Tokyo Redux

Book 3: Tokyo Trilogy

by David Peace

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

A thrilling postmodern noir about the real-life disappearance, in 1949, of one of Japan’s most powerful figures, and the three men who try—and fail—to crack the case.

Tokyo, July 1949. The president of the National Railways of Japan vanishes. As American and Japanese investigators scrambled for answers, the case went cold—and it remains unsolved to this day. In Tokyo Redux, celebrated crime writer David Peace channels drama, research, and intrigue into this strikingly intelligent fictionalization of one of Japan’s most legendary murder mysteries.

Spanning decades, Peace’s novel reveals how the lives of three men all come to revolve around the same mystery. Starting in American-occupied Tokyo, where tension and confusion reign, American detective Harry Sweeney leads the missing-person investigation for General MacArthur’s GHQ. Fifteen years later, as Tokyo prepares for the global spotlight as host of the summer Olympics, private investigator Murota Hideki—who was a policeman during the Occupation—is confronted by this very same case, and is forced to address something he’s been hiding for more than a decade. And twenty-plus years after that, as Emperor Sh?wa lays dying, Donald Reichenbach, an aging American eking out a living in Japan teaching and translating, discovers that the final reckoning of the greatest mystery of the era is now in his hands.

Release date: August 10, 2021

Publisher: Knopf

Print pages: 464

Sample

Chapter 1

The First Day

July 5, 1949

The Occupation had a hangover, but still the Occupation went to work: with gray stubble shadows and damp sweat stains, heels and soles up stairs and down corridors, toilets flushing and faucets running, doors opening and doors closing, cabinets and drawers, windows wide and fans turning, fountain pens scratching and typewriter keys banging, telephones ringing and a voice calling out, For you, Harry.

On the fourth floor of the NYK building, in the enormous office that was Room 432 of the Public Safety Division, Harry Sweeney turned back from the door, walked back to his desk, nodded thanks to Bill Betz, took the receiver from him, put it to his ear and said, Hello.

Police Investigator Sweeney?

Yes, speaking.

Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.

Harry Sweeney replaced the receiver in its cradle, picked up a pen from his desk, looked at his watch, then wrote down the time and date on a pad of yellow paper: 9.45 – 07/05. He picked up the telephone and spoke to the switchboard girl: I just lost a call. Can you get me the number?

Hold on a minute, please.

Thank you.

Hello. I have it for you now, sir. Would you like me to try it for you?

Please.

It’s ringing for you now, sir.

Thank you, said Harry Sweeney, listening to the sound of a telephone bell, and then –

Coffee Shop Hong Kong, said the voice of a Japanese woman. Hello? Hello?

Harry Sweeney replaced the receiver again. He picked up the pen again. He wrote down the name of the coffee shop beneath the time and the date. Then he walked over to Betz’s desk: Hey, Bill. That call just now? What did he say?

He just asked for you. Why?

By name?

Yeah, why?

Nothing. He hung up on me, that’s all.

Maybe I spooked him? Sorry.

No. Thanks for answering it.

Did you get the number?

A coffee shop called Hong Kong. You know it?

No, but maybe Toda does. Ask him.

He’s not here yet. Don’t know where he is.

You’re kidding, laughed Bill Betz. Don’t tell me the little bastard’s gone and got himself a hangover.

Harry Sweeney smiled: Like all good patriots. Doesn’t matter, forget it. Be a crackpot. I got to go.

Lucky you. Where you going?

Meet the comrades off the Red Express. Colonel’s orders. You want to tag along, listen to some Commie songs?

Think I’ll just stay right here in the cool, laughed Betz. Leave the Reds to you, Harry. They’re all yours.

Harry Sweeney ordered a car from the pool, had a cigarette and a glass of water, then picked up his jacket and hat and went down the stairs to the lobby. He bought a newspaper, turned the pages, and scanned the headlines: SCAP BRANDS COMMUNISM INTERNATIONAL OUTLAWRY: SEES JAPAN AS BULWARK / RED-LED RIOTERS STIR DISORDERS IN NORTH JAPAN / RED LABOR CHIEF HELD / NRWU GETS READY FOR COMING FIGHT AS JAPAN NATIONAL RAILWAYS START PERSONNEL SLASH / ACTS OF SABOTAGE CONTINUE / REPATRIATES DUE BACK IN TOKYO TODAY.

He glanced up and saw his car waiting on the curb outside. He folded up his paper and went out of the building into the heat and the light. He got into the back of the car, but didn’t recognize the driver: Where’s Ichirō today?

I don’t know, sir. I’m new, sir.

What’s your name, kid?

Shintarō, sir.

Okay, Shin, we’re going to Ueno station.

Thank you, sir, said the driver. He took a pencil from behind his ear and wrote on the trip ticket.

And hey, Shin?

Yes, sir.

Wind down your windows and stick on the radio, will you? Let’s have some music for the drive.

Yes, sir. Very good, sir.

Thanks, kid, said Harry Sweeney as he wound down his own window, took his handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his neck and face, then sat back and closed his eyes to the strains of a familiar symphony he just couldn’t place.

Too late, barked Harry Sweeney, wide awake again, eyes open again, sitting up straight, heart pounding away, with drool on his chin and sweat down his chest. Jesus.

Excuse me, sir, said the driver. We’re here.

Harry Sweeney wiped his mouth and chin, unstuck his shirt from his skin, and looked out of the windows of the car: the driver had pulled up under the railroad bridge between the market and the station, the car surrounded on all sides by people walking in all directions, the driver nervously glancing into the rear-view mirror, watching his passenger.

Harry Sweeney smiled, winked, then opened the door and got out of the car. He bent down to speak to the driver: Wait here, kid. No matter how long I’m gone.

Yes, sir.

Harry Sweeney wiped his face and neck again, put on his hat and found his cigarettes. He lit one for himself and passed two through the open window to the driver.

Thank you, sir. Thank you.

You’re welcome, kid, said Harry Sweeney, then he set off through the crowds, into the station, the crowds parting when they saw who he was: a tall, white American –

The Occupation.

He marched through the cavernous hall of Ueno station, its crush of bodies and bags, its fog of heat and smoke, its stink of sweat and salt, marched straight up to the ticket gates. He waved his PSD badge to the ticket inspector and walked on through to the platforms. He saw the bright-red flags and hand-painted banners of the Japanese Communist Party and he knew which platform was his.

Harry Sweeney stood on the platform, in the shadows at the back, mopping his face and neck, fanning himself with his hat, smoking cigarettes and swatting mosquitoes, towering over the waiting crowd of Japanese women: the mothers and sisters, the wives and daughters. He watched as the long, black train pulled in. He felt the crowd first rise onto the tips of their toes, then surge toward the carriages of the train. He could see the faces of the men at the windows and doors of the carriages; the faces of men who had spent four years as Prisoners of War in Soviet Siberia; four years of confession and contrition; four years of re-education and indoctrination; four years of hard, brutal, pitiless labor. These were the fortunate ones, the lucky ones; the ones who had not been massacred in Manchuria in the August of 1945; the ones who had not been forced to fight and die for either of the Chinese sides; the ones who had not starved to death in the first postwar winter; the ones who had not died in the smallpox epidemic of April 1946, or of typhus in the May, or of cholera in the June; these were some of the 1.7 million fortunate ones who had fallen into the hands of the Soviet Union; a few of the one million very lucky ones the Soviets had now decided to release and have repatriated.

Harry Sweeney watched these lucky ones step off the long, black train and into the hands and tears of their mothers and sisters, their wives and daughters. He saw their own eyes were blank, embarrassed or looking back, searching for their fellow soldiers. He saw their eyes lose their families and find their comrades. He saw their mouths begin to move, begin to sing. He watched the mothers and sisters, the wives and daughters step back from their sons and brothers, their husbands and fathers, step back to stand in silence, their hands now at their sides, their tears still on their cheeks, as the song their men were singing got louder and louder.

Harry Sweeney knew this song, its words and its tune: the Internationale.

Where the fuck you been, Harry, the fuck you been doing all this time, whispered Bill Betz, the second Harry Sweeney came in through the door to Room 432, Betz taking his arm and leading him back out through the door, back down the corridor. Shimoyama’s gone missing and all hell’s broke loose.

Shimoyama? The railroad man?

Yeah, the railroad man, the goddamn President of the railroad, whispered Betz, stopping in front of the door to Room 402. The Chief’s in there now with the Colonel. They’ve been asking for you. Been asking for an hour.

Betz knocked twice on the door to the Colonel’s office. He heard a voice shout “Come,” opened the door, and stepped inside ahead of Harry Sweeney.

Colonel Pullman was sat behind his desk facing Chief Evans and Lieutenant Colonel Batty. Toda was in there, too, standing behind Chief Evans, a bright-yellow pad of paper in his hand. He glanced round and nodded at Harry Sweeney.

I’m sorry I’m late, sir, said Harry Sweeney. I was up at Ueno station. The latest repatriates were arriving.

Well, you’re here now, said the Colonel. One less missing man. Mister Betz told you what’s happened?

Only that President Shimoyama is missing, sir.

We came straight here, sir, said Betz. The minute Mister Sweeney got back.

Well, isn’t a whole lot else to tell, said the Colonel. Mister Toda, would you be so kind as to recap for the benefit of your fellow investigator what little we do know.

Yes, sir, said Toda, looking down to read from his pad of yellow paper: Just after thirteen hundred hours, I received a call from a reliable source at Metropolitan Police Board Headquarters that Sadanori Shimoyama, President of the Japanese National Railways, disappeared early this morning. I then confirmed that Mister Shimoyama left his home in Denen Chōfu around 0830 hours, en route to his office in Tokyo, but has not been accounted for since. He was in a 1941 Buick Sedan, License Number 41173. The car is owned by the National Railways and was being driven by Mister Shimoyama’s regular driver. My source has since told me that the MPD were first informed of the disappearance at approximately thirteen hundred hours and that a police check showed no accident involving the vehicle in question has been reported. We were officially notified of the disappearance an hour ago, at 1330 hours, and were told that all Japanese police have been informed and are making every effort to locate President Shimoyama. As far as we are aware, no information has been given to the newspapers or radio stations, not as yet.

Thank you, Mister Toda, said the Colonel. Okay, gentlemen. Top down, we got a bad feeling about this. Yesterday, as you are all no doubt aware, Shimoyama personally authorized over thirty thousand dismissal notices to be sent out, another seventy-odd thousand scheduled to go out next week. This morning he doesn’t show up for work. You take a walk down any street in this city, take a look at any lamp post or wall, and there you will see bills posted saying KILL SHIMOYAMA, is that not correct, Mister Toda?

Yes, sir. It is, sir. My source also told me that President Shimoyama has been repeatedly threatened by employees opposed to the mass dismissals and retrenchment program, sir, and that he has received numerous death threats.

Any arrests?

No, sir, not as far as I am aware, sir. It is my understanding that all threats were made anonymously.

Okay, said the Colonel. Chief Evans –

Chief Evans stood up, turned now to face Bill Betz, Susumu Toda and Harry Sweeney, careful not to be standing directly in front of Colonel Pullman: You are to drop all other cases or work with immediate effect. You are to focus only on this case until further notice. You are to assume that Shimoyama has been kidnapped by either railroad workers, trade unionists, Communists or a combination of the three, and that he is being held against his will in an unknown location, and you are to conduct your investigation accordingly until you receive orders to the contrary. Is that understood?

Yes, Chief, said Toda, Betz, and Harry Sweeney.

Toda, take your eyes and ears over to Metro HQ. I want to know what they know as soon as they know it, and what they’re going to do before they do it. Understood?

Yes, sir. Yes, Chief.

Mister Betz, go over to Norton Hall and see what CIC have got on these death threats. Be the usual big fat nothing, I reckon, but least no one can say we didn’t try.

Yes, Chief.

Sweeney, get yourself up to Civil Transport. Find out who we got there, find out what he knows.

Yes, Chief.

The Colonel, Lieutenant Batty, and myself will be in a meeting at the Dai-ichi with General Willoughby and others. But any information whatsoever you receive, pertaining to the whereabouts of Mister Shimoyama, then you call the Dai-ichi building immediately and you ask to be put through to speak to me as a matter of extreme urgency. Is that understood?

Yes, Chief, said Toda, Betz, and Harry Sweeney.

Thank you, Chief Evans, said the Colonel, coming round from behind his desk to stand beside the Chief, standing in front of William Betz, Susumu Toda, and Harry Sweeney, to look from one man to the other, to stare each man in the eye: General Willoughby wants this man found. We all want this man found. And we want him found today and found alive.

Yes, sir, barked Toda, Betz, and Harry Sweeney.

Very good then, said the Colonel. Dismissed.

Harry Sweeney pushed his way through a crowd of people up to the third floor of the Bank of Chōsen building. The corridor was full of Japanese staff, running this way and that, in and out this door and that, answering telephones and clutching papers. He weaved his way toward Room 308. He showed his PSD wallet to the secretary outside the room and said, Sweeney, Public Safety Division. Colonel Channon is expecting me.

The man nodded: Go right in, sir.

Harry Sweeney knocked twice on the door, opened it, stepped into the room, looked at the flabby man sat behind a spartan desk, and said, Police Investigator Sweeney, sir.

Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon smiled. He nodded. He got up from behind his desk. He pointed to a chair in front of the desk. He smiled again and said, Take a load off, Mister Sweeney, and sit yourself down.

Thank you, sir.

Colonel Channon sat back down behind his desk, smiled again, and said, I know you, Mister Sweeney. You’re famous, you were in the papers: “the Eliot Ness of Japan,” that’s what they called you. That was you, right?

That was me, sir, yes, sir. Before.

Used to see you around town, too. Always some able Grable on your arm. Can’t say I’ve seen you recently, though.

I’ve been away, sir.

Well, we sure picked a fine day to finally hook up. Goddamn Bedlam out there. Like Grand Central Station.

I saw that, sir.

Been like this since old Shimoyama decided not to show up for work this morning.

Why I’m here, sir.

He sure picked his day, too. Goddamn morning after the Fourth of July. I don’t know about you, Mister Sweeney, but I was hoping for a quiet day. A very quiet day.

I think we all were, sir.

Colonel Channon laughed. He massaged his temples and said, Jeez, do I wish I’d taken it easy last night. Lucky I ain’t got the old katzenjammers.

You and me both, sir.