked again at the schedule. At 6:30 on the morning of the twenty-first, the hour the bodies were discovered, the train had just left Ichinohe station in Iwate Prefecture. If Yasuda was a passenger it would be impossible to connect him with the events on Kashii Beach in Kyushu, either as to time or to place.
He had reached this conclusion when he realized suddenly that his manner of checking the trains was exactly as Mrs. Yasuda had described in the little magazine. The thought made him smile. In her essay she had written that her husband was always studying the timetable. Could that mean that he knew it thoroughly, perhaps by heart? Mihara had heard of people who were amused by such things. There was certainly something strange about this interest of his. Could a train schedule be the basis of an alibi?
No, it was incorrect to call it an alibi. Yasuda's absence from Tokyo during the three eventful days had been confirmed. Now what was needed was evidence that he had not been in Kyushu, that he was not on his way to Kyushu during this period.
Mihara picked up the telegram and reread it. He was not questioning the reply. The statements must be correct. But the important facts were missing. It was as if he were seeing a building from the outside only. There was something more, some addition, perhaps, to the structure that could not be seen from where he stood.