She found Tamaru seated in the same teak chair by the front entrance, waiting for her. His task was to hand her a key to a post office box.

“Business finished?” he asked.

“I think so,” Aomame replied. She sat down next to him, took the key, and tucked it into a compartment of her shoulder bag.

For a time, instead of speaking, they watched the birds that were visiting the garden. There was still no wind, and the branches of the willows hung motionlessly. Several branches were nearly touching the ground.

“Is the woman doing okay?” Aomame asked.

“Which woman?”

“The wife of the man who suffered the heart attack in the Shibuya hotel.”

“Doing okay? Not really. Not yet,” Tamaru said with a scowl. “She’s still in shock. She can hardly speak. It’ll take time.”

“What’s she like?”

“Early thirties. No kids. Pretty. Seems like a nice person. Stylish. Unfortunately, she won’t be wearing bathing suits this summer. Maybe not next year, either. Did you see the Polaroids?”

“Yes, just now.”

“Horrible, no?”

“Really,” Aomame said.

Tamaru said, “It’s such a common pattern. Talented guy, well thought of, good family, impressive career, high social standing.”

“But he becomes a different person at home,” Aomame said, continuing his thought. “Especially when he drinks, he becomes violent. But only toward women. His wife is the only one he can knock around. To everyone else, he shows only his good side. Everybody thinks of him as a gentle, loving husband. The wife tries to tell people what terrible things he’s doing to her, but no one will believe her. The husband knows that, so when he’s violent he chooses parts of her body she can’t easily show to people, or he’s careful not to make bruises. Is this the ‘pattern’?”

Tamaru nodded. “Pretty much. Only this guy didn’t drink. He was stone-cold sober and out in the open about it. A really ugly case. She wanted a divorce, but he absolutely refused. Who knows? Maybe he loved her. Or maybe he didn’t want to let go of such a handy victim. Or maybe he just enjoyed raping his wife.”

Tamaru raised one foot, then the other, to check the shine on his shoes again. Then he continued, “Of course, you can usually get a divorce if you have proof of domestic violence, but it takes time and it takes money. If the husband hires a good lawyer, he can make it very unpleasant for you. The family courts are full, and there’s a shortage of judges. If, in spite of all that, you do get a divorce, and the judge awards a divorce settlement or alimony, the number of men who actually pay up is small. They can get out of it all kinds of ways. In Japan, ex-husbands almost never get put in jail for not paying. If they demonstrate a willingness to pay and cough up a little bit, the courts usually look the other way. Men still have the upper hand in Japanese society.”

Aomame said, “Maybe so, but as luck would have it, one of those violent husbands suffered a heart attack in a Shibuya hotel room a few days ago.”

“ ‘As luck would have it’ is a bit too direct for me,” Tamaru said with a click of the tongue. “I prefer ‘Due to heavenly dispensation.’ In any case, no doubts have been raised regarding the cause of death, and the amount of life insurance was not so high as to attract attention, so the insurance company won’t have any suspicions. They’ll probably pay without a hitch. Finally, it’s a decent amount of money, enough for her to begin a new life. Plus she’ll be saving all the time and money that would have been eaten up by suing for divorce. When it’s over, she will have avoided all the complicated, meaningless legal procedures and all the subsequent mental anguish.”

“Not to mention that that scummy bastard won’t be set loose on some new victim.”

“Heavenly dispensation,” Tamaru said. “Everything’s settled nicely thanks to one heart attack. All’s well that ends well.”

“Assuming there’s an end somewhere,” Aomame said.

Tamaru formed some short creases near his mouth that were faintly reminiscent of a smile. “There has to be an end somewhere. It’s just that nothing’s labeled ‘This is the end.’ Is the top rung of a ladder labeled ‘This is the last rung. Please don’t step higher than this’?”

Aomame shook her head.

“It’s the same thing,” Tamaru said.

Aomame said, “If you use your common sense and keep your eyes open, it becomes clear enough where the end is.”

Tamaru nodded. “And even if it doesn’t”—he made a falling gesture with his finger “—the end is right there.”

They were both quiet for a while as they listened to the birds singing. It was a calm April afternoon without a hint of ill will or violence.

“How many women are living here now?” Aomame asked.

“Four,” Tamaru answered, without hesitation.

“All in the same kind of situation?”

“More or less.” Tamaru pursed his lips. “But the other three cases are not as serious as hers. Their men are all nasty bastards, as usual, but none are as bad as the character we’ve been talking about. These guys are lightweights who like to come on strong, not worth bothering you about. We can take care of them ourselves.”

“Legally.”

“Pretty much—even if we have to lean on them a little. Of course, a heart attack is an entirely ‘legal’ cause of death.”

“Of course,” Aomame chimed in.

Tamaru went silent for a while, resting his hands on his knees and looking at the silent branches of the willow trees.

After some hesitation, Aomame decided to broach something with Tamaru. “You know,” she said, “there’s something I’d like you to tell me.”

“What’s that?”

“How many years ago did the police get new uniforms and guns?”

Tamaru wrinkled his brow almost imperceptibly. “Where did that come from all of a sudden?”

“Nowhere special. It just popped into my head.”

Tamaru looked her in the eye. His own eyes were entirely neutral, free of expression. He was leaving himself room to go in any direction with this.

“That big shootout near Lake Motosu between the Yamanashi Prefectural Police and the radical group took place in mid-October of 1981, and the police had their major reorganization the following year. Two years ago.”

Aomame nodded without changing her expression. She had absolutely no recollection of such an event, but all she could do now was play along with him.

“It was really bloody. Old-fashioned six-shooters against five Kalashnikov AK-47s. The cops were totally outgunned. Poor guys: three of them were torn up pretty badly. They looked as if they’d been stitched on a sewing machine. The Self-Defense Force got involved right away, sending in their special paratroopers. The cops totally lost face. Prime Minister Nakasone immediately got serious about strengthening police power. There was an overall restructuring, a special weapons force was instituted, and ordinary patrolmen were given high-powered automatic pistols to carry—Beretta Model 92s. Ever fired one?”

Aomame shook her head. Far from it. She had never even fired an air rifle.

“I have,” Tamaru said. “A fifteen-shot automatic. It uses 9mm Parabellum rounds. It’s one of the great pistols. The U.S. Army uses it. It’s not cheap, but its selling point is that it’s not as expensive as a SIG or a Glock. It’s not an easy gun to use, though, is definitely not for amateurs. The old revolvers only weighed 490 grams, but these weigh 850. They’re useless in the hands of an untrained Japanese policeman. Fire a high-powered gun like that in a crowded country like Japan, and you end up hurting innocent bystanders.”

“Where did you ever fire such a thing?”

“You know, the usual story. Once upon a time I was playing my harp by a spring when a fairy appeared out of nowhere, handed me a Beretta Model 92, and told me to shoot the white rabbit over there for target practice.”