After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Nobody’s easier to fool
, Ushikawa 
thought, 
than the person who is convinced that he is right
. 
“How many women would you say are living in that apartment building now?” 
“It depends, but—let’s see—I would say usually four or five,” the lawyer said. 
“About that charitable person who provided that apartment building,” Ushikawa 
said, “how did this person get involved? I’m thinking there must have been some 
event that led up to this interest.” 
The lawyer tilted his head. “I really don’t know. Though in the past this person 
was, it seems, involved in similar activities, on an individual level. As far as we’re 
concerned, we’re just grateful for this individual’s kindness. We don’t ask the reasons 
behind it.” 
“Of course,” Ushikawa nodded. “I assume you keep the locations of your safe 
houses secret?” 
“Correct. We have to make sure that the women are protected, plus many of our 
donors prefer to remain anonymous. I mean, we’re dealing with acts of violence, after 
all.” 
They talked for a while longer, but Ushikawa was unable to extract any more 
useful information. What Ushikawa knew were the following facts: the Center for 
Victims of Domestic Violence had begun operations in earnest four years ago. Not 
long afterward, a certain “donor” had contacted them and offered them use of a vacant 
apartment building as a safe house. The donor had read about their activities in the 
newspaper. The donor had set one condition, namely, that the donor’s name never be 
revealed. Still, from what was said, Ushikawa could deduce that, beyond any doubt, 
the “donor” was the elderly dowager living in Azabu, the one who owned the old 
apartment building. 
“Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me,” Ushikawa said warmly 
to the idealistic young lawyer. “Your organization is certainly making a valuable 
contribution. I’ll present what I have learned here to our board of directors. We 
should be getting in touch with you fairly soon. In the meantime, my very best wishes 
for your continued success.” 
Next, Ushikawa began to investigate the death of the dowager’s daughter. The 
daughter had married an elite bureaucrat in the Ministry of Transport and was only 
thirty-six when she died. He didn’t know the cause yet. Not long after she died, her 
husband left the Ministry of Transport. These were the only facts Ushikawa had 
unearthed so far. He didn’t know why the husband had left the ministry, or what sort 
of life he had led afterward. The Ministry of Transport was not the sort of government 
office that willingly revealed information regarding its inner workings to ordinary 
citizens. But Ushikawa had a sharp sense of smell, and something smelled fishy. He 
couldn’t believe that losing his wife would have made the man so overcome with 
grief that he would quit his job and go into hiding. 
Ushikawa knew there weren’t many thirty-six-year-old women who died of illness. 
Not that there weren’t some. No matter how old you are, or how blessed your 
circumstances, you can suddenly fall ill and die—from cancer, a brain tumor, 
peritonitis, acute pneumonia. The human body is a fragile thing. But for an affluent 

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woman of thirty-six to join the ranks of the dead—in all likelihood it was not a natural 
death, but either an accident or suicide. 
Let me speculate here
, Ushikawa said to himself. 
Following the famous rule of 
Occam’s razor, I’ll try to find the simplest possible explanation. Eliminate all 
unnecessary factors, boil it all down to one logical line, and then look at the situation
. 
Let’s say the dowager’s daughter didn’t die of illness but by suicide
. Ushikawa 
rubbed his hands together as he pondered this.