“What kind of investigation is underway?” Hugh had carried in his own diary and pen and was beginning to make notes. “Because of my relationship with Sendai, Mr. Nakamura is effectively my client. I need to know the status of this investigation.”
“I must remind the Englishman that he is under questioning, not his client.” The police chief drew the sides of his mouth down in exaggeration, as if he found the word ridiculous.
“I’m not English. I’m a Scot.” Hugh’s expression remained pleasant, but I sensed anger. “I last saw Mrs. Nakamura yesterday evening, going to the bath.”
“You bathed with her?” Captain Okuhara inquired.
“No, indeed. May I remind you, she is married to my colleague,” Hugh reproached. “I simply saw her walking down the hallway. Nine o’clock, I think it was. She was in a bathrobe and carrying some shampoo, so I assumed she was going to the bath.”
“Were there any other witnesses?” Okuhara asked.
I brought up my own presence, and Hugh shot me a surprised look. What had he thought, I’d leave him to the wolf?
“Tell me more about your relationship,” the captain said, stroking his pen suggestively.
“With her? We only met at dinner.” Hugh’s eyes darted nervously toward me.
“No, with Mr. Nakamura’s wife!”
“Oh.” He exhaled, obviously relieved. “We were friends.” Okuhara’s eyebrows shot up at that sharp departure from Japanese male-female norms but Hugh continued, oblivious. “We’ve been friends for ages, ever since Mr. Nakamura asked her to help me find a decorator to furnish my flat.”
“And once your residence was furnished?”
“She handled anything else I needed. Finding a maid and leasing a car…ordering groceries…the myriad things one needs to learn in a new city.”
“You’ve been here how long, Mr. Glendinning?”
“Eight or nine months.”
“And how many times did you meet with Mrs. Nakamura during this period?”
Hugh shrugged. “Often. I didn’t keep count.”
“Was her husband present during your meetings?” Okuhara prodded.
“Occasionally.”
“Do you have any idea why she might have gone outdoors without clothing in the middle of the night?”
Hugh paused. “Actually, I thought she might have had a row with her husband.”
I translated that as ‘misunderstanding’ for lack of a more exact word. But as euphemisms are used to describe a multitude of sins in Japanese, Captain Okuhara lit on it passionately. I haltingly translated his flood of questions about Setsuko Nakamura’s relationship with her husband. Hugh drew his lips into a thin line and pleaded ignorance.
The police chief seemed unsatisfied, staring at Hugh for long periods without speaking as if to incite him into more revelations. Too much time passed. I was relieved when Mrs. Yogetsu stuck her head through the door.
“A telephone call, from the Sendai company president,” she said in Japanese. I translated and Hugh bolted without apology.
“The other foreigner you mentioned, bring her to me.” Captain Okuhara’s voice was brusque, as if he needed to revalidate his authority.
“Heavens, this is exciting,” said Mrs. Chapman after I found her eavesdropping outside the kitchen door. Now she sat with her faux Vuitton bag on her lap, smiling at Captain Okuhara. “Can I take his picture, do you think?”
I shook my head and, anticipating his first question, asked for her documents. Because Mrs. Chapman was a tourist, she had a visitor card tucked in her passport instead of the laminated ID Hugh and I carried.
“It’s in my maiden name, Marcia Smith. Marcelle is my nickname, because I never cared for Marcia.” She looked at me anxiously, and I blanched. Here was something the police officer might seize upon. He looked at the picture inside, listened to the explanation, and looked back at her.
“In Japan, we have one name. After you marry, you take the man’s name by law.”
Even though it was out of turn, I said to him, “That might change. Japanese women are beginning to sue for the right to keep their name. Some friends of mine in a feminist organization are involved.”
“It will never happen,” he snorted. “Now stop pretending this is a women’s liberation rally and ask the old woman about Mrs. Nakamura.”
Mrs. Chapman had seen even less of Setsuko Nakamura than I had, but she had plenty of emotional impressions to offer.
“She was a quiet one: unusually quiet in my opinion. Good-looking gal, but she didn’t seem very close to her husband. Not a good marriage, if you ask me.”