After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

CHAPTER 4 
 Ushikawa 
OCCAM’S RAZOR 
Ushikawa found it hard to get his head around the idea that the elderly dowager who 
lived in a mansion in Azabu could somehow be involved with the assassination of 
Sakigake’s Leader. He had dug up background information on her. She was a well-
known figure in society, so the investigation had not taken much effort. Her husband 
had been a prominent businessman in the postwar era, influential in the political 
sphere. His business focused mainly on investments and real estate, though he had 
also branched out into large-scale retail stores and transport-related businesses. After 
her husband’s death in the mid-1950s, the woman had taken over his company. She 
had a talent for managing business, as well as an ability to sense impending danger. In 
the late 1960s she felt that the company had overextended itself, so she deliberately 
sold—at a high price—its stock in various fields, and systematically downsized the 
business. She put all her physical and mental strength into the remaining areas. 
Thanks to this, she was able to weather the era of the oil shock that occurred soon 
after with minimal damage and set aside a healthy amount of liquid assets. She knew 
how to turn other people’s crises into golden opportunities for herself. 
She was retired now and in her mid-seventies. She had an abundance of money, 
which allowed her to live in comfort in her spacious mansion, indebted to no one. But 
why would a woman like that deliberately plot to murder someone? 
Even so, Ushikawa decided to dig a little deeper. One reason was that he couldn’t 
find anything else that even resembled a clue. The second reason was that there was 
something about this safe house that bothered him. There was nothing especially 
unnatural about providing a free shelter for battered women. It was a sound and useful 
service to society. The dowager had the financial resources, and the women must be 
very grateful to her for her kindness. The problem was that the security at that 
apartment building—the heavy locked gate, the German shepherd, the surveillance 
cameras—was too tight for a facility of its type. There was something excessive about 
it. 
The first thing Ushikawa did was check the deed for the land and the house that the 
dowager lived in. This was public information, easily ascertained by a trip to city hall. 
The deed to both the land and the house were in her name alone. There was no 
mortgage. Everything was quite clear-cut. As private assets, the property tax would 
come to quite a sum, but she probably didn’t mind paying such an amount. The future 
inheritance tax would also be huge, but this didn’t seem to bother her, which was 
unusual for such a wealthy person. In Ushikawa’s experience, nobody hated paying 
taxes more than the rich. 

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After her husband’s death, she continued to live alone in that enormous mansion. 
No doubt she had a few servants, so she wasn’t totally alone. She had two children, 
and her son had taken over the company. The son had three children. Her daughter 
had married and died fifteen years ago of an illness. She left no children behind. 
This much was easy to find out. But once he tried to dig deeper into the woman’s 
background, a solid wall loomed up out of nowhere, blocking his way. Beyond this, 
all paths were closed. The wall was high, and the door had multiple locks. What 
Ushikawa did know was that this woman wanted to keep anything private about her 
completely out of public view. And she had poured considerable effort and money 
into carrying out that policy. She never responded to any sort of inquiry, never made 
any public statements. And no matter how many materials he raked through, not once 
did he come up with a photograph of her. 
The woman’s number was listed in the Minato Ward phone book. Ushikawa’s 
style was to tackle things head on, so he went ahead and dialed it. Before the phone 
had rung twice, a man picked up. 
Ushikawa gave a phony name and the name of some investment firm and said, 
“There’s something I would like to ask the lady of the house about, regarding her 
investment funds.” 
The man replied, “She isn’t able to come to the phone. But you can tell me 
whatever she needs to know.” His businesslike tone sounded mechanical, 
manufactured. 
“It’s company policy not to reveal these things to anyone other than the client,” 
Ushikawa explained, “so if I can’t speak with her directly now, I can mail the 
documents to her. She will have them in a few days.” 
“That would be fine,” the man said, and hung up. 
Ushikawa wasn’t particularly disappointed that he couldn’t speak to the dowager. 
He wasn’t expecting to. What he really wanted to find out was how concerned she 
was about protecting her privacy. Extremely so, it would appear. She seemed to have 
several people with her in the mansion who kept a close guard over her. The tone of 
this man who answered the phone—her secretary, most likely—made this clear. Her 
name was printed in the telephone directory, but only a select group could actually 
speak to her. All others were flicked away, like ants who had crawled into the sugar 
bowl. 
. . . 
Pretending to be looking for a place to rent, he made the rounds of local real estate 
agencies, indirectly asking about the apartment building used as the safe house. Most 
of the agents had no idea there was an apartment building at that address. This 
neighborhood was one of the more upscale residential areas in Tokyo. These agents 
only dealt with high-end properties and couldn’t be bothered with a two-story, 
wooden apartment building. One look at Ushikawa’s face and clothes, too, and they 
essentially gave him the cold shoulder. If a three-legged, waterlogged dog with a torn-
off tail and mange had limped in the door, they would have treated it more kindly than 
they treated him. 

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Just when he was about to give up, a small local agency that seemed to have been 
there for years caught his eye. The yellowed old man at the front desk said, “Ah, that 
place,” and volunteered information. The man’s face was shriveled up, like a second-
rate mummy, but he knew every nook and cranny of the neighborhood and always 
jumped at the chance to bend someone’s ear. 
“That building is owned by Mr. Ogata’s wife, and yes, in the past it was rented out 
as apartments. Why she happened to have that building, I don’t really know. Her 
circumstances did not exactly demand that she manage an apartment building. I 
imagine she mostly used it to house their employees. I don’t know much about it now, 
but it seems to be used for battered women, kind of like those