Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [28]
A voice spoke to me from the other side of the table: “Hey. Having them for a snack?” It was the fellow who had panhandled the ten-yen piece a little while ago. “I bet they’re poison. But they’ve got a lot of oil, so they’re probably good for you.” When he said this, I noticed I had already wasted over ten matchsticks chasing the cockroaches around and had gathered into a mound over twenty-four that I had killed. “Ah ha. They must be really good, they live on spilt saké. It’s true. Shall we give it a try?” Thinking he was joking, I remained silent, whereupon my companion suddenly stretched out his hand and before my eyes picked up several cockroaches, which he popped into his mouth. I tried to stop him, but he was too fast. A young man, apparently an employee, shoved me aside and swept the remaining dead cockroaches to the floor. “Stop it! It’s disgusting,” he said sharply, without raising his eyes, and passed on. The man who had swallowed the cockroaches, groping with his tongue between his missing front teeth, intently searched for something, his gaze restless. “Boy! This is salty,” he muttered, “dry as paper … toasted seaweed … really cheap, no mistake about that.”
Obviously, if there was anything significant on the match box, it must be the telephone number on the label. Contrary to what one might expect, my client or her brother were probably the ones who really needed the number, not the husband. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to put “needed” into the present and say “the ones who need.” It was probably a feint. They were most assuredly pretending that there was some relation between Nemuro and the Camellia for fear of having me get wind of the actual purpose of the telephone number. By decoying me, they were establishing the number’s irrelevance and thus directing my attention away from the Camellia. Was that not their real goal?
As the time drew near for closing the place, a middle-aged woman, her hair done up in a bun, was beginning at the back of the shop to gather up the refuse on the floor. There were only some fifteen or sixteen weary customers left; they seemed to have nowhere to go. All right, there was absolutely no reason to think I was carrying logic to nonsensical extremes. At first blush, the client seemed to be cast in the role of an unfortunate victim, abandoned by her husband. But the truth of the matter was quite the opposite: she, or her brother, could be said to be aggressors among aggressors … and supposing they were murderers … I did not come to that conclusion particularly, but what if, in some situation, I were to give up my position as investigator? Or, having had the presentiment, supposing I could forecast that between her and her brother there were differences in motive for requesting the investigation and that exposing the brother’s weak point would not necessarily mean hurting her? Naturally, they were quarry for the hunt and it would not do to shun the chase. I did not want them to take me too lightly. Indeed, even if they were indicted, it would probably not mean much money for me. But along with blackmail, there was nothing like murder for a quick buck. So, do me a favor and don’t get me too stirred up.
THE CHIEF was returning to his usual self. He murmured like a water-filled balloon.
“Well, now. I understand he’s gone back to the hospital again.”
There was no need for further explanation between us. He was the one—the very lowest among the numerous investigators—who happened to be obsessed by the strange dream that he would not advance. He had taken an umbrella and jumped off the roof of the building and at once plunged down—lower than the lowest of us all.
On a particular case, the fellow had got himself into the predicament of causing a client to commit suicide. His makeup was such that he took pride in betraying a client by selling information back to the person under investigation. He would say that in a dispute both sides stood to lose. But he knew the rules. He was a shrewd fellow. No actual betrayal of a client had ever come to